How do you pinpoint a singular moment or experience to preserve?

As a (non) answer, and to get the conversation moving, I’m going to offer a further question–or rather conundrum–from the opening lines of T.S. Eliot’s great poem “Burnt Norton”:

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

Preservation is in a sense the redemption of time through material means in the present. The best preservation is that which acknowledges that this redemption of time is illusory, yet, at least for at a fleeting moment of perception, still possible and even magical.

Monday, July 25 at 4:24pm

Back in the 1990s, Glenn Forley and I used to give a project to incoming SCI_Arc students to confound them. These were students entering into SCI_Arc with undergraduate degrees in architecture so many of them had quite an attitude and preconceived idea of what radical design was (our job, of course, was to cause trouble).

We randomly divided the students into three groups. In each case, students were assigned a “monument” that was destroyed in a fictional scenario. The first was the campanile at Piazza San Marco in Venice. The second was the White House. The third was the Villa Savoye. Students were asked to respond.

In reality, all three had been extensively rebuilt. In the case of San Marco, it was utterly rebuilt after its destruction in 1902. The White House was burned by the British in 1814 and gutted in 1948. The Villa Savoye was nearly destroyed by neglect before its reconstruction in the 1960s.

In the case of the White House, students tended to make jokes. Nobody ever rebuilt it, but they built holes in the ground, bunkers, billboards, and so on. One student from South America told me that she could not do the project due to political concerns. In the case of the tower of San Marco, students accorded some kind of respect to the structure, making a monument or in one case a flag pole of the same height.. They didn’t joke, but they also didn’t rebuild it. In the case of the Villa Savoye, the majority of students rebuilt it verbatim so that other students could learn from it. One cunning student covered the surrounding neighborhood in Savoyes, thus invoking Corbusier’s little-known plan to build a subdivision of Savoyes in Argentina.

Preservation and intervention are by no means absolutes, but are rather contingent on the values we bring to the table.

Monday, July 25 at 4:42pm

“Nostalgia” encapsulates the sense of the moment or experience that I strive to preserve inasmuch as it describes a “return home” or “homecoming” apposite for any consideration of architectural preservation related to a dwelling. While the term is sullied in critical discoúrse, considered recalcitrant or reactionary, it retains a sense of innocence or a first-seeing for the second-time (to refer to Nietzsche’s double-optic). When thinking of the Glass House and its surrounds one might try to imagine what Philip Johnson and David Whitney saw or projected through the windows early on in their experience of the house (maybe to compensate for the loneliness of the “moon and the snow” that initially impressed Johnson) or what might fit with the music they listened to at the time. The buildings in the surrounding fields are in this sense a form of company, and a stylistic bolster for the original building, or proof that they moved with the time not stuck with the same taste in clothes and music. (No one wants to imagine Johnson as their senior year teacher forever stuck with sansabelt and Burt Bacharach or wide leather belts and the Eagles). I try and preserve all those moments that return me to that album I bought on the way home from the last of my high school finals – listening to it in the early summer sunshine some three months before college and reading and knowing better commenced. I am describing a rare moment in front of an artwork or building that strikes me intuitively and not intellectually. The last stanza of Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan, or, A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment” holds a key: A damsel with a dulcimer/ In a vision I once saw: It was an Abyssinian maid/ And on her dulcimer she played/ Singing of Mount Abora./ Could I revive within me/ Her symphony and song,/ To such a deep delight ‘twould win me/ that with music loud and long/ I would build that dome in air,/ That sunny dome! those caves of ice!”.

Tuesday, July 26 at 9:33am

I recently went to a museum which, unsurprisingly, included an exhibition on animals that was carefully designed to teach the public about the vast array of species and the need to preserve them. The design of this didactic exercise was fascinating (hang in there, I am heading toward a more direct answer to the question).

Two otherwise normal and implicit characteristics of contemporary museumisation stood out to me: 1) the conformity to conventional taxonomic representations of species, and 2) the explicit moral appeal to protect endangered species. I think it need to be recognised that both of these otherwise benign moves are deeply problematic.

1) a taxonomic representation alienates a species from its living ecological context. By setting birds in relation to other birds of a similar kind, rather than the things they eat, the things that eat them, and the places they inhabit, the relational interdependence of species is concealed. 2) this in part makes it easier to appeal to people to save the (image/idea) of a single species, but is totally counter to the demands of ecology. Species preservation therefore destroys knowing needs to be both preserved and destroyed because it disconnects a single species from its relation to other species, including humans, their economies, their dwellings, and their politics. To obsess about saving (that) desirable species means, more often than not, blinkering one’s vision of the broader reasons for why the sustainment of things comes under threat.

What does this mean in relation to the question? It means we have to be extremely careful about what and why we preserve because more often than not these good intentions are destructive. I teach design history so I am very sensitive to the desire to preserve elements of the past in order to understand our histories. However, we should also be aware that to preserve something ‘singular’ in a state of stasis is counter-ecological (broadly speaking to encompass image, material, social, and mental ecologies). It also begs the question of what other living (therefore changing) historical things are destroyed everyday (including cultures, languages, economies, practices, bodies, ecosystems, futures etc.).

I therefore suggest that the things we should be most concerned to preserve are not simply distinct, canonical material objects (especially if they are denied contextual positioning and their historicity concealed), but living, moving, growing, dying, and changing things that embody a history that allows for the possibility of a future. This demands that a very hard (and very political) question be asked and answered: what is it that sustains (in terms of the dialectic of creation and destruction), and what is it that defutures (takes away the possibility of sustainment). This is absolutely not a pluralistic exercise; to preserve everything is to also preserve what must be destroyed. But it does demand an ecological diversity in common with sustainment.

So the answer is you do not pinpoint any singular thing to preserve at all. You negotiate a way of knowing what and how to sustain a multitude relational entities (including histories) that contribute to a general project of sustainment. On these terms it should be quite clear that there is very little need to preserve the structures and thinking of modernist architecture.

Tuesday, July 26 at 10:27am

I thought the question was more specific, namely, how do you chose one particular moment in a building’s evolution to preserve? It seems to me that the situation is a little different with a work of art, which, on the whole, tends towards a completion and then remains static. It is also different than the kind of preservation that you will find at a natural history museum, which is of the embalming kind.

When an architectural intent turns into a project and then a building, it is in and of itself the result of intense collaboration and an unending series of compromises with reality such a it is present in materiality and building codes, to the point that these forces are as much part of the design as the author’s intent. How could those be made present in any act of preservation? The answer would be that the final realization is a monument to these otherwise abstract influences, and as such allows us to understand them

When the building is completed, however, it immediately transforms from a product into a frame. As such, it is no longer complete, but gains is completion through use. That use, then, changes almost as soon as occupation takes place. Over time, a building, and in particular a house, also adapts itself to the life lived within its walls (whether they are glass or not) and thus evolves. I might add that the Glass House and its little brothers and sisters changed very little, so the question of evolution in this case concerns the overall complex or landscape design. In this case, I do not think that is the most interesting aspect of the preservable whole.

The final layer in this question of which moment to preserve concerns the death of the building as a house. If something was designed to frame a life, does it still have meaning when that life is gone? Again, in this case it is less of an issue than it is with, say, the Villa Savoye, which indeed looks like a ruin even in its restored state, because Johnson designed the House and the other objects as showpieces. His leaving the estate to the Trust clarifies that position, and makes it clear that what is to be preserved is the architecture at its fullest expression –at the end of its useful life, but without whatever deterioration has already set in.

That leaves only the large question of whether architecture as a teachable moment is politically correct, or useful. That, however, is a bit of a different discussion.

Tuesday, July 26 at 2:04pm

“How do you pinpoint a singular moment or experience to preserve?” This was a question raised not by Flavin Judd – as somewhat implied in the email – but by Amelia Black in regard to a conversation about how to preserve the Judd sculpture, a circular concrete wall, about 8 meters across and a meter and half high.
There were several answers to her question:

Judd argued that we should chose from a limited set of options given to us by the material of concrete itself. “It’s a balance: keep the works in good shape but don’t alter them in an attempt to keep them looking new.” Judd’s position is that though the art work should be allowed to weather we should keep our fingers crossed that the art work remains – with careful attention – an “art work” that over time still somehow resembles the original.

Jeremy Melling took a somewhat similar position, but elevates it to the level of preservation’s grand narrative. Melling admits, reasonably enough, that one should aim to conserve the structure as it is found. “To do anything else would be conjecture.” He adds that from a pragmatic point of view, “some repair will be essential to ensure that it remains durable.” His pragmatism, however, hides a larger civilizational ambition: “We can’t just lose certain ideas like religious beliefs, historical facts or scientific knowledge and there are certain objects like buildings, documents or artworks that are representative of these ideas.” Is final point is that any structure that is “well maintained now, should survive for many millennia.”

IIrene Shum Allen argues that the discipline of preservation has a conventional practice in which conservators agree upon a specific time period that is the center of their interpretation. To this she adds “Of primary importance to the Glass House and of this project is the repair the damaged bevel edge, which is integral to understanding the work and the artist’s intent.”

So basically what we have are three opinions.
1: and aesthetic one around the need for an art work to remain in “good shape” (Judd);
2: good maintenance = civilization (Meeling);
3: follow the artists “intent” and let the preservation professionals control the message (Irene Shum).

These are relatively predictable positions revolving around the grand narratives of 1; the aesthetic ego 2: metaphysics of civilization and 3: the art-world metaphysics-of-intention.

I think the call to expand the conversation might be fruitful.

I was struck by something Emily Leibin said, which I will quote:

“According to Port Draper of the Louis E. Lee Company (the contractor of many of the structures on site at the Glass House), the sculpture required two truckloads of concrete. On the day of construction, the first truck arrived on schedule and poured its contents into the wood form-work. The second truck, unfortunately, got lost en route, and its delivery was postponed until the following day. By then, the first pour had already begun to cure. Although the sculpture appears to be a monolithic whole, the two pours may not have fully bonded together. ”

To this, Flavin replies: “Clearly the fabrication of the piece was not optimal.” But then he adds, interestingly, that Donald Judd “simply accepted the cold joint as part of the fabrication. Don accepted quite a lot of things in the process…”

Architecture requires maintenance just as painting requires “artistic intent.” I would suggest, therefore, that just as Meeling pushes the Judd’s piece into the disciplinary orbit of “architecture” Shum Allen pushes the piece into the disciplinary orbit of painting. This I think needs to be challenged. This leave the position of Flavin. I am not sure sculpture has it own “orbit” but I can imagine another option, which is to do precisely nothing. Donald Judd may have preferred to have the piece poured in one go, but he was happy enough that it went in two, knowing full well that the seam between the pours was to eventually be a problem. But he did not see this as “a problem.” So I disagree with Flavin that “the fabrication of the piece was not optimal.” In fact, its woundedness is an inherent part of the sculpture, meaning that we should let it do its work. If the sculpture falls apart it is no less a great piece of sculpture and I would think much better for it and ‘closer’ to both the so-called “intent” of the artist and to the “singular moment” of its fabrication. (Mark Jarzombek)

Wednesday, July 27 at 9:19pm

I will skip the intellectual exercise of the guest house alterations, and pose a question as to what should be done about the tear in the mies daybed in the gh itself. i mentioned it a few months ago to bob stern, and his immediate reaction was that it be repaired at once, and i’m sure for the reason mr. betsky outlines here so effectively. this of course runs at odds with mr prudhon’s injunction to maintain the house precisely as it was left. (when exactly did that tear appear? if it’s postmortem this isn’t an issue, and i presume we all agree it should be stitched up.) is there a way we can have our cigarette stains and also repair the furniture?

Friday, July 29 at 12:21pm

“The full richness of their authenticity” was the phrase in the opening lines of the 1964 Venice Charter that sought to express the goal of conservation and restoration practice. For at least a decade, the interpretation of these words has dominated the discussion and agenda of the global built-heritage community.

As with any constitutional document, we recognize that the setting in which the Venice Charter was composed is not the same context as today. In the 1960s, the preservation community’s focus rested on pre-20th century monuments and sites. Strict constitutionalists argue that the character of building stock or structure is, in essence, immaterial to the practice and principles of preservation. In principle I would agree, but in practice I quip: the master of the chain saw is likely not the master of the scalpel- not so much because of the tool she wields, but rather the material she cuts. Our evaluative criteria and methods are profoundly influenced by the subject of our focus – which in the Americas and Western Europe has witnessed a significant shift to the built-environment of the last 100 years.

But -separate from any discussion of material conditions- I wonder if there might be other factors affecting the preservation community’s philosophical angst.

The widened perspective of resource significance – beyond narrowly defined periods – has many roots from within and without the practice. But the critical reconsideration of preservation to address the mutability of landscapes, vernacular heritage, and the urban context contributed to this growing acceptance.

Specifically in regards to the “architectural monument” I would argue that the archaeological aspect of preservation work (probing and removing layers of built-up material alterations, digging through foundations, etc.) stemming from the absence of human record is less present in our work and discussion than it was 20 years ago. With the benefit of typical 20th-century construction records- as-built drawings, contractor notes (not to mention photography!) – the confidence with which professionals may operate has grown in certainty. Therefore I question, has this wellspring, in and of itself, incited, philosophical criticism and doubt?

In the cases where restoration is chosen over conservation, there remains an overarching intent to not favor one particular “historic state” if other “historic states” will thus be destroyed. But the grayness of what today constitutes “destruction” impedes consensus concerning this goal.

From Michael Petzet’s “International Principles of Preservation” (2009):

“In his ‘Modern Cult of Monuments’ published in 1903 Alois Riegl, the famous Austrian conservator, linked this monument feeling to his central concept of ‘age-value’ expressed in traces of ephemerality. If Riegl’s age-value has been connected with a certain longing for death – the 1900 fin de siècle idea of ‘letting things pass away in beauty’ – in contrast now, at the beginning of the 21st century, a kind of longing for survival can be identified as an essential mainspring for our new ‘cult of monuments’: an attempt to preserve memory in a world that is changing as never before.”

It is possibly fitting that “less is a bore” should leap from architecture to preservation, just as the post-modern movement comes into historical focus. This fetishism leads me to recall a scene from Jim Jarmusch’s “Mystery Train” (1989) in which the Japanese Rock n’ Roll tourist Jun does not photograph the Memphis landmarks Graceland and Sun Studios. As he responds to his girlfriend Mitzuko, “Those other things are in my memory. The hotel rooms and the airports are the things I’ll forget.”
Ostensibly progressive authenticity, as it has been called, preserves and promotes the interpretation of a greater plurality of contribution. But if accepted wholesale, it continues the diminution of works of art, and I would argue, the equally significant historico–cultural forces (both individual and group) responsible for their realization.

In closing I conjure the “curse” of photography on the arts- and question whether it has been fully analyzed within the context of preservation practice.

“In addition to romanticism (extreme or not) about the past, photography offers instant romanticism about the present. In America, the photographer is thus not simply the person who records the past but the one who invents it.”

“As the fascination that photographs exercise is a reminder of death, it is also an invitation to sentimentality. Photographs turn the past into an object of tender regard, scrambling moral distinctions and disarming historical judgments by the generalized pathos of looking at time past.”

Susan Sontag
from On Photography, 1977

Friday, July 29 at 2:36pm

Great post on our blog by Glass House Guide Gwen North Reiss covering the Conversations in Context event that inspires this online conversation. It discusses the kind of radical thinking that shaped the Glass House landscape and design and its preservation…

“Like Lincoln’s Log Cabin, said [Theodore] Prudon, “It’s about the person in the context of the time. It’s about more than the physical building. It’s about spirit, about what we want to accomplish.”

Read more at: http://t.co/CsWcdd5

Friday, August 5 at 2:19pm