Architecture and impermanence - one step further away from the past, one step closer to the future

The ability to remember past experiences, to encrypt, store and retrieve is intrinsic to the human brain. As a result,
everywhere we look, buildings are endowed with a memory that we can unlock through closer observation. A chip in the wall
reveals an old layer of paint. A monument honours the dead whilst reminding the living. A museum educates future generations
through documenting the past Purposefully built to fulfil our desire to remember, or simply the prey of Time, a building can
easily become a powerful mnemonic.
Over the years, we have learnt to use Architecture as a means of communication. As such, in Japan, the Shinto
temple of Ise is purposefully demolished and rebuilt every twenty years in the spirit of renewal. Rebuilding the temple is a way
of transferring their original building techniques from one generation to another; whilst the tradition of reconstruction shows the
unbending acceptance of impermanence (wabi-sabi). The lesson we should learn from this Shinto belief is that everything is
temporary. As static, immovable and majestic as a building looks, it is part of a bigger scheme where nothing lasts forever. No
need to panic though. Change is only natural. While some of us may be aware of it, most will however try to stop it from
occurring. Driven by an understandable need to preserve, we revive lost buildings with the pretence that it is all authentic.
Unfortunately, it is nothing but the mimicry of History, a truly exact yet so misleading reflection of the past.
When looking at reconstructed buildings, we rather paradoxically look into something that no longer exists. It may still
stand visually, but its essence, alongside its historical value, has somehow collapsed with the original edifice. Lets take a
minute to remember the air bombings of World War II over Dresden, Germany; ninety per cent of the Florence of the Elbe was
reduced to ashes. A post-war city referendum voted the reconstruction of many ruined landmark buildings. And so, the wellknown Zwinger Palace, the more recently completed Dresden Frauenkirche and many more were restored to their original
state, not in the spirit of renewal mentioned earlier, but in a frenzied attempt to turn back the clock and resurrect the citys
former glory. Therefore, if we were to meander through the streets of Dresden today, we would be misled by the prevailing
baroque style of what has actually become an imitation city. It is a difficult concept to come to terms with but nurturing an
illusion is ignoring the facts. Until we invent teleportation, we cannot educate future generations by luring them.
An endeavour to rewrite history is as futile as building a sandcastle by the shore, hoping it will withstand the rising
tide. A particularly pertinent example of this is Brightons West Pier - my go to place when I need to think. Designed and
engineered in 1863, the Pier is now in a severe state of decay due to multiple arson attacks and weathering. There have been
plans to restore it to its original shape to celebrate its 150 th anniversary but I would like to point out that what has long been the
roost of thousands of starlings is currently the most photographed structure in Brighton precisely because of its present fragility
and uncertain future. Yet it is an inaccessible, desolate, ghostly ruin. What makes it so special, you ask? It is an iconic ruin.
Replicating the Old Pier would go against what life is - fluctuating and full of surprises. It would also deprive people like you
and me of a poetic sight that no architect could ever match. No offense. Sometimes the greatest celebration is acceptance; the
sea will eventually reclaim the remains and we cannot fight the elements by rebuilding relentlessly.
It is in the same way that a little while ago, the Pharos of Alexandria succumbed to numerous earthquakes and was
never rebuilt. Yes, this isnt news to you. Precisely. It doesnt exist anymore yet you know everything about it. In reality,
destruction and memory are two notions that are very much intertwined and one architect that has understood this unintended
connection is Robert Venturi. He rose to the challenge of designing a monument commemorating the place where Benjamin
Franklins home once stood. The outcome is an outline of the house, made out of steel beams painted white. The unusual
reconstruction conveys both the feeling of absence and presence and is quite interestingly called ghost structure. This
postmodern structure contrasts with what, in the 19th century, would have been made out of bricks; though what is fascinating
here is not how alike the two structures are, but how instead Venturi reminds us of what is no longer there. Franklins memory is
immortalized by a hollow structure and yet, despite the difference, we remember.
It becomes clear that change is ineluctable. It should not be overlooked but integrated in a reconstruction. The latter
should alter the past without neither mirroring it, nor suppressing it. Our job then becomes to find the right middle between
architectural preservation and architectural progress. Walter Benjamin observes this fine line in his interpretation of a painting
by Paul Klee called Angelus Novus. According to him, the painting portrays the angel of History - his eyes obstinately fixed on
the past while an unrelenting storm propels him into the future. Benjamin calls this storm, progress. In the same way as the
angel of History, we are afraid to get caught in this storm and to accept progress as an inherent part of impermanence. Once
we are able to do so, it will become clear that reconstruction indicates progress. It leads us one step further away from the past,
one step closer to the future