the manchester modernist society recently introduced an interactive online map of 20th century manchester’s architectural landmarks as part of MADF2010, a collaboration with the graphics and cartography departments of taylor young architects. i've been involved in some of the research, planning, many walkabouts and endless conversations about this rather massive task, so forgive me for indulging a little in this journal about the current state of play and some of the ideas behind this ongoing project, the first stage in a comprehensive archive of the twentieth century city.
our modernist map is not a regular A to Z street plan - it does not direct you through the brand new city of today. in fact it’s already out of date. instead it is a map of the imagination, a treasure trove of memories, achievements of cultural and civic aspiration. it is a palimpsest, an overlay or acetate, an excavation and a record of the Bold, Beautiful, Brutal and Beleaguered vernacular twentieth century city, already fading into oblivion - a city inhabiting the spaces between the glories of the Victorians and the pastiche and bombast of the post millennium redevelopments. we have attempted to document it all, the great and the small, the successful, the experimental and the less successful.
collaborating with the Taylor Young team allowed the mms to explore these notions of mapmaking and create something digital and sophisticated, an elegant interactive archaeology of the city that delves into the stratigraphy of the 20th century, combining the skills of the cartographer, the artistry of the graphic designer, and inspired by the endless methodologies of navigating the human experience – of transport maps, star charts and even the microscopic maps of our own genetics.
the result is an artefact and resource, an artwork and a database, the beginnings of a renewed relationship with the rich patina of our multilayered city, a living interactive experiment or laboratory that straddles the strangeness and literalness of the medieval mappa mundi, pays homage to the graphics of the 1950’s & 60’s and draws on the excitement and optimism of the post war vision of a modern utopia.
most of all, it is a map of the imagination, permitting us to relate not merely to individual, isolated buildings, as if they stand alone in cities entirely independent of the public realm they inhabit, but to the city as a series of coherent interconnected landscapes, where structures and the spaces in between relate and depend upon each other and the people who bring them to life with their day to day experiences and stories.
delve into the map as you wish, but here to start you off are four suggested voyages into the twentieth century city -
BOLD - this baker’s dozen amply illustrates the sheer inventiveness of a bold modernist landscape that still dazzles today. Relish Manchester’s exuberant and most audacious landmarks: the CIS tower, Express Building, Gateway House, Kendal Milne, Lee House, the Hollings Toastrack, Granada House, Pall Mall Court on King St, Oxford Rd Station and the whole of UMIST a complete Corbusian wonderland!
more classically inclined or a penchant for the elegantly glamorous? try our BEAUTIFUL list: spanning the entire breadth of the modernist era from the deco glamour of Sunlight House, the classic elegance of Central Library, or the mournful elegy of the Lutychens Cenotaph, the undiminished beauty of the twentieth century city sparkles all around us, worthy contenders for any stage. take this little saunter through the splendours of Albert Bridge House, Appleby Lodge, Cenotaph, Central Reference Library, Crown Courts of Justice, Midland Bank/HSBC, Peter House, Redfern House, CWS, Roscoe Building, Manchester University, Ship Canal House, St Augustine’s RC Church, Sunlight House. a twentieth century city that can still fascinate and inspire well into the 21st....
each month we dedicate one of our 3 features to those buildings that have left these earthly shores and departed to the shades of lethe, so in their honour, lest we forget is our BELEAGUERED list – revisit the fading landscape of the modernist city in our guide to treasures long gone or already earmarked for the bulldozer. take a hanky – this mournful homage is not for the fainthearted:
Bernard House, Cumberland Square, Northcliffe House, the Gaumont Cinema/Rotters on Oxford St, the Maths Tower on Oxford Rd, Mobberley Tower and the beautiful Dalwood Frieze, Loxford Tower, the controversial Hulme Crescents (given the Park Hill Urban Splash treatment they might have become the Barbican of Manchester!); and hanging on by a thread the UBO Offices on Aytoun St, Manchester House and the Old Odeon on Oxford St.
last but not least is a landscape that remains much maligned and misunderstood, an attempt to create architecture with an honesty and simplicity that celebrated the new materials and experimental nature of the modernist movement. possibly taken from Corbusier's ‘breton bruts’, translated into English it became something harder and ragingly controversial to this day...
BRUTAL - a dozen brutalist beauties, totemic monuments and landmarks of the Manchester skyline, love ‘em or loath ‘em, they embody the uncompromising spirit of their age. so consider anew our own shortlist – re-imagined as everybody’s favourite antiheroes, the city becomes alive with a veritable league of brooding Mr Darcys or moody but magnificent Heathcliffes! make a dangerous liaison with Aldine House/Riverside, Fairburn House/Renaissance Ramada Deansgate, the Arndale Centre, Bank of England Charlotte St, Lowry House & Post office Tower Spring Gardens, Piccadilly Plaza, Holloway Wall UMIST, RNCM Oxford Rd, the Kantoravitch University Campus. be careful you might fall dangerously in love...
these examples arent exhaustive, just a starting point of course.
but wherever it takes you here’s hoping the mappa modernista enriches our relationship to the city, treasure its faded careworn edifices a little more, and let it inspire a 21st century landscape to be proud of.
Showing posts with label urban regeneration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label urban regeneration. Show all posts
Friday, 16 July 2010
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
K8 - new estates, modernist railway stations, remote windswept spots, 1965 - 1985
the young pretender -
designed by Bruce Martin, the funky K8 was the first serious challenger to K6. it was used primarily for new sites, around 11000 were installed, replacing earlier models only when they needed relocating or had been damaged beyond repair. the K8 retained a red colour scheme, but in a slightly brighter 'Poppy Red', which went on to be the standard colour across all kiosks. it was sassy, sleek and groovy in a tomorrows world, pans people sort of way, with its full glass panes and streamlined edges. less heritage and altogether more with it, more pop! spot one even today, and it looks modernistic, exciting and futuristic.
yet ironically, its relative success was partly due to its K6 inheritance. it took on some aspects of the failed experiment of the K7 (ie. a modern door handle, and full panes of toughened glass on three sides) but remained constructed of cast-iron, greatly adding to its resistance to the UK climate, and with some exceptions the all-over red livery was considered too important to be dispensed with - some K8's in Liverpool and Manchester were painted a distinctive 'Telecom Yellow', as opposed to 'Post Office Red'.and it never completely replaced the old war horse; K6 and K8 survived together into the 1980's, when the death knell for both were sounded with the arrival of the KX100 series.
this marks the real end of our story. the sad story of the red phone booth - they lost their domed roofs. then their red uniforms, and finally even their doors. they were on their way to becoming little more than posts with phones attached when a conservation movement in the 1990s persuaded BT to renovate, and even re-install, some of the old K6s. but this was all too late for the poor K8, now so rare as to be of special interest to the twentieth century society and a focus for one of their at risk campaigns.
at the last count only a handful of K8 remain. estimates vary from 12 to 20. if you see one, give us a ring and let us know!
designed by Bruce Martin, the funky K8 was the first serious challenger to K6. it was used primarily for new sites, around 11000 were installed, replacing earlier models only when they needed relocating or had been damaged beyond repair. the K8 retained a red colour scheme, but in a slightly brighter 'Poppy Red', which went on to be the standard colour across all kiosks. it was sassy, sleek and groovy in a tomorrows world, pans people sort of way, with its full glass panes and streamlined edges. less heritage and altogether more with it, more pop! spot one even today, and it looks modernistic, exciting and futuristic.
yet ironically, its relative success was partly due to its K6 inheritance. it took on some aspects of the failed experiment of the K7 (ie. a modern door handle, and full panes of toughened glass on three sides) but remained constructed of cast-iron, greatly adding to its resistance to the UK climate, and with some exceptions the all-over red livery was considered too important to be dispensed with - some K8's in Liverpool and Manchester were painted a distinctive 'Telecom Yellow', as opposed to 'Post Office Red'.and it never completely replaced the old war horse; K6 and K8 survived together into the 1980's, when the death knell for both were sounded with the arrival of the KX100 series.
this marks the real end of our story. the sad story of the red phone booth - they lost their domed roofs. then their red uniforms, and finally even their doors. they were on their way to becoming little more than posts with phones attached when a conservation movement in the 1990s persuaded BT to renovate, and even re-install, some of the old K6s. but this was all too late for the poor K8, now so rare as to be of special interest to the twentieth century society and a focus for one of their at risk campaigns.
at the last count only a handful of K8 remain. estimates vary from 12 to 20. if you see one, give us a ring and let us know!
Saturday, 3 July 2010
K6, Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, one on every corner, everywhere, 1935 – 1965
designed once again by Sir Giles Gilbert-Scott in 1935 to commemorate the Silver Jubilee of King George V, this was the first truly national or nationwide kiosk, often referred to as the "London" or "English" phone box. it’s the one tourists the world over have their photos taken inside and still evokes the UK landscape whether bustling city or windswept countryside.
that essential tweaking of the K2 can also be spied throughout - the windows give greater visibility with the central panel of each horizontal band being wider that the others, whilst for night use there was an interior light (on a timer). the K6 also featured a writing shelf and, according to the GPO, "combined a smaller exterior with a roomier interior."
about 70, 000 k6’s were installed across the length and breadth of the country from 1936-1965 including four major design changes. boxes from the original 1936 Jubilee Kiosk programme of 8000 boxes have the entry and exit holes for the cable runs on opposite sides of the rear base of the box. from 1939, improved security measures called for a redesign that saw window frames rivetted rather than screwed, improved coin box fixings and the cable runs now brought together on one side of the box. also until 1952 all kiosks bore the Tudor Crown, until the present Queen introduced the St Edward’s crown, the one used for all coronations. this change happened in 1955 affecting all public telephones across the Empire, a useful dating clue for those obsessed by typological ordering.
although we think of the K6 as the red phone booth, there are some notable exceptions - kiosks installed in Hull were not fitted with a crown at all as they were installed by the Hull Corporation & were painted cream. they are also distinguishable by the complete absence of the crown, tudor or otherwise!
meanwhile there were battles fought across the land about the strident red colour, which wasn’t immediately well received and exceptions were made to appease their roll out - boxes for use in areas of outstanding natural beauty, could be painted Dark Battleship Grey with PO red window bars.
such teething problems ironed out, the K6 was to dominate the landscape for the next 30 years until the break-up of the gpo and the introduction of the new generation telecom boxes. in reality people increasingly had a phone in their own home, then came the mobile phone, the home computer and wifi, changing the way we communicate yet again, and making the need for these miniature buildings almost entirely obsolete. decommission was inevitable by the late 1980’s. yet the redundant k6 had an army of devotees, and a series of public campaigns led to some protection for some of the stragglers, with around 3000 becoming listed.
nowadays any surviving K6 can be designated a Grade II listed structure. the 4 survivors in city centre Manchester (two in st peters square, one on the corner of deansgate and Liverpool rd, and one on the top of st johns street) fall into this lucky category. they are in a pitiful state despite residing in prominent conservqtion areas of our 'original, modern city'.
pity that marketeers tag doesnt extend to the truly original & modernistic K6.....
that essential tweaking of the K2 can also be spied throughout - the windows give greater visibility with the central panel of each horizontal band being wider that the others, whilst for night use there was an interior light (on a timer). the K6 also featured a writing shelf and, according to the GPO, "combined a smaller exterior with a roomier interior."
about 70, 000 k6’s were installed across the length and breadth of the country from 1936-1965 including four major design changes. boxes from the original 1936 Jubilee Kiosk programme of 8000 boxes have the entry and exit holes for the cable runs on opposite sides of the rear base of the box. from 1939, improved security measures called for a redesign that saw window frames rivetted rather than screwed, improved coin box fixings and the cable runs now brought together on one side of the box. also until 1952 all kiosks bore the Tudor Crown, until the present Queen introduced the St Edward’s crown, the one used for all coronations. this change happened in 1955 affecting all public telephones across the Empire, a useful dating clue for those obsessed by typological ordering.
although we think of the K6 as the red phone booth, there are some notable exceptions - kiosks installed in Hull were not fitted with a crown at all as they were installed by the Hull Corporation & were painted cream. they are also distinguishable by the complete absence of the crown, tudor or otherwise!
meanwhile there were battles fought across the land about the strident red colour, which wasn’t immediately well received and exceptions were made to appease their roll out - boxes for use in areas of outstanding natural beauty, could be painted Dark Battleship Grey with PO red window bars.
such teething problems ironed out, the K6 was to dominate the landscape for the next 30 years until the break-up of the gpo and the introduction of the new generation telecom boxes. in reality people increasingly had a phone in their own home, then came the mobile phone, the home computer and wifi, changing the way we communicate yet again, and making the need for these miniature buildings almost entirely obsolete. decommission was inevitable by the late 1980’s. yet the redundant k6 had an army of devotees, and a series of public campaigns led to some protection for some of the stragglers, with around 3000 becoming listed.
nowadays any surviving K6 can be designated a Grade II listed structure. the 4 survivors in city centre Manchester (two in st peters square, one on the corner of deansgate and Liverpool rd, and one on the top of st johns street) fall into this lucky category. they are in a pitiful state despite residing in prominent conservqtion areas of our 'original, modern city'.
pity that marketeers tag doesnt extend to the truly original & modernistic K6.....
Thursday, 15 April 2010
save our ghostsigns....everyday frescoes of the people!
good to see jonathan glancey taking up the cause of those once ubiquitous faded signs adorning and decorating the sides of crumbling old buildings great and small, or ghostsigns as the History of Advertising Trust’s online archive evocatively call them. as he points out,
British towns and cities boasted a promiscuous palette of painted adverts like these. Standing on the tops of ladders, signwriters had a field day celebrating Bovril, Hovis, Boots and Nestle's Milk "Rich in Cream", along with Puck Matches, Bile Beans, Peterkin's Custard and any number of local crafts, trades and services.
Many signs survive, in ghostly form, on the sides of ageing buildings. I bet there's one near you. Ruthless modern development means that such "ghost signs" (as they are known by the History of Advertising Trust) are disappearing.
And yet they deserve to be saved. Here are urban folk-memories from an age before the triumph of the paste-up poster, cinema, magazine, telly and internet advertising.
back in September 2009 over at the manchester modernist society we ran a little homage to the peculiar beauty and cultural significance of these fast disappearing relics in our own city, prompted in part by the sudden passing of one particular local favourite, the much loved barkat sign on dale st, needlessly painted over by one assumes its new owners.
here’s what we said ....
Our post war murals are in effect treated no differently to the vernacular street signs adorning so much of the city like Barkat Knitwear, perhaps the boldest and most colourful example of the genre which lit up Dale St for god knows how long until being unceremoniously, criminally painted over by its new owner /property developer. Like our commissioned murals it brightened up the daily trudge to work, school or the shops come rain or shine, a landmark, an icon, an everyday fresco for the common man.
A quick perusal of flickr shows that the Barkat sign was until very recently a much loved fixture in the landscape, admired for its colour, exuberance & the rugged, battered textures of its surface; appreciated as an invaluable slice of social and cultural history; as much a historical artefact as anything dug up on an excavation, a window into the day to day life of the twentieth century city, as valuable as a wall of Latin graffiti in Pompeii. The Barkat sign straddled the boundary of Ancoats and the outer edge of Northern quarter, once the heart of the textile, food and commercial district, a bustling labyrinth of workshops, showrooms and factories. These buildings – their sides, facades, doorframes - were literally, physically, billboards for products, signposts and adverts in an era before PR and marketing departments, television ads or internet publicity campaigns. Sign writers were skilled artists and their work was detailed, meticulous and in great demand. Though the industries declined and the businesses disappeared their memories remained, faded peeling apparitions, relics and remnants of former glories.
And whilst they share many of the attributes of post war murals, the fragility of their materials, their commercial nature and inherent anonymity renders them even more vulnerable to the threat of regeneration, demolition or eradication. From modest pieces such as the Barkat to lavishly painted adverts promoting everything from universal products to specific, local services and businesses, they are both visual treasures and social/cultural documents, multiple narratives of the city past and present enriching the built environment.
Perhaps the time has come not only to challenge our notions of what art is but to broaden the boundaries of what constitutes the archaeological object. Every time we paint over, dismantle or jet clean one of these images we erase a crucial element of the fabric of the city, a little bit more of our history and yet more of our archaeological record, the story of ourselves. Furthermore, Bristol council’s decision to consult the local population on the fate of graffiti art covering the walls of its city buildings demonstrates the beginnings of a welcome reassessment of the ‘canon’, one that reflects and acknowledges the value and importance of art and design in the public realm, beyond that which is traditional or officially sanctioned. Perhaps it’s also time to include an anonymous oeuvre that paved the way for the banksys of today. These quotidian frescoes embody art, social document and historical artefact. If we can accept graffiti as art then why not sign writing and graphic design?
Reimagined as a vast open air Tate Modern minus the exhibition fee and restrictive opening hours, bursting with paintings, murals, sculpture and pop art from every era, the city becomes a living canvas, a vibrant and thought provoking backdrop to our everyday lives, reflecting like all major collections, media and styles of every period. But this is a collection that boasts artwork from the famous to the unknown, reflecting the times and cultures of the changing city, always thought provoking, visually stimulating and a pleasure to visit and inhabit.
RIP - barkat door sign, needlessly erased, 2009
British towns and cities boasted a promiscuous palette of painted adverts like these. Standing on the tops of ladders, signwriters had a field day celebrating Bovril, Hovis, Boots and Nestle's Milk "Rich in Cream", along with Puck Matches, Bile Beans, Peterkin's Custard and any number of local crafts, trades and services.
Many signs survive, in ghostly form, on the sides of ageing buildings. I bet there's one near you. Ruthless modern development means that such "ghost signs" (as they are known by the History of Advertising Trust) are disappearing.
And yet they deserve to be saved. Here are urban folk-memories from an age before the triumph of the paste-up poster, cinema, magazine, telly and internet advertising.
back in September 2009 over at the manchester modernist society we ran a little homage to the peculiar beauty and cultural significance of these fast disappearing relics in our own city, prompted in part by the sudden passing of one particular local favourite, the much loved barkat sign on dale st, needlessly painted over by one assumes its new owners.
here’s what we said ....
Our post war murals are in effect treated no differently to the vernacular street signs adorning so much of the city like Barkat Knitwear, perhaps the boldest and most colourful example of the genre which lit up Dale St for god knows how long until being unceremoniously, criminally painted over by its new owner /property developer. Like our commissioned murals it brightened up the daily trudge to work, school or the shops come rain or shine, a landmark, an icon, an everyday fresco for the common man.
A quick perusal of flickr shows that the Barkat sign was until very recently a much loved fixture in the landscape, admired for its colour, exuberance & the rugged, battered textures of its surface; appreciated as an invaluable slice of social and cultural history; as much a historical artefact as anything dug up on an excavation, a window into the day to day life of the twentieth century city, as valuable as a wall of Latin graffiti in Pompeii. The Barkat sign straddled the boundary of Ancoats and the outer edge of Northern quarter, once the heart of the textile, food and commercial district, a bustling labyrinth of workshops, showrooms and factories. These buildings – their sides, facades, doorframes - were literally, physically, billboards for products, signposts and adverts in an era before PR and marketing departments, television ads or internet publicity campaigns. Sign writers were skilled artists and their work was detailed, meticulous and in great demand. Though the industries declined and the businesses disappeared their memories remained, faded peeling apparitions, relics and remnants of former glories.
And whilst they share many of the attributes of post war murals, the fragility of their materials, their commercial nature and inherent anonymity renders them even more vulnerable to the threat of regeneration, demolition or eradication. From modest pieces such as the Barkat to lavishly painted adverts promoting everything from universal products to specific, local services and businesses, they are both visual treasures and social/cultural documents, multiple narratives of the city past and present enriching the built environment.
Perhaps the time has come not only to challenge our notions of what art is but to broaden the boundaries of what constitutes the archaeological object. Every time we paint over, dismantle or jet clean one of these images we erase a crucial element of the fabric of the city, a little bit more of our history and yet more of our archaeological record, the story of ourselves. Furthermore, Bristol council’s decision to consult the local population on the fate of graffiti art covering the walls of its city buildings demonstrates the beginnings of a welcome reassessment of the ‘canon’, one that reflects and acknowledges the value and importance of art and design in the public realm, beyond that which is traditional or officially sanctioned. Perhaps it’s also time to include an anonymous oeuvre that paved the way for the banksys of today. These quotidian frescoes embody art, social document and historical artefact. If we can accept graffiti as art then why not sign writing and graphic design?
Reimagined as a vast open air Tate Modern minus the exhibition fee and restrictive opening hours, bursting with paintings, murals, sculpture and pop art from every era, the city becomes a living canvas, a vibrant and thought provoking backdrop to our everyday lives, reflecting like all major collections, media and styles of every period. But this is a collection that boasts artwork from the famous to the unknown, reflecting the times and cultures of the changing city, always thought provoking, visually stimulating and a pleasure to visit and inhabit.
RIP - barkat door sign, needlessly erased, 2009
Thursday, 1 April 2010
How property development became the new punk....
owen hatherley’s ideas have long found favour on these pages and i often return to his writings for inspiration and intimidation. in yesterday's guardian podcast he turns his unflinching gaze onto our own fair city and as usual hits the nail on the head.
its a brilliant piece. exploring the impact of architecture on manchester’s cultural scene, he elucidates what some of us have been trying to suggest for the last decade to a largely disinterested citizenry, in thrall with the all pervading orthodoxy of the reigning post bomb narrative; that of the great entrepreneurial victorian city reborn triumphantly to the present day. this mythology of the ‘original modern’ city, brashly beguiling with its relentless self aggrandising swagger, has successfully airbrushed out a whole century and the experiences of the people in it.
to many of us still living outside the shiny glass and steel bubble of the regenerated centre, in the ordinary fragmented spaces not yet given the urban splash treatment, hatherley’s thesis is nothing new, but to hear it boldly enunciated is still something of a novelty. inevitably hatherleys reading will go down like a lead balloon to those wedded to the hollow sham that is spinningfields and new islington, vulgar neo-ruins in waiting to the false idols of the free market economy.
but just what did become of the 20th century city, the urban topography of postwar manchester in particular? the idea that prior to ’96, the entire city was a dismal shithole - and by extension, the lives and experiences of all who inhabited it - has held sway, unchallenged, for far too long. the grand civic aspirations and modernist landscape envisaged as a new utopia replacing squalid unsanitary slum dwellings, seen so clearly in recent excavations over on dantzic street, were sold off, obliterated and missed by no-one. as hatherley explains,
this is the narrative about modernist architecture that exists in numerous reminiscences and histories – we loved it at first, in the ’60s, then we realised how appalling it was, so we knocked them down and rebuilt simulations of the old streets instead.
in manchester, after the ira bomb of 1996 and before the 2008 financial crash, property development became the new punk rock...a post-rave urban growth coalition of old punks, ravers, developers and new labour mandarins took control of the city, transformed it into Britain’s regeneration flagship, done in the name of a city that created joy division, factory records and the hacienda, wiping out as much of the 60’s city they took inspiration from as they possibly could, in an orgy of demolition and rebuilding.
nowadays, when manchester is profiled and reminisced over, its most often than not from a narrative which leaps from the victorian city of manchester liberalism, the unrestrained capitalism much loved by thatcherites, to the city recreated and regenerated after the bomb. its old entrepreneurs built the mills where workers toiled 12 hour days and died before they were 40, and the new entrepreneurs sell the same mills to young urban professionals as luxury housing, with rooms half the size of the old council flats. the poverty of 19th century manchester and the inequalities of today are effaced whilst in between is a no man’s land – except that now, after the recession, these empty spaces are back and the estates of ancoats left in ruins after failed regeneration schemes.
is the post bomb deal with the devil finally beginning to crack? as the fissures begin to appear in first of the great glass shards of 'new' manchester, collective amnesia is no longer the order of the day...
*************************************************
launched in july 2009, Loops is a new journal of music writing; a promising urbanist marriage between publishers Faber and Faber and Domino Records. its second edition is fresh out....im nipping out to buy an issue immediately. it sounds right up my high rise....
its a brilliant piece. exploring the impact of architecture on manchester’s cultural scene, he elucidates what some of us have been trying to suggest for the last decade to a largely disinterested citizenry, in thrall with the all pervading orthodoxy of the reigning post bomb narrative; that of the great entrepreneurial victorian city reborn triumphantly to the present day. this mythology of the ‘original modern’ city, brashly beguiling with its relentless self aggrandising swagger, has successfully airbrushed out a whole century and the experiences of the people in it.
to many of us still living outside the shiny glass and steel bubble of the regenerated centre, in the ordinary fragmented spaces not yet given the urban splash treatment, hatherley’s thesis is nothing new, but to hear it boldly enunciated is still something of a novelty. inevitably hatherleys reading will go down like a lead balloon to those wedded to the hollow sham that is spinningfields and new islington, vulgar neo-ruins in waiting to the false idols of the free market economy.
but just what did become of the 20th century city, the urban topography of postwar manchester in particular? the idea that prior to ’96, the entire city was a dismal shithole - and by extension, the lives and experiences of all who inhabited it - has held sway, unchallenged, for far too long. the grand civic aspirations and modernist landscape envisaged as a new utopia replacing squalid unsanitary slum dwellings, seen so clearly in recent excavations over on dantzic street, were sold off, obliterated and missed by no-one. as hatherley explains,
this is the narrative about modernist architecture that exists in numerous reminiscences and histories – we loved it at first, in the ’60s, then we realised how appalling it was, so we knocked them down and rebuilt simulations of the old streets instead.
in manchester, after the ira bomb of 1996 and before the 2008 financial crash, property development became the new punk rock...a post-rave urban growth coalition of old punks, ravers, developers and new labour mandarins took control of the city, transformed it into Britain’s regeneration flagship, done in the name of a city that created joy division, factory records and the hacienda, wiping out as much of the 60’s city they took inspiration from as they possibly could, in an orgy of demolition and rebuilding.
nowadays, when manchester is profiled and reminisced over, its most often than not from a narrative which leaps from the victorian city of manchester liberalism, the unrestrained capitalism much loved by thatcherites, to the city recreated and regenerated after the bomb. its old entrepreneurs built the mills where workers toiled 12 hour days and died before they were 40, and the new entrepreneurs sell the same mills to young urban professionals as luxury housing, with rooms half the size of the old council flats. the poverty of 19th century manchester and the inequalities of today are effaced whilst in between is a no man’s land – except that now, after the recession, these empty spaces are back and the estates of ancoats left in ruins after failed regeneration schemes.
is the post bomb deal with the devil finally beginning to crack? as the fissures begin to appear in first of the great glass shards of 'new' manchester, collective amnesia is no longer the order of the day...
*************************************************
launched in july 2009, Loops is a new journal of music writing; a promising urbanist marriage between publishers Faber and Faber and Domino Records. its second edition is fresh out....im nipping out to buy an issue immediately. it sounds right up my high rise....
Thursday, 19 November 2009
manchester modernist society feature in Urbis Research Forum Review Vol 1!
a proud moment for the manchester modernist society....
back in august we collaborated with dr julian holloway and dr steve millington on The Alchemy of Concrete, a walking tour of the mancunian way followed by a public seminar at urbis.
the first issue of the Urbis Research Forum Review is now available to download from the urbis website. the review is the online publication of the Urbis Research Forum and this first issue features articles by julian holloway and our very own maureen ward.
the first issue of the Urbis Research Forum Review is now available to download from the urbis website. the review is the online publication of the Urbis Research Forum and this first issue features articles by julian holloway and our very own maureen ward.
the articles are based on the presentations given during the 'Mancunian Way: The Alchemy of Concrete' panel discussion held on 26 August, 2009. in the review julian and maureen explore the layered experience of the mancunian way – manchester’s elevated post-war motorway – and its impact on the places and people of the city.
Download the Review here for two very different but complimentary ways to rethink and reconsider the urban dragon and brunswick monolith that is the flyover....
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
an evening of modernist delights - wine, films about concrete, iconic postcards...
the night before the tinag festival, the manchester modernists had their six month birthday party, their first proper grown up soiree, billed as a celebration of the city, with wine and nibbles, a couple of short films from the north west film archives and the launch of those lovely new postcards....
we were nervous. for the last few months we have held a variety of get togethers and they have all been great fun, we have met lovely people who love the city and have seemed willing to join in our rather peculiar events, but we have never so far held a party. parties are funny things - you invite people, you arrange entertainments, refreshments and distractions and hope that people will come and once there wont be disappointed or bored. we didnt know which would be worse - that no one would come and we would be all alone with our metaphorical party streamers, or that people would come and hate it! as 6.30 drew ever nearer, we distracted ourselves with last minute arrangements and waited with dread for the doors to open and a guest to appear.
by 6.30 the room was looking comfortable enough with about 20 people and we busied ourselves meeting and greeting and rearranging chairs and tables for the screening. then suddenly we were packed to the rafters, tables and chairs filled with expectant faces, whilst the back was a standing room only scrum. maureen gave a short welcome and then handed over to steve millington who had unearthed 2 fabulous short films, one depicting the clearances and rebuilding of hulme, the other being the story of the building of the mancunian way. they were both poignant, sometimes unintentionally hilarious, and evocative.
afterwards milling about and handing out sets of postcards, it seemed that everyone had enjoyed themselves, and we heaved a sigh of relief. as i hurried off to get ready for london next day, i left my little gang of modernists packing away and chatting to stragglers, the sound of good times ringing in my ears.....
thanks to everyone who worked so hard to help make it all come together, who gave their time and sponsorship and goodwill. and thank you for attending and spreading the word - we hope you enjoyed it and come again soon!
and many thanks to steve for his gorgeous films and fantastic introduction, which was described to me by one attendant as passionate and inspiring! brilliant and entirely pertinent as it turned out to much of what was hot on the agenda at tinag....
here's a transcript of his introduction -
Manchester Modernist Society Launch 22nd October 2009
Venue: An Outlet, Dale St Manchester.
Acknowledgments:
Edwin Trout – Concrete Society – for his kind permission to show their film
Manchester City Council – permission to show other film
Marion Hewitt and Geoff Senior – NWFA
Institute of Place Management – sponsoring the event andAn Outlet – for hosting us
Cheers to Maureen Ward and Jack Hale for inviting me to introduce this event
There are two questions I would like to raise – what is the ideal city? And is it worth saving the modern city?
Hopefully in answering these question we can begin to explain exactly why we are here tonight to formally launch the Manchester Modernist Society, why we are about to sit down and watch a film about concrete.
What is the ideal city?
What is the ideal city? It is one of those questions that provokes intense debate about the nature of society, which often says more about the anxieties we share about urban life. What solutions might we pursue to improve the city– to eradicate the blockages that complicate our everyday lives, to improve the look and feel of the city and make living or working in it a more pleasurable experience. But how can we also make the city a more just place? And importantly how can the ideal city also provide a sustainable environment for future generations?
In answering the question – what is the ideal city – we uncover more questions – we start to engage in the big questions about how best to organise our economy and society - in questions about what constitutes social progress or spatial justice.
In Britain, over the last century, several visions of the city have emerged, presenting their Utopian version of what the ideal city might look like. Unsurprisingly earlier visions tackled the big questions of the day - the terrible injustices and squalor which emerged in the Victorian city during a phase of rampant and unregulated industrial capitalism - The Garden City movement, for example, Ebeneezer Howard's symbolic union of town and countryside – which combined the progressive elements of industrialisation with the traditional virtues of rural life.
In post-war period Britain, a radically different paradigm emerged – the Modernist Movement, advocating state-led technocratic fixes to rationalise and order the chaotic legacies of Victorian capitalism, through the construction of a new metropolis amidst the ruins of cities scarred by war.In practice – this reconstruction entailed the clearance of working class communities on a massive scale. The critique of this planning regime is well rehearsed – I don't want to dwell on it tonight, other than to mention Jane Jacobs' attack on modernist planning in the 1960s, and her argument that the messiness and diversity of the city is perhaps is intrinsic to urban life, something to be cherished and not cleansed out of existence. Whereas modernist visionaries such as Le Corbusier talked about the death of the street, Jacobs set out to save it. The spirit of Jacobs' work is still with us, through the growing influence of the New Urbanism movement in the USA and its impact on urban design and architectural practice.
In contemporary Britain state-led urban planning is now an archaic concept. Since the advent of Thatcherism, we have witnessed the rise of the entrepreneurial city, elevating the role of private speculation in driving urban development, placing faith in the market to resolve urban problems, together with an emphasis on personal choice and individual consumption.The aggressive Neoliberal tendencies of the entrepreneurial city, however, were augmented by the optimism underpinning the arrival of New Labour, who appointed Richard Rogers to lead the Urban Task Force and produce a new blueprint for the British city - a particularly Blairite vision – which continued to foreground prviate sector leadership, but offered a vision whereby individuals operated within a framework of civic responsibility or active citizenship. Rogers, amongst others, also established a fascination within professional circles to hold up the mythical European City – as the urban ideal – the city as a 24hr centre of cosmopolitan culture and creativity, a city of boulevards, apartment blocks, museums and street cafes, a cappuccino culture. The thousands who have adopted the city centre as their place of residence – perhaps gives some credence to the realisation of this vision.
It is important that we acknowledge how these visions – are not ideologically neutral. Each comes laden with political or cultural values regarding the relationship between people and place. It is also important that we recognise how these movements have shaped the urban landscape, sometimes producing very successful projects, but also spectacular failures. Importantly we should avoid packaging the history of the city into neat parcels of time. Rather the development of the city is subject to continuities and discontinuities, which allow ideas and practices from one vision to bleed into another, to produce a complex and fractured city. The city is also an unfinished project, and will always be so. That said - undoubtedly we learn lessons along the way – mass clearance, for example, has shown us how communities can be destroyed overnight – but it then take decades to rebuild them.
It is easy to blame planners and architects for their failure to deliver our Utopia – whatever it may be – but you cannot ignore the wider context in which the city operates. The Credit Crunch, for example, alerts us to how powerful global processes push and pull the city in different directions - rendering it in a constant state of flux.
But the Credit Crunch has also lead to us to cross-roads – where do we go next in pursuit of the ideal city?
Half empty apartment blocks, aborted construction sites, the skeletal remains of once exciting new projects - litter the Mancunian landscape – concrete memorials to the failure of market systems to secure the city's immediate future. But a return to the state-led strategic planning of the Fifties and Sixties is out of the question – especially if we anticipate the next General Election result.
But urban living continues to beguile and frustrate us. The cost of housing, congestion, disintegrated public transport, areas of blight and decay, alienated working classes, poorly designed public spaces, poor health, deprivation, the surveillance culture, the ASBO generation – point to a general discontent with urban living in Britain. Our flirtation with city centre loft living – perhaps is just a momentary diversion. Some would accuses the British as being anti-urban – we don't really love our cities, because all the evidence is there that we don't care or tend for them – and at first opportunity - we rather be living out an idyllic existence in the countryside.
Is it worth saving the modern city?
We like to criticise planners and architects – for getting it wrong. Its something of a sport in Britain, like blaming the referee for a heavy home defeat. With hindsight we like to look back and ask - what might have been? If only this flyover had not ploughed this neighbourhood, if only we hadn't knocked down that building because now we would consider it to be an architectural gem.
This logic leads us to an assumption that somehow all heritage and conservation is intrinsically a good thing. But a sentimental obsession with protecting the past - hides an underlying danger of petrifying the city – a city fixed in time - according to a narrowly defined set a conventions about what constitutes esteemed architecture or urban design. Perhaps we should think of heritage as being something which is actively produced and contested. How we construct our common heritage, therefore, is not only about memory, but also forgetting.
The irony is that the 19th century architecture – so highly cherished in Manchester today – was put there mainly by industrialists who cared little for conservation themselves.
And for the planners who reconstructed Manchester after 1945 – the Victorian landscape established by these industrialists were part of the problem – grim reminders of labour exploitation and injustice, obstacles to be removed – to make way for progress and the city of the future.
So it is interesting that we find ourselves here at the launch of the Manchester Modernist Society, because my understanding is that - to be modern - involves a sense of being/self – that is always in movement – to celebrate a city, for example, that is always in a state of progression towards some better future. So there is a certain tension, therefore, in coming together to launch a society dedicated to raising awareness and protecting Manchester's historic modernist architecture. As good modernists shouldn't we just let it all go and embrace the future?
Without doubt the Modernist landscape of Manchester – is slipping away – illustrated by the ensuing battle to save Gateway House, for instance. Mass housing developments, Fort Ardwick, Fort Beswick, the Hulme Crescents – which replaced dense working class neighbourhoods - have themselves become victims of mass clearance and redevelopment. Many would argue that this is good thing – but a symbolical landscape - one defined by the Welfare State and a vision of social unity – has now subject to the logic of market forces. Public spaces and buildings of old are sliding away behind a veil of privatisation.
Manchester is being overlaid with a soft post-modern sheen - the smothering of concrete's hard surfaces, the smoothing of brutal edges – the bending of straight lines – the progressive sanding away of the roughness and brutality of the Modern City. This unique landscape – a product of its time - is melting into the air. We are left with remnants, bits and pieces – legacies of a social democratic state in the making – reminders of a time when a strong political ideology informed an attempt to socially engineer a more equitable society – a better society – solving urban problems through technocratic fixes – a genuine effort to capture the spirit of modernity in built form.
The solidity of modern architecture and its sheer brutalism - unlike Manchester's ornate Victorian gems Рrepresent a challenge to contemporary speculators and urban planners Рthey are structures which are not easily converted into stylish apartments, or A-grade offices РEuropean caf̩ culture sits uncomfortably within a rain-soaked concrete precinct in Collyhurst, for example. Modernist buildings possess an aesthetic that jars against the creation of the entrepreneurial city Рas a place to do business, to celebrate individualism, and promote wealth generation over social equity.
The Council Estate for instance – once was a form aspirational living for the working class – but here we start to chart the shift in our collective aspirations. Public housing is now a marker of illegitimate difference, a landscape of blight – a sink hole for failed and washed up citizens. Our attitude towards the council estate and other products of modernist planning - reflects the current disdain for all things public – which began perhaps with reform of the welfare state – and Thatcherite assertions that there is no such thing as society, only individuals and the choices they make.
I would maintain, that these modernist 'carbuncles' – or 'ugly gems' – form an important part of the history of Manchester. These structures continue to exert a looming presence, producing menacing shadows over Manchester's attempt to re brand itself as an open, entrepreneurial and cosmopolitan place. These buildings have a ghostly – spectral presence in the city – haunting us about pre-Thatcherite days – a glimpse through to another world –an upside down place where state planning and collectivism took presidence. It is surprising then - that modernist architecture has become a figure of hate, vilified for its ugliness and alienating properties – a built environment that is simply not worth saving. A place which is best forgotten as Manchester engineers a 'better neoliberal' future. Perhaps then the Manchester Modernist Society might provide us with a way rethinking the city as other or different, perhaps even functioning as a mechanism through which to challenge and resist the pernicious elements private corporate investment and control of urban space.
During the mass clearances of the 1960s - formal and comprehensive archives were constructed by Manchester and Salford Corporations, of working class in areas prior to redevelopment, extensive film and photographic records, oral histories, and other testimonies – prior to the construction of the modernist city.
But as this disappears, there is an absence of systematic documentation of the lives of ordinary people, living and worked within it. For many Mancunians – their experience of the modern city was real and direct – as they encountered a built environment that gave form to the 'cradle to the grave' expectations established through the Welfare State – shaping our experience - from the moment of birth in an NHS hospital, times spent in clinics, dental waiting rooms, the doctor's surgery – educations forged within Secondary Modern schools or comprehensives – lives spent in tower blocks, shopping precincts, public squares, moments spent on concrete benches, in telephone boxes, within municipal buildings – libraries, courts, town-halls, fire-stations, swimming baths. The modern city transformed how we moved across Manchester – through a landscape of flyovers, motorways, bridges, underpasses, bus stations. Perhaps the Modernist can also alert us to the importance of documenting the lives and experiences of the people who lived through it. It is important, therefore, that we understand this disappearing landscape more deeply, acknowledge its richness and diversity, and challenge the common-sense assumption that it blighted the lives of a generation. And with its impending demise, it is essential then we do begin to acknowledge and raise awareness of Manchester Modernist Landscape – and how it has shaped the lives of ordinary people.
We need to be careful though not to over-romanticize – and avoid uncritical appreciation of modernist architecture. I still work in a City Council designed educational block – its not exactly a Workers Utopia. There remains a validity to the criticism targeted at modernist planning by the likes of Jane Jacobs. So we should avoid becoming too maudlin about this lost Utopian landscape. Ultimately the quest for the ideal city – is a dream, a vision – it will always be an unfinished and untenable project. But the Manchester Modernist Society can at least help us appreciate and document a time when politicians were more concerned with ideology than expenses, a time when a cohesive vision of the city as a place of social unity, justice and equity emerged, and provide us with a charter to challenge the dogma and injustices of privatisation and think about the city as a space of collective action.
Steve Millington
22nd October 2009
North West Archive Films:
Film NO. 1282 Hulme Redevelopment
Film No. 1222 The Mancunian Way.
we were nervous. for the last few months we have held a variety of get togethers and they have all been great fun, we have met lovely people who love the city and have seemed willing to join in our rather peculiar events, but we have never so far held a party. parties are funny things - you invite people, you arrange entertainments, refreshments and distractions and hope that people will come and once there wont be disappointed or bored. we didnt know which would be worse - that no one would come and we would be all alone with our metaphorical party streamers, or that people would come and hate it! as 6.30 drew ever nearer, we distracted ourselves with last minute arrangements and waited with dread for the doors to open and a guest to appear.
by 6.30 the room was looking comfortable enough with about 20 people and we busied ourselves meeting and greeting and rearranging chairs and tables for the screening. then suddenly we were packed to the rafters, tables and chairs filled with expectant faces, whilst the back was a standing room only scrum. maureen gave a short welcome and then handed over to steve millington who had unearthed 2 fabulous short films, one depicting the clearances and rebuilding of hulme, the other being the story of the building of the mancunian way. they were both poignant, sometimes unintentionally hilarious, and evocative.
afterwards milling about and handing out sets of postcards, it seemed that everyone had enjoyed themselves, and we heaved a sigh of relief. as i hurried off to get ready for london next day, i left my little gang of modernists packing away and chatting to stragglers, the sound of good times ringing in my ears.....
thanks to everyone who worked so hard to help make it all come together, who gave their time and sponsorship and goodwill. and thank you for attending and spreading the word - we hope you enjoyed it and come again soon!
and many thanks to steve for his gorgeous films and fantastic introduction, which was described to me by one attendant as passionate and inspiring! brilliant and entirely pertinent as it turned out to much of what was hot on the agenda at tinag....
here's a transcript of his introduction -
Manchester Modernist Society Launch 22nd October 2009
Venue: An Outlet, Dale St Manchester.
Acknowledgments:
Edwin Trout – Concrete Society – for his kind permission to show their film
Manchester City Council – permission to show other film
Marion Hewitt and Geoff Senior – NWFA
Institute of Place Management – sponsoring the event andAn Outlet – for hosting us
Cheers to Maureen Ward and Jack Hale for inviting me to introduce this event
There are two questions I would like to raise – what is the ideal city? And is it worth saving the modern city?
Hopefully in answering these question we can begin to explain exactly why we are here tonight to formally launch the Manchester Modernist Society, why we are about to sit down and watch a film about concrete.
What is the ideal city?
What is the ideal city? It is one of those questions that provokes intense debate about the nature of society, which often says more about the anxieties we share about urban life. What solutions might we pursue to improve the city– to eradicate the blockages that complicate our everyday lives, to improve the look and feel of the city and make living or working in it a more pleasurable experience. But how can we also make the city a more just place? And importantly how can the ideal city also provide a sustainable environment for future generations?
In answering the question – what is the ideal city – we uncover more questions – we start to engage in the big questions about how best to organise our economy and society - in questions about what constitutes social progress or spatial justice.
In Britain, over the last century, several visions of the city have emerged, presenting their Utopian version of what the ideal city might look like. Unsurprisingly earlier visions tackled the big questions of the day - the terrible injustices and squalor which emerged in the Victorian city during a phase of rampant and unregulated industrial capitalism - The Garden City movement, for example, Ebeneezer Howard's symbolic union of town and countryside – which combined the progressive elements of industrialisation with the traditional virtues of rural life.
In post-war period Britain, a radically different paradigm emerged – the Modernist Movement, advocating state-led technocratic fixes to rationalise and order the chaotic legacies of Victorian capitalism, through the construction of a new metropolis amidst the ruins of cities scarred by war.In practice – this reconstruction entailed the clearance of working class communities on a massive scale. The critique of this planning regime is well rehearsed – I don't want to dwell on it tonight, other than to mention Jane Jacobs' attack on modernist planning in the 1960s, and her argument that the messiness and diversity of the city is perhaps is intrinsic to urban life, something to be cherished and not cleansed out of existence. Whereas modernist visionaries such as Le Corbusier talked about the death of the street, Jacobs set out to save it. The spirit of Jacobs' work is still with us, through the growing influence of the New Urbanism movement in the USA and its impact on urban design and architectural practice.
In contemporary Britain state-led urban planning is now an archaic concept. Since the advent of Thatcherism, we have witnessed the rise of the entrepreneurial city, elevating the role of private speculation in driving urban development, placing faith in the market to resolve urban problems, together with an emphasis on personal choice and individual consumption.The aggressive Neoliberal tendencies of the entrepreneurial city, however, were augmented by the optimism underpinning the arrival of New Labour, who appointed Richard Rogers to lead the Urban Task Force and produce a new blueprint for the British city - a particularly Blairite vision – which continued to foreground prviate sector leadership, but offered a vision whereby individuals operated within a framework of civic responsibility or active citizenship. Rogers, amongst others, also established a fascination within professional circles to hold up the mythical European City – as the urban ideal – the city as a 24hr centre of cosmopolitan culture and creativity, a city of boulevards, apartment blocks, museums and street cafes, a cappuccino culture. The thousands who have adopted the city centre as their place of residence – perhaps gives some credence to the realisation of this vision.
It is important that we acknowledge how these visions – are not ideologically neutral. Each comes laden with political or cultural values regarding the relationship between people and place. It is also important that we recognise how these movements have shaped the urban landscape, sometimes producing very successful projects, but also spectacular failures. Importantly we should avoid packaging the history of the city into neat parcels of time. Rather the development of the city is subject to continuities and discontinuities, which allow ideas and practices from one vision to bleed into another, to produce a complex and fractured city. The city is also an unfinished project, and will always be so. That said - undoubtedly we learn lessons along the way – mass clearance, for example, has shown us how communities can be destroyed overnight – but it then take decades to rebuild them.
It is easy to blame planners and architects for their failure to deliver our Utopia – whatever it may be – but you cannot ignore the wider context in which the city operates. The Credit Crunch, for example, alerts us to how powerful global processes push and pull the city in different directions - rendering it in a constant state of flux.
But the Credit Crunch has also lead to us to cross-roads – where do we go next in pursuit of the ideal city?
Half empty apartment blocks, aborted construction sites, the skeletal remains of once exciting new projects - litter the Mancunian landscape – concrete memorials to the failure of market systems to secure the city's immediate future. But a return to the state-led strategic planning of the Fifties and Sixties is out of the question – especially if we anticipate the next General Election result.
But urban living continues to beguile and frustrate us. The cost of housing, congestion, disintegrated public transport, areas of blight and decay, alienated working classes, poorly designed public spaces, poor health, deprivation, the surveillance culture, the ASBO generation – point to a general discontent with urban living in Britain. Our flirtation with city centre loft living – perhaps is just a momentary diversion. Some would accuses the British as being anti-urban – we don't really love our cities, because all the evidence is there that we don't care or tend for them – and at first opportunity - we rather be living out an idyllic existence in the countryside.
Is it worth saving the modern city?
We like to criticise planners and architects – for getting it wrong. Its something of a sport in Britain, like blaming the referee for a heavy home defeat. With hindsight we like to look back and ask - what might have been? If only this flyover had not ploughed this neighbourhood, if only we hadn't knocked down that building because now we would consider it to be an architectural gem.
This logic leads us to an assumption that somehow all heritage and conservation is intrinsically a good thing. But a sentimental obsession with protecting the past - hides an underlying danger of petrifying the city – a city fixed in time - according to a narrowly defined set a conventions about what constitutes esteemed architecture or urban design. Perhaps we should think of heritage as being something which is actively produced and contested. How we construct our common heritage, therefore, is not only about memory, but also forgetting.
The irony is that the 19th century architecture – so highly cherished in Manchester today – was put there mainly by industrialists who cared little for conservation themselves.
And for the planners who reconstructed Manchester after 1945 – the Victorian landscape established by these industrialists were part of the problem – grim reminders of labour exploitation and injustice, obstacles to be removed – to make way for progress and the city of the future.
So it is interesting that we find ourselves here at the launch of the Manchester Modernist Society, because my understanding is that - to be modern - involves a sense of being/self – that is always in movement – to celebrate a city, for example, that is always in a state of progression towards some better future. So there is a certain tension, therefore, in coming together to launch a society dedicated to raising awareness and protecting Manchester's historic modernist architecture. As good modernists shouldn't we just let it all go and embrace the future?
Without doubt the Modernist landscape of Manchester – is slipping away – illustrated by the ensuing battle to save Gateway House, for instance. Mass housing developments, Fort Ardwick, Fort Beswick, the Hulme Crescents – which replaced dense working class neighbourhoods - have themselves become victims of mass clearance and redevelopment. Many would argue that this is good thing – but a symbolical landscape - one defined by the Welfare State and a vision of social unity – has now subject to the logic of market forces. Public spaces and buildings of old are sliding away behind a veil of privatisation.
Manchester is being overlaid with a soft post-modern sheen - the smothering of concrete's hard surfaces, the smoothing of brutal edges – the bending of straight lines – the progressive sanding away of the roughness and brutality of the Modern City. This unique landscape – a product of its time - is melting into the air. We are left with remnants, bits and pieces – legacies of a social democratic state in the making – reminders of a time when a strong political ideology informed an attempt to socially engineer a more equitable society – a better society – solving urban problems through technocratic fixes – a genuine effort to capture the spirit of modernity in built form.
The solidity of modern architecture and its sheer brutalism - unlike Manchester's ornate Victorian gems Рrepresent a challenge to contemporary speculators and urban planners Рthey are structures which are not easily converted into stylish apartments, or A-grade offices РEuropean caf̩ culture sits uncomfortably within a rain-soaked concrete precinct in Collyhurst, for example. Modernist buildings possess an aesthetic that jars against the creation of the entrepreneurial city Рas a place to do business, to celebrate individualism, and promote wealth generation over social equity.
The Council Estate for instance – once was a form aspirational living for the working class – but here we start to chart the shift in our collective aspirations. Public housing is now a marker of illegitimate difference, a landscape of blight – a sink hole for failed and washed up citizens. Our attitude towards the council estate and other products of modernist planning - reflects the current disdain for all things public – which began perhaps with reform of the welfare state – and Thatcherite assertions that there is no such thing as society, only individuals and the choices they make.
I would maintain, that these modernist 'carbuncles' – or 'ugly gems' – form an important part of the history of Manchester. These structures continue to exert a looming presence, producing menacing shadows over Manchester's attempt to re brand itself as an open, entrepreneurial and cosmopolitan place. These buildings have a ghostly – spectral presence in the city – haunting us about pre-Thatcherite days – a glimpse through to another world –an upside down place where state planning and collectivism took presidence. It is surprising then - that modernist architecture has become a figure of hate, vilified for its ugliness and alienating properties – a built environment that is simply not worth saving. A place which is best forgotten as Manchester engineers a 'better neoliberal' future. Perhaps then the Manchester Modernist Society might provide us with a way rethinking the city as other or different, perhaps even functioning as a mechanism through which to challenge and resist the pernicious elements private corporate investment and control of urban space.
During the mass clearances of the 1960s - formal and comprehensive archives were constructed by Manchester and Salford Corporations, of working class in areas prior to redevelopment, extensive film and photographic records, oral histories, and other testimonies – prior to the construction of the modernist city.
But as this disappears, there is an absence of systematic documentation of the lives of ordinary people, living and worked within it. For many Mancunians – their experience of the modern city was real and direct – as they encountered a built environment that gave form to the 'cradle to the grave' expectations established through the Welfare State – shaping our experience - from the moment of birth in an NHS hospital, times spent in clinics, dental waiting rooms, the doctor's surgery – educations forged within Secondary Modern schools or comprehensives – lives spent in tower blocks, shopping precincts, public squares, moments spent on concrete benches, in telephone boxes, within municipal buildings – libraries, courts, town-halls, fire-stations, swimming baths. The modern city transformed how we moved across Manchester – through a landscape of flyovers, motorways, bridges, underpasses, bus stations. Perhaps the Modernist can also alert us to the importance of documenting the lives and experiences of the people who lived through it. It is important, therefore, that we understand this disappearing landscape more deeply, acknowledge its richness and diversity, and challenge the common-sense assumption that it blighted the lives of a generation. And with its impending demise, it is essential then we do begin to acknowledge and raise awareness of Manchester Modernist Landscape – and how it has shaped the lives of ordinary people.
We need to be careful though not to over-romanticize – and avoid uncritical appreciation of modernist architecture. I still work in a City Council designed educational block – its not exactly a Workers Utopia. There remains a validity to the criticism targeted at modernist planning by the likes of Jane Jacobs. So we should avoid becoming too maudlin about this lost Utopian landscape. Ultimately the quest for the ideal city – is a dream, a vision – it will always be an unfinished and untenable project. But the Manchester Modernist Society can at least help us appreciate and document a time when politicians were more concerned with ideology than expenses, a time when a cohesive vision of the city as a place of social unity, justice and equity emerged, and provide us with a charter to challenge the dogma and injustices of privatisation and think about the city as a space of collective action.
Steve Millington
22nd October 2009
North West Archive Films:
Film NO. 1282 Hulme Redevelopment
Film No. 1222 The Mancunian Way.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Bluestocking Salon: Regeneration & The Public Realm
so, immediately after thursday’s Evening of Modernist Delights, a mini cavalcade of brunswick bluestockings and i travelled to london to participate in TINAG. my contributionwas billed rather grandly as a
‘Blue Stocking Salon: Regeneration & The Public Realm: an informal tea and conversation on the theme of contemporary urban renewal and its aftermath; introduction to walks and research into the Castlefield Urban Heritage Park and Manchester...’
tinag is a rather marvellous endeavour. a quick peruse of its website rewards with this summary: This Is Not A Gateway {TINAG} is a voluntary organisation that creates arenas/platforms for those whose point of reference is the city. Working across disciplines, TINAG encourages inter-cultural dialogue and rigorous production through four strands...
armed with a sturdy teapot, a 3 tiered cake-stand and my trusty bluestockings, off i set to meet and make friends with an army of international urbanists, activists and dreamers. my afternoon tea was planned for the last afternoon, an attempt to bring something of the informality of the bluestocking circle to the present day, an opportunity to reflect on issues raised during the festival. my hope was that killing castlefield, a project and series of walks along the leeds – liverpool canal for last summer’s artranspennine08, might provide a suitable backdrop and case study for a more general reflection on urban regeneration and its legacies.
and hanbury hall, a disused huguenot church hall in the heart of spitalfields, turned out to be the perfect setting - spruced up and painted by the tinag team it turned into an ideal hub for a thoroughly modern salon, just the place where a likeminded group might meet over tea and cake to chat and exchange ideas and information on a particular topical theme.
the hall was the bustling heart of the festival, filled morning to night with a series of talks, discussions and armchair sessions, whilst the tea shop provided the perfect spot to take in the exhibitions, films and project launches or rest a while and plan what to see next. over the weekend i settled there often to listen, watch, read and make friends. perhaps my favourite encounter was with the bulgarian photographer Nikola Mihov ‘s mother, a poet who last visited Britain in 1973 enjoying the opportunity for a whistlestop tour of the south of England with her coterie of young post-socialist era born urbanistas, the TRACE project team. like her i was captivated by the enthusiasm, energy, insights and perspectives emanating from this veritable hub of global urbanism.
finally the time came for my own session. tea was brewed, cakes and biscuits sliced and my little pamphlets scattered on armchairs and tables. gradually the space filled up and around thirty guests settled in whilst a slideshow of snapshots of castlefield and the surrounding waterfronts was projected on screen to illustrate twenty years of manchesters urban redevelopment.
to kick start proceedings i offered a brief resume of some of the festival themes, ideas and discussions that might resonate around the room and spark off conversation. and the attendees, hailing from birmingham, london, belgium, germany, bulgaria, sweden and far flung perth swiftly set the agenda, with conversation ranging across general and specific experiences of the processes and consequences of social housing renewal projects, how they affect what it means to be community and how we at grass roots level might influence and shape the city as it continues to grow and change. what we all seemed to agree on was that present and past dominant models haven’t proved satisfactory, that the ever growing schism between social and private housing is extremely inadequate and that there is a growing apprehension and tension around the ideal and future of shared public space and the public realm.
and afterwards as i packed away my tea set and said my goodbyes to this inspiring room of urbanists, activists, citizens and residents of the 21st century i was struck by how similar our experiences are no matter where we hail from and despite ostensible differences; that there is an urgency to addressing how we live in cities, who creates them, who they are for and how we can continue to create conversations and grow strength from each other’s experiences, to ensure that our cities are truly spaces for all, not merely a privileged few.
on a personal note, it renewed my faith in face to face conversation and forums for discussion and i am hesitantly looking forward to attempting to create a regular manchester salon or tea group where we too can share thoughts, ideas and concerns and get to know each other ‘off-line’…watch this space!!
Post script: For anyone with the strength to carry on reading, here’s a transcript of my introduction to the session:
the images up on screen are a snap shot, a photo album of a series of journeys exploring castlefield urban heritage park and its surrounding canalways made as a personal response to an article that appeared on Manchester confidential called Killing Castlefield.
A flyer is scattered about which attempts to summarise the histories, decline and renewal of this historic district of Manchester. Do take a look of you want to know more about Castlefield’s story. It was originally presented for artranspennine08 as a series of journeys and walks, of drifts and explorations, documenting its forgotten landscape by the Edwardian flaneuse Miss EP Niblock.
there have been numerous echoes of the last twenty years of Manchester’s own urban renewal programme this weekend at TINAG. globally it seems we are facing the same challenges and responding in a variety of ways, contesting entrepreneurialism and the erosion of our public spaces. In the exhibition monumental architectural complexes in post socialist Bulgaria, the tension between preserving and regeneration and the contestation of location, memory and space take on a particular political tenor. the emerging case studies from many of our post socialist neighbours such as duopolis aptly capture questions we have not successfully debated in our own experiences of regeneration, that we perhaps have so far swept under the carpet but that post recession we can no longer afford to ignore. Views from above and below, depicting neighbourhoods in Istanbul and London, presented an international perspective on a familiar trend of privatisation of urban land, entrepreneurial governance and aspirations to attain world class status, something Manchester does relentlessly – there is never a time when we aren’t bidding for a games, a super casino, a major football tournament. City change, exploring the urban festival as culturally led regenerational tool in the historic city of Porto, has echoes of the now abandoned Castlefield festival in the specially created amphitheatre, a core element of its roman reconstruction (largely invented or embellished from frugal remains!). How can such initiatives have real legacy and community sustainability once the developers have gone? And whilst such urban transformations continue and gather pace, who benefits, and who loses out?
· What will we take back as urbanists to our respective cities and situations?
Slideshow photo album.
‘Blue Stocking Salon: Regeneration & The Public Realm: an informal tea and conversation on the theme of contemporary urban renewal and its aftermath; introduction to walks and research into the Castlefield Urban Heritage Park and Manchester...’
tinag is a rather marvellous endeavour. a quick peruse of its website rewards with this summary: This Is Not A Gateway {TINAG} is a voluntary organisation that creates arenas/platforms for those whose point of reference is the city. Working across disciplines, TINAG encourages inter-cultural dialogue and rigorous production through four strands...
armed with a sturdy teapot, a 3 tiered cake-stand and my trusty bluestockings, off i set to meet and make friends with an army of international urbanists, activists and dreamers. my afternoon tea was planned for the last afternoon, an attempt to bring something of the informality of the bluestocking circle to the present day, an opportunity to reflect on issues raised during the festival. my hope was that killing castlefield, a project and series of walks along the leeds – liverpool canal for last summer’s artranspennine08, might provide a suitable backdrop and case study for a more general reflection on urban regeneration and its legacies.
and hanbury hall, a disused huguenot church hall in the heart of spitalfields, turned out to be the perfect setting - spruced up and painted by the tinag team it turned into an ideal hub for a thoroughly modern salon, just the place where a likeminded group might meet over tea and cake to chat and exchange ideas and information on a particular topical theme.
the hall was the bustling heart of the festival, filled morning to night with a series of talks, discussions and armchair sessions, whilst the tea shop provided the perfect spot to take in the exhibitions, films and project launches or rest a while and plan what to see next. over the weekend i settled there often to listen, watch, read and make friends. perhaps my favourite encounter was with the bulgarian photographer Nikola Mihov ‘s mother, a poet who last visited Britain in 1973 enjoying the opportunity for a whistlestop tour of the south of England with her coterie of young post-socialist era born urbanistas, the TRACE project team. like her i was captivated by the enthusiasm, energy, insights and perspectives emanating from this veritable hub of global urbanism.
finally the time came for my own session. tea was brewed, cakes and biscuits sliced and my little pamphlets scattered on armchairs and tables. gradually the space filled up and around thirty guests settled in whilst a slideshow of snapshots of castlefield and the surrounding waterfronts was projected on screen to illustrate twenty years of manchesters urban redevelopment.
to kick start proceedings i offered a brief resume of some of the festival themes, ideas and discussions that might resonate around the room and spark off conversation. and the attendees, hailing from birmingham, london, belgium, germany, bulgaria, sweden and far flung perth swiftly set the agenda, with conversation ranging across general and specific experiences of the processes and consequences of social housing renewal projects, how they affect what it means to be community and how we at grass roots level might influence and shape the city as it continues to grow and change. what we all seemed to agree on was that present and past dominant models haven’t proved satisfactory, that the ever growing schism between social and private housing is extremely inadequate and that there is a growing apprehension and tension around the ideal and future of shared public space and the public realm.
and afterwards as i packed away my tea set and said my goodbyes to this inspiring room of urbanists, activists, citizens and residents of the 21st century i was struck by how similar our experiences are no matter where we hail from and despite ostensible differences; that there is an urgency to addressing how we live in cities, who creates them, who they are for and how we can continue to create conversations and grow strength from each other’s experiences, to ensure that our cities are truly spaces for all, not merely a privileged few.
on a personal note, it renewed my faith in face to face conversation and forums for discussion and i am hesitantly looking forward to attempting to create a regular manchester salon or tea group where we too can share thoughts, ideas and concerns and get to know each other ‘off-line’…watch this space!!
Post script: For anyone with the strength to carry on reading, here’s a transcript of my introduction to the session:
the images up on screen are a snap shot, a photo album of a series of journeys exploring castlefield urban heritage park and its surrounding canalways made as a personal response to an article that appeared on Manchester confidential called Killing Castlefield.
A flyer is scattered about which attempts to summarise the histories, decline and renewal of this historic district of Manchester. Do take a look of you want to know more about Castlefield’s story. It was originally presented for artranspennine08 as a series of journeys and walks, of drifts and explorations, documenting its forgotten landscape by the Edwardian flaneuse Miss EP Niblock.
Artranspennine08 was the third incarnation of a 5 yearly art festival which reached out from Manchester and Liverpool across the Pennine region taking in Leeds, Sheffield and Hull. This latest version saw over fifty emerging and established artists placing artworks, staging events, making videos, and hosting exhibitions in cyberspace and in multiple venues and locations throughout the Pennines; responses to the notion of the Transpennine region first mooted back in 1998.
‘Killing Castlefield’ was an examination of an urban success story of the eighties and nineties, interrogating accepted orthodoxies surrounding dominant models of urban renewal, a warning to the relentless redevelopment of our cities, investigating the past, present and future of Castlefield, the granddaddy of a plethora of subsequence schemes across the city and triumphantly designated ‘Britain’s first Urban Heritage Park’. Now as a new breed of developers hover ever closer in an unseemly land grab, the mismanagement and short-termism inherent in the cultural strategy teams responsible for the ‘branding’ of our cities and the profusion of identikit renaissance schemes in other cities, despite increasing recognition of their economic and moral redundancy, has never been clearer.
there have been numerous echoes of the last twenty years of Manchester’s own urban renewal programme this weekend at TINAG. globally it seems we are facing the same challenges and responding in a variety of ways, contesting entrepreneurialism and the erosion of our public spaces. In the exhibition monumental architectural complexes in post socialist Bulgaria, the tension between preserving and regeneration and the contestation of location, memory and space take on a particular political tenor. the emerging case studies from many of our post socialist neighbours such as duopolis aptly capture questions we have not successfully debated in our own experiences of regeneration, that we perhaps have so far swept under the carpet but that post recession we can no longer afford to ignore. Views from above and below, depicting neighbourhoods in Istanbul and London, presented an international perspective on a familiar trend of privatisation of urban land, entrepreneurial governance and aspirations to attain world class status, something Manchester does relentlessly – there is never a time when we aren’t bidding for a games, a super casino, a major football tournament. City change, exploring the urban festival as culturally led regenerational tool in the historic city of Porto, has echoes of the now abandoned Castlefield festival in the specially created amphitheatre, a core element of its roman reconstruction (largely invented or embellished from frugal remains!). How can such initiatives have real legacy and community sustainability once the developers have gone? And whilst such urban transformations continue and gather pace, who benefits, and who loses out?
Questions that rose immediately to mind for me include –
· is the past worth preserving and if so whose history is told?
· What do we want from the contemporary city and how can culture construct a path to this city?
· When major regeneration programmes such as spitalfields in london, new Islington in Manchester and the other millennium projects swing into action, what has it meant to local populations, what is its aftermath? What were the ideas underpinning the projects and who was driving them?
· When major regeneration programmes such as spitalfields in london, new Islington in Manchester and the other millennium projects swing into action, what has it meant to local populations, what is its aftermath? What were the ideas underpinning the projects and who was driving them?
· What is a successful regeneration project and what does it look like?
· What will we take back as urbanists to our respective cities and situations?
Slideshow photo album.
- some of these appear on the flyer and blogsite killing castlefield; more will follow shortly….
Oxford rd to knott mill – exploration of the arterial route in and out of castlefield, still a somewhat neglected way to navigate the city often deserted apart from a few anglers, the odd solitary jogger or dog walker and a large colony of swans, geese and ducks, despite clean up campaigns and clusters of regeneration around its basins,.
Castlefield is the story of movement, trade, travel and commerce, on the intersections of 2 important revolutions, canals then railways, running and forming the leeds / Liverpool canal route. The Castlefield Basin is the original Mamucium, arguably the largest single contributor to the prosperity and growth of Manchester, its influence spanning 2 millennia – home of the Roman fort, the world’s first passenger railway station, the Museum of Science & Industry, as well as epicentre of the legendary Granadaland, the first independent purpose built television studios, designed by Sir Ralph Tubbs, architect of the 1951 Festival of Britain’s centrepiece, the dome of discovery.
Oxford rd to knott mill – exploration of the arterial route in and out of castlefield, still a somewhat neglected way to navigate the city often deserted apart from a few anglers, the odd solitary jogger or dog walker and a large colony of swans, geese and ducks, despite clean up campaigns and clusters of regeneration around its basins,.
Castlefield is the story of movement, trade, travel and commerce, on the intersections of 2 important revolutions, canals then railways, running and forming the leeds / Liverpool canal route. The Castlefield Basin is the original Mamucium, arguably the largest single contributor to the prosperity and growth of Manchester, its influence spanning 2 millennia – home of the Roman fort, the world’s first passenger railway station, the Museum of Science & Industry, as well as epicentre of the legendary Granadaland, the first independent purpose built television studios, designed by Sir Ralph Tubbs, architect of the 1951 Festival of Britain’s centrepiece, the dome of discovery.
Nb – regeneration of the canals is not without contestation, as the cleaning up of the silted up canals accompanies the clearing up of the active gay cruising grounds along its city centre edges, censuring and tidying away these perceived unsavoury aspects of canal life with what many activists have described as the commodification of manchesters gay community, containing it into its own district, reducing it to a mecca for the stag and hen party boom and a presence in the official pink history trail. Manchester has long been quick to seize on the commercial values of many of its unique cultures across the city, the gay village, the northern quarter, the curry mile, the Italian quarter, the birthplace of the industrial revolution, the first urban heritage park, all part of the campaign of the original modern city….
Knott mill to potato wharf – the heart of erstwhile Heritage Park. 2 main narratives, the industrial city of Stephenson bell, railways and the roman city, the fort, the timeline, the vicus, the tower. Alongside are the remnants of the nostalgia museum industrial constructed to support these narratives in an open air museum – the castlefield visitor centre, the amphitheatre, the signs and information points, the trail markers dotted about, barge ring pulls, horse tethers etc.
Granada Land to Albion Wharf - Behind the museum of science and industry is a third abandoned, forgotten and forlorn narrative – that of Granadaland, heart of Granada tv, home of coronation st and Sherlock holmes series; for many years with its own studio tours, Granada Studio Tours, a reinvention of the glory days of northern independent film and television. Now both the tv station and the studio are defunct; their physical remnants an archaeological landscape….
Piccadilly basin to New Islington – redeveloped piece meal in the last 5 years and still unfinished capitalizing on the promise of Ancoats Urban Village and New Islington over the boundary to north and east Manchester. The descendant of the Castlefield HP model , masterplanned by the enfant terrible of private development – its progress, social effects and aftermath are hotly debated and anticipated, especially in the wake of credit crunch and a tangible slow down in the property market. ILVA, the purpose built ikea type warehouse showroom on its edge, proudly heralded as the dawn of the commercial viability of the programme, only lasted a year before closing down for good.
No one wants to buy a used, second hand luxury loft apartment when the incentives, enticements to buy into the latest developments are overwhelming. Does this demonstrate the innate weakness behind this unsustainable model. As each new quarter or development is marketed and revealed, the last one is effectively ‘killed' off. There seems in practice no actual growth of the market, of the citys reach and capacity, simply a constant merry-go-round - instead of the radiant city, we have the rotating city - those pioneers who buy off-plan and move in often are simply not rewarded as a new rival, a new quarter, stalks in and sees it off, attracting grants, investment in a wearying groundhog day of self aggrandizing marketing.
Ancoats to Chips – working mills, community clearance and compulsory purchase, old landmarks, new icons, life disrupted by or as yet ignorant of urban regeneration fever....
Knott mill to potato wharf – the heart of erstwhile Heritage Park. 2 main narratives, the industrial city of Stephenson bell, railways and the roman city, the fort, the timeline, the vicus, the tower. Alongside are the remnants of the nostalgia museum industrial constructed to support these narratives in an open air museum – the castlefield visitor centre, the amphitheatre, the signs and information points, the trail markers dotted about, barge ring pulls, horse tethers etc.
Granada Land to Albion Wharf - Behind the museum of science and industry is a third abandoned, forgotten and forlorn narrative – that of Granadaland, heart of Granada tv, home of coronation st and Sherlock holmes series; for many years with its own studio tours, Granada Studio Tours, a reinvention of the glory days of northern independent film and television. Now both the tv station and the studio are defunct; their physical remnants an archaeological landscape….
Piccadilly basin to New Islington – redeveloped piece meal in the last 5 years and still unfinished capitalizing on the promise of Ancoats Urban Village and New Islington over the boundary to north and east Manchester. The descendant of the Castlefield HP model , masterplanned by the enfant terrible of private development – its progress, social effects and aftermath are hotly debated and anticipated, especially in the wake of credit crunch and a tangible slow down in the property market. ILVA, the purpose built ikea type warehouse showroom on its edge, proudly heralded as the dawn of the commercial viability of the programme, only lasted a year before closing down for good.
No one wants to buy a used, second hand luxury loft apartment when the incentives, enticements to buy into the latest developments are overwhelming. Does this demonstrate the innate weakness behind this unsustainable model. As each new quarter or development is marketed and revealed, the last one is effectively ‘killed' off. There seems in practice no actual growth of the market, of the citys reach and capacity, simply a constant merry-go-round - instead of the radiant city, we have the rotating city - those pioneers who buy off-plan and move in often are simply not rewarded as a new rival, a new quarter, stalks in and sees it off, attracting grants, investment in a wearying groundhog day of self aggrandizing marketing.
Ancoats to Chips – working mills, community clearance and compulsory purchase, old landmarks, new icons, life disrupted by or as yet ignorant of urban regeneration fever....
Friday, 25 September 2009
manchester modernist society's feature of the month - all things mural!
some of you might recall that i am involved with the fledgling manchester modernist society and have been quite busy helping arrange their monthly get togethers and researching and updating their website and facebook page. our recent trip to urbanism09 was inspiring and great fun - i shall report back on this soon, i promise, as it offers many pertinent parallels for our own canalside renewal plans.
but in the meantime here is the latest of the mms website monthly features, a lament for manchester landmarks needlessly lost and much missed. this month we highlight a recently lost doorway.....read all about it below.
then visit the mms website and read more, contact us with your thoughts and ideas - and to join our mailing list! get involved, join in but most of all, love the city warts and all!
manchester modernist society feature of the month:
welcome to our regular rollercoaster rides of emotions, of disappointments, lamentations, rants and despair, of jubilation and over enthusiasm, as we select for your delectation three structures each month, one demolished, one at risk and to lighten the mood, a classic modernist icon, an undisputed favourite like the CIS or the Midland Bank....
this section comes to you straight from the front line of the built environment to report on the ever changing fortunes of the structures and buildings of 20th century manchester great and small, tracing the unpredictable journey from flavour of the month, through passe, unloved and neglected, to the wrath of the bulldozer.
nb - readers of a sensitive nature might wish to look away at explicit scenes of mindless violence against helpless architectural rarities...
RIP - GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN ~
the Barkat sign,
Dale St.
Wait a minute I hear you say? I thought we were talking about post-war murals, ‘street’ art in a sense but still legitimate art by proper reputable artists. So what’s an old battered door sign doing here…?
Well fear not modernistas, there is a connection, I promise, a twisty train of thought linking our three features this month. Here it comes….
Like so many post war muralists Hans Tisdall was a polymath, his work crossing the divide between fine art and commercial art and back again, respected not only for his paintings and public art but also his body of book jackets for JonathanCape and his fonts and lettering. Like his contemporaries this was populist work for a populist era; one that was challenging the role of art and the artist in society. This popularism and everydayness however has since had the effect of being underappreciated from all sides, ignored not only in the academic field but fading in the landscape to a subliminal backdrop - just more background noise in the cityscape.
If our aim at mms is to ‘stimulate debate and gently provoke’ (see our aims…!) then what we have here is the perfect case study. Initiating any discussion of this battered old sign presents us with a long overdue opportunity to broaden the art historical canon. Times change and so should our perception of art….
Our post war murals are in effect treated no differently to the vernacular street signs adorning so much of the city like Barkat Knitwear, perhaps the boldest and most colourful example of the genre which lit up Dale St for god knows how long until being unceremoniously, criminally painted over by its new owner /property developer. Like our commissioned murals it brightened up the daily trudge to work, school or the shops come rain or shine, a landmark, an icon, an everyday fresco for the common man.
A quick perusal of flickr shows that the Barkat sign was until very recently a much loved fixture in the landscape, admired for its colour, exuberance, the rugged textures of its surface; appreciated as an invaluable slice of social and cultural history; as much a historical artefact as anything dug up on an excavation, a window into the day to day life of the twentieth century city, as valuable as a wall of Latin graffiti in Pompeii.
but in the meantime here is the latest of the mms website monthly features, a lament for manchester landmarks needlessly lost and much missed. this month we highlight a recently lost doorway.....read all about it below.
then visit the mms website and read more, contact us with your thoughts and ideas - and to join our mailing list! get involved, join in but most of all, love the city warts and all!
manchester modernist society feature of the month:
welcome to our regular rollercoaster rides of emotions, of disappointments, lamentations, rants and despair, of jubilation and over enthusiasm, as we select for your delectation three structures each month, one demolished, one at risk and to lighten the mood, a classic modernist icon, an undisputed favourite like the CIS or the Midland Bank....
this section comes to you straight from the front line of the built environment to report on the ever changing fortunes of the structures and buildings of 20th century manchester great and small, tracing the unpredictable journey from flavour of the month, through passe, unloved and neglected, to the wrath of the bulldozer.
nb - readers of a sensitive nature might wish to look away at explicit scenes of mindless violence against helpless architectural rarities...
RIP - GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN ~
the Barkat sign,
Dale St.
Wait a minute I hear you say? I thought we were talking about post-war murals, ‘street’ art in a sense but still legitimate art by proper reputable artists. So what’s an old battered door sign doing here…?
Well fear not modernistas, there is a connection, I promise, a twisty train of thought linking our three features this month. Here it comes….
Like so many post war muralists Hans Tisdall was a polymath, his work crossing the divide between fine art and commercial art and back again, respected not only for his paintings and public art but also his body of book jackets for JonathanCape and his fonts and lettering. Like his contemporaries this was populist work for a populist era; one that was challenging the role of art and the artist in society. This popularism and everydayness however has since had the effect of being underappreciated from all sides, ignored not only in the academic field but fading in the landscape to a subliminal backdrop - just more background noise in the cityscape.
If our aim at mms is to ‘stimulate debate and gently provoke’ (see our aims…!) then what we have here is the perfect case study. Initiating any discussion of this battered old sign presents us with a long overdue opportunity to broaden the art historical canon. Times change and so should our perception of art….
Our post war murals are in effect treated no differently to the vernacular street signs adorning so much of the city like Barkat Knitwear, perhaps the boldest and most colourful example of the genre which lit up Dale St for god knows how long until being unceremoniously, criminally painted over by its new owner /property developer. Like our commissioned murals it brightened up the daily trudge to work, school or the shops come rain or shine, a landmark, an icon, an everyday fresco for the common man.
A quick perusal of flickr shows that the Barkat sign was until very recently a much loved fixture in the landscape, admired for its colour, exuberance, the rugged textures of its surface; appreciated as an invaluable slice of social and cultural history; as much a historical artefact as anything dug up on an excavation, a window into the day to day life of the twentieth century city, as valuable as a wall of Latin graffiti in Pompeii.
The Barkat sign was situated on the boundary of Ancoats and the outer edge of Northern quarter, once the heart of the textile, food and commercial district, a bustling labyrinth of workshops, showrooms and factories. These buildings – their sides, facades, doorframes - were literally billboards for products, signposts and adverts in an era before PR and marketing departments, television or internet publicity campaigns. Sign writers were skilled artists and their work was detailed, meticulous and in great demand. Though the industries declined and the businesses disappeared their memories remained, faded peeling apparitions, relics and remnants of former glories.
And whilst they share many of the attributes of post war murals, the fragility of their materials, their commercial nature and inherent anonymity renders them even more vulnerable to the threat of regeneration, demolition or eradication. From modest pieces such as the Barkat to lavishly painted adverts promoting everything from universal products to local services and businesses, they are both visual treasures and social/cultural documents, multiple narratives of the city past and present enriching the built environment.
Perhaps the time has come not only to challenge our notions of what art is but to broaden the boundaries of what constitutes the archaeological object. Every time we paint over, dismantle or jet clean one of these images we erase a crucial element of the fabric of the city, a little bit more of our history and yet more of our archaeological record, the story of ourselves. Furthermore, Bristol council’s decision to consult the local population on the fate of graffiti art covering the walls of its city buildings demonstrates the beginnings of a welcome reassessment of the ‘canon’, one that reflects and acknowledges the value and importance of art and design in the public realm, beyond that which is traditional or officially sanctioned. Perhaps it’s also time to include an anonymous oeuvre that paved the way for the banksys of today. These quotidian frescoes embody art, social document and historical artefact. If we can accept graffiti as art then why not sign writing and graphic design?
Reimagined as a vast open air Tate Modern minus the exhibition fee and restrictive opening hours, bursting with paintings, murals, sculpture and pop art from every era, the city becomes a living canvas, a vibrant and thought provoking backdrop to our everyday lives, reflecting like all major collections, media and styles of every period. But this is a collection that boasts artwork from the famous to the unknown, reflecting the times and cultures of the changing city, always thought provoking, visually stimulating and a pleasure to visit and to live in.
RIP - barkat door sign, needlessly erased, 2009....
And whilst they share many of the attributes of post war murals, the fragility of their materials, their commercial nature and inherent anonymity renders them even more vulnerable to the threat of regeneration, demolition or eradication. From modest pieces such as the Barkat to lavishly painted adverts promoting everything from universal products to local services and businesses, they are both visual treasures and social/cultural documents, multiple narratives of the city past and present enriching the built environment.
Perhaps the time has come not only to challenge our notions of what art is but to broaden the boundaries of what constitutes the archaeological object. Every time we paint over, dismantle or jet clean one of these images we erase a crucial element of the fabric of the city, a little bit more of our history and yet more of our archaeological record, the story of ourselves. Furthermore, Bristol council’s decision to consult the local population on the fate of graffiti art covering the walls of its city buildings demonstrates the beginnings of a welcome reassessment of the ‘canon’, one that reflects and acknowledges the value and importance of art and design in the public realm, beyond that which is traditional or officially sanctioned. Perhaps it’s also time to include an anonymous oeuvre that paved the way for the banksys of today. These quotidian frescoes embody art, social document and historical artefact. If we can accept graffiti as art then why not sign writing and graphic design?
Reimagined as a vast open air Tate Modern minus the exhibition fee and restrictive opening hours, bursting with paintings, murals, sculpture and pop art from every era, the city becomes a living canvas, a vibrant and thought provoking backdrop to our everyday lives, reflecting like all major collections, media and styles of every period. But this is a collection that boasts artwork from the famous to the unknown, reflecting the times and cultures of the changing city, always thought provoking, visually stimulating and a pleasure to visit and to live in.
RIP - barkat door sign, needlessly erased, 2009....
Saturday, 12 September 2009
manchester modernist group outing to Urbanism09!
the lovely people at the manchester modernist society sent me this invitation yesterday to join them for a jolly trip over to Liverpool for part of the fabulous Urbanism conference.
here are the details, why not come along too?
see you at St Winnie's or on the 11.01 from Piccadilly Station changing to the 12.08 from Lime St to Bootle Oriel Rd.
here are the details, why not come along too?
dear friends and modernists, September day trip revealed....
Propositions for the Happy City,
Thurs 17 Sept,
1pm at St Winnie’s,Merton Rd, Bootle, L20 7AR
After August’s exploration of the concrete jungle of the Mancunian way we couldn’t envisage how we would ever offer you a more exciting trip, so imagine our surprise when an invitation to travel from the Promising Land to Porto Allegro with artists, architects and food activists to examine real case studies of creating positive spaces dropped into our letterbox! The perfect counterbalance to all our usual noise and pollution…
Its all part of Urbanism09, a partnership project with Liverpool Biennial and Places Matter!
and its right up our street so lets all go together!
what's more its free but do book ahead with them.
details here, which has a handy map too! - http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=120789892524&ref=share
see you at St Winnie's or on the 11.01 from Piccadilly Station changing to the 12.08 from Lime St to Bootle Oriel Rd.
Monday, 1 June 2009
just who are the mms...?
the manchester modernist society manifesto:
We are not architects, preservationists or activists, though we do know a number of each of these.
We are not radicals, Situationists, academics or psychogeographers, though we are lucky to count a few of these mythical creatures as our friends.
We do share their passion that the city continues to be a place for poetry and dreaming as well as business and commerce, where its citizens are more than machines for living and consuming.
We are merely a small band of urban enthusiasts, amateurs and latter day dandies, passionate observers of the city and its social cultural and built environment. We believe that none of these phenomena exist in isolation but rely on each other to flourish and foster and create the living tangle of the throbbing metropolis that we call home.
We believe that the recent past and its rich variety of grand and ordinary, cherished and neglected buildings continue to play a part in our shared consciousness and sense of identity, continue to influence who we are and remind us of how we worked, rested and played.
We are keen to foster and help develop a greater public awareness of the rich and complex relationship between architecture, art and design and public space, and draw attention to the precarious nature of much of the 20th century backdrop that we often mistakenly take for granted.
We aim to create a real space for discussing, engaging and enjoying perhaps occasionally even campaigning for the multilayered complexities of a city that is comfortable to wear its carbuncled heart on its sleeve. Not for us the smooth uniformity of a relentlessly brand new city that is too intimidating to use.
We will meet and gather, mooch, amble, collaborate, make connections, gently protest and point things out where we see fit. We will speculate, agitate, cogitate, publicise, dream and philosophise over afternoon tea, on walks, talks and various outings. All we need is for you to join in, keep us informed of your events and activities across and around the city and create some of our own for your delectation.
Watch this space, join in, get involved…
We are not radicals, Situationists, academics or psychogeographers, though we are lucky to count a few of these mythical creatures as our friends.
We do share their passion that the city continues to be a place for poetry and dreaming as well as business and commerce, where its citizens are more than machines for living and consuming.
We are merely a small band of urban enthusiasts, amateurs and latter day dandies, passionate observers of the city and its social cultural and built environment. We believe that none of these phenomena exist in isolation but rely on each other to flourish and foster and create the living tangle of the throbbing metropolis that we call home.
We believe that the recent past and its rich variety of grand and ordinary, cherished and neglected buildings continue to play a part in our shared consciousness and sense of identity, continue to influence who we are and remind us of how we worked, rested and played.
We are keen to foster and help develop a greater public awareness of the rich and complex relationship between architecture, art and design and public space, and draw attention to the precarious nature of much of the 20th century backdrop that we often mistakenly take for granted.
We aim to create a real space for discussing, engaging and enjoying perhaps occasionally even campaigning for the multilayered complexities of a city that is comfortable to wear its carbuncled heart on its sleeve. Not for us the smooth uniformity of a relentlessly brand new city that is too intimidating to use.
We will meet and gather, mooch, amble, collaborate, make connections, gently protest and point things out where we see fit. We will speculate, agitate, cogitate, publicise, dream and philosophise over afternoon tea, on walks, talks and various outings. All we need is for you to join in, keep us informed of your events and activities across and around the city and create some of our own for your delectation.
Watch this space, join in, get involved…
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
an urban fairy story - the new gothic?
never the most prolific of bloggers, february saw the diary reduced to a solitary post rather than the usual four or six. seasoned bloggers normally pop something up to reassure any readers that its soon to be business as usual and to keep tuning in in the meantime. reasons are usually books being edited or fine tuned, art projects and exhibitions being installed, or travels abroad, research for forthcoming projects, books, exhibitions.... all very productive and intimidating!
what was my reason? nothing so glamourous. my life outside of this diary is rather prosaic and not worth the column inch, so its with some apology and sense of absurdity that ive drawn attention to my recent blogging absence at all! february simply saw me attempting to write a fairy story for a magazine whose theme for submissions was fantasy. an unlikely arena for this old flaneur you might think but no. au contraire...
it occured to me that my habit (bordering on obsession) of regaling you dear reader with my romantic reveries of neglected social housing estates such as brunswick, my moated kingdom and home to my coterie of bluestockings, and other modern day ruins and icons such as the mancunian way, the tinsley towers, the umist campus and the holloway wall, is a reimagining or repositioning of the late 20th century as a new gothic, as darkly romantic as the victorian gothic of aubrey beardsley, edgar allen poe, m r james, et al.
and im not alone in this new urban gothic, there's something in the air - as my good friend mr hale recently said, concrete and cooling towers are the lost content of a generation. the new cube exhibition, the british landscape, showcases the work of john davies whose large format black and white photographs, taken between 1979 and 2005 show the vast, complex and majestic scenery of industrial and post industrial britain. its not on for long, just until 18 april, so dont miss it, its beautiful.
spurred on by the exhibition, mr hales comment, a rewriting of rapunzel for our times by the ever enticing shrieking violet, and a child's intuitive likening of a tower block to a castle, i am posting my own humble attempt at evoking a moment in the collective imagination before the mood passes...
it didnt make it into the magazine by the way, so dont expect too much of it!
Once upon a time there lived a solitary little girl.
She lived in the high peaks of the eerie Troglodyte mountains, an abandoned world of soaring stalagmites whose weather beaten towers lay beyond the remotest hamlets and villages at the farthest edge of the Far Northern Territory; a forgotten realm, glowering mysteriously from behind the misty White Moss and the wild Clough End, a dark and dangerous wilderness traversed by few and survived by fewer - a gnarly woodland of tangled groves, knotted vines and hazy hollows inhabited by tribes of bloodthirsty trolls, mischievous boggarts and platoons of nameless beasts who lurked behind each tree and roamed every corner of the twisted undergrowth. Few in the outlying valleys ever ventured into these woods, let alone the White Moss in the vale below. These swirling treacherous bogs enveloped the woodlands with unimaginable terrors; a nether world twixt land and water, twixt living and dead, its swamps and marshes haunted by wraiths, spectres and ghostly apparitions, the melancholic spirits of those foolhardy and unwary souls who had lost their footing on its perilous paths. Only the truly god forsaken journeyed into the White Moss, making the Troglodyte Mountains virtually impregnable.
It was said that no-one had lived in these strange desolate mountains, their tall towers huddled atop their colossal peaks like a ganglion of petrified gargoyles, for nigh on a hundred years. But countless fireside storytellers had woven a thick tapestry of dreams around those mysterious inhabitants of yesteryear. Some spun tales of a giant race of fierce and warlike ogres who had dwelled there long ago, chiselling deep into the mountains and hauling endless rocks and boulders to create their lofty fortresses from where they unleashed a reign of terror on the peaceable villages below until at last they were punished and turned to stone. Others swore they were inhabited even today by a ragtag colony of crones and witches, hags and banshees whose calls might just be heard above the plaintive cries of the night, scratching a squalid living amidst the ruined palaces of a vanished race of heroes. Whatever the truth, there was little to draw anyone to such a remote and impenetrable spot and so the white giants in the north remained derelict and unloved, a vague memory, a folk tale, a bedtime story to frighten the little ones, the legend of the Nine ladies who turned to stone for a forgotten transgression.
But this desolate spot, so feared and foreboding, was in fact still occupied by one little girl, the last of her kind. She lived at the top of a perpendicular stalagmite, a towering column of crumbling concrete as high as the clouds in the sky, with views as far as the eye could see. From here she commanded a panoramic view across its four corners and the lands beyond. On a clear day she could even make out the great Metropolis to the south, a kingdom she had read was crafted entirely from a million glittering shards of glass, a translucent spectacle that was the new wonder of the civilised world, a world away from her gnarly, carbuncled mountains, with sturdy rock pigeons the only neighbours of her craggy roost, resplendent in their iridescent blue and purple coats. Together she and they nestled snugly in the windswept crevices and hollows that she called home. Their morning cooing and cawing was her very own alarm call and together girl and feathered friends would stretch and yawn bleary eyed at each dewy dawn and gaze ahead, at a gigantic adventure playground to explore every day. To her eyes this was no failed idyll or forbidden territory but a magical enchanted place, home of her ancestors and she its last guardian.
If the little girl was solitary she certainly wasn’t lonely, or at least didn’t know it, scarcely remembering human company enough to tell if she missed it. Besides she had the woods, fields, trees and neighbouring towers to clamber, and the company of the foxes, rabbits, birds, bees, butterflies and dragonflies that shared her beautiful wildscape. Gazing out from her bedroom in the clouds she could just make out the vaguest outline of the great highways circling its borders, and nearer, the many winding paths linking the towers to their garden plots and wide lawns with their overgrown flowerbeds. She often whiled away the nights imagining what life had been like once upon a time when the towers had been the heart of a great vision, a utopian dream, a bold rebirth after the devastations of the Great wars. Her bird’s eye view was a living, moving map of the tumbledown geography beneath, the grand creations and perambulations so hidden at street level unexpectedly clear, the familiar routes and daily strolls trodden long ago by her ancestors perfectly revealed.
Back on the ground those paths and flowerbeds reverted to a dense tangle of thorns, bushes and giant weeds as Nature had gradually reclaimed its own. Without constant maintenance the pleasure gardens, spacious dwellings and wide boulevards, once a source of such civic pride, had all too soon returned to bog and marsh, the ramshackle paths, mysterious black circles and thin barren maypoles choking with creeping vines and verdant ivy all that remained of the dreams and aspirations of the vanished empire, its proud ambitions and ideals reduced to pitted potholes and blank eyed citadels. Once upon a time this had been the wonder of the modern world, a dream for a bright new future, its lavish landscape and spacious dwellings heralding a new way of living, a radiant city in which to work, rest and play. The little girl knew nothing of this – it was simply her tangled playground and she alone now inhabited its vast empty spaces knowing its overrun paths, nooks and crannies by heart. And although no-one seemed able to penetrate the obstacles barring the way to the Troglodyte Mountains she had become quite adept at avoiding the many perils, monsters and terrors to enter the world beyond. She had memorized every track and path through the woods and marshlands to the outlying villages – those swirling mosses and fearful forests proved effortless, nimble and fleet of foot as she was, whilst the trolls, wolves and apparitions lurking within them appeared quite tame to her. Eventually she had created her own personal atlas of this deserted realm, a chronicle of her journeys etched into her heart around its edges and boundaries and the routes to the Outer Lands, a personal topography of the terrain that was part cartography, part experience, part identity; an A to Z of her memories, her history, her sense of self.
So the girl lived there, quite at home in the solitude, taking pleasure in its wildness. The Nine ladies, far from being the dark dread of the outside world, were her guardian angels, silent sentinels and keepers of her ancestors’ wisdom. The heart of her universe, a source of never-ending adventure, they fanned the visions of the far beyond that she read about in the books she would pluck from the mantelpieces, bookshelves and libraries gathering dust in her neighbouring cobwebby buildings and apartments. A haven of words and pictures, a vast repository of ideas, thoughts and philosophies, books were her dreaming, where she could hover above the clouds and fly beyond her own horizons. Devouring everything she came across, she would conjure up images of the curious places and strange worlds they described. Books were her friends and confidantes, their absent authors her first brush with human companionship, whose words pierced her heart with linguistic riches, and the legendary Bibliotheca, custodian it was said of all the books ever written, was to become her life’s Quest, her Holy Grail. By day she would forage for new titles, replacing finished reads to their rightful shelves; she was always most careful to keep the books in the same order that she found them! Then in the long summer afternoons when it was just too hot to explore she would settle into a shady nook in one of her favourite wild flower meadows and read in the dappled sunlight. By night she would continue at the top of her turret, her pages illuminated by the immense night skies, the twinkling stars or pale smiling moon….she would gaze out at the distant lights and imagine the adventures awaiting the brave and bold explorer.
Then one day she noticed a small and faded stamp in the corner of a well worn book. She pored over it, curious as to its meaning. It wasn’t part of the title and it definitely wasn’t part of the original print of the book. It was truly a mystery. There was a crest, a heraldic device of some kind and an inscription which read ‘Return to Reading Room, Property of the University Library’. Looking out from her little crow’s nest she was reminded of the legends of the illustrious Libraries of the Ancient Cities of Alexandria and Constantinople and wondered if the magnificent City of Glass to the south might also contain such a treasure. Could this be the location of the University Library embossed into the flyleaf of her book? There was only one way to find out. She determined to set out the very next day on the longest journey she had ever made. It would mean leaving her enchanted home, crossing the White Moss and traversing the whole of Clough End, passing the hamlets and villages beyond to the farthest reaches of the Outer Lands before reaching the mythical City of Glass at the very end of the world, an adventure to match any she had read of, to be sure. She packed only the barest necessities for the harsh journey ahead and most carefully of all the book with the precious inscription in its flyleaf, key to the kingdom of knowledge ahead. As each day passed she looked back encouraged that her gentle guardian angels the Nine Towers were still visible and pressed ever onwards, the pages of all the books still to read urging her on in search of the Great Library.
Eventually the solitary girl from the desolate mountains entered the City walls and the magical realm of Knowledge and Learning enclosed under the grand dome of its celebrated library. Bewitched in the endless walkways and colossal stacks of books and journals, many years were to pass before she emerged from her travels in the scriptorium. But subtle signs of her childhood years persisted. She was never able to sleep amidst the everyday noises of the metropolis in their normal two storey houses but instead made for turrets or the highest attics, craving her remote battlements and the plaintive cries of the wolves, boggarts and shadowy spectres that dwelled in the treacherous swamps and misty plains of her homelands. Her peculiar affinity for the urban pigeons always confounded the city dwellers, their grimy blue – grey feathers reminding her of the resplendent coats of the rock pigeons she had long shared her crows nest perch with, whilst her unfathomable affection for neglected concrete architecture in unloved corners of a city in awe of glass and brightly coloured plastic never failed to raise eyebrows. In short, despite all the treasures of the great library, she never felt quite as at home as she once had, alone in her deserted, enchanted towers.
And so at last she began the long journey back to the Troglodyte Mountains. As she drew nearer, it seemed to her that the peaks had diminished and its tall towers looked smaller than she recalled. She wasn’t even sure she was in the vicinity for try as she might she couldn’t count her Nine Ladies on the horizon. In confusion, she stopped at the nearest hamlet, now a busy plaza and shopping centre, to ask what had become of her guardian angels, totems of her ancestors, and learned that most of the ugly old gargoyles had finally been demolished, just one or two allowed to remain, fashionably renovated in bright and cheery facia and fancy plastic fittings. Soon she could see for herself that the entire area had been given a makeover, the tangled forests and knotted paths tidied up and smart new bijoux houses with tiny back yards replacing those wide expanses of unused real estate.
Her brooding mountains, those remote and desolate stalagmites whose tall towers perched atop enormous peaks were gone, their fierce, forbidding architecture, wild tangled gardens, potholed streets and boulevards now vanquished. There would be no more tales on dark nights by the fireside of a giant race of fierce and warlike ogres who had dwelled there long ago, no more nursery fears of swamps and marshes haunted by wraiths, spectres and ghostly apparitions, no lost souls haunting the ancient paths and tracks across the mosses, not in Fresh Fields, the bright, clean and clinical kingdom of the new all conquering Lego people.
Her enchanted realm has a different name and another life now, its wild places, wolves, foxes, dragonflies, birds, bees and butterflies displaced with the clearances and like them she is banished, all that remains an atlas inscribed in her heart - a map of a life lived in the ruins of her ancestors, a personal geography of faded glories, wide boulevards, lofty ideals, a wonder of the modern world, a vision for a bright new future, a radiant city: an A to Z of her identity, her history, her sense of self.
No, this tame new world can never be her home...
what was my reason? nothing so glamourous. my life outside of this diary is rather prosaic and not worth the column inch, so its with some apology and sense of absurdity that ive drawn attention to my recent blogging absence at all! february simply saw me attempting to write a fairy story for a magazine whose theme for submissions was fantasy. an unlikely arena for this old flaneur you might think but no. au contraire...
it occured to me that my habit (bordering on obsession) of regaling you dear reader with my romantic reveries of neglected social housing estates such as brunswick, my moated kingdom and home to my coterie of bluestockings, and other modern day ruins and icons such as the mancunian way, the tinsley towers, the umist campus and the holloway wall, is a reimagining or repositioning of the late 20th century as a new gothic, as darkly romantic as the victorian gothic of aubrey beardsley, edgar allen poe, m r james, et al.
and im not alone in this new urban gothic, there's something in the air - as my good friend mr hale recently said, concrete and cooling towers are the lost content of a generation. the new cube exhibition, the british landscape, showcases the work of john davies whose large format black and white photographs, taken between 1979 and 2005 show the vast, complex and majestic scenery of industrial and post industrial britain. its not on for long, just until 18 april, so dont miss it, its beautiful.
spurred on by the exhibition, mr hales comment, a rewriting of rapunzel for our times by the ever enticing shrieking violet, and a child's intuitive likening of a tower block to a castle, i am posting my own humble attempt at evoking a moment in the collective imagination before the mood passes...
it didnt make it into the magazine by the way, so dont expect too much of it!
Once upon a time there lived a solitary little girl.
She lived in the high peaks of the eerie Troglodyte mountains, an abandoned world of soaring stalagmites whose weather beaten towers lay beyond the remotest hamlets and villages at the farthest edge of the Far Northern Territory; a forgotten realm, glowering mysteriously from behind the misty White Moss and the wild Clough End, a dark and dangerous wilderness traversed by few and survived by fewer - a gnarly woodland of tangled groves, knotted vines and hazy hollows inhabited by tribes of bloodthirsty trolls, mischievous boggarts and platoons of nameless beasts who lurked behind each tree and roamed every corner of the twisted undergrowth. Few in the outlying valleys ever ventured into these woods, let alone the White Moss in the vale below. These swirling treacherous bogs enveloped the woodlands with unimaginable terrors; a nether world twixt land and water, twixt living and dead, its swamps and marshes haunted by wraiths, spectres and ghostly apparitions, the melancholic spirits of those foolhardy and unwary souls who had lost their footing on its perilous paths. Only the truly god forsaken journeyed into the White Moss, making the Troglodyte Mountains virtually impregnable.
It was said that no-one had lived in these strange desolate mountains, their tall towers huddled atop their colossal peaks like a ganglion of petrified gargoyles, for nigh on a hundred years. But countless fireside storytellers had woven a thick tapestry of dreams around those mysterious inhabitants of yesteryear. Some spun tales of a giant race of fierce and warlike ogres who had dwelled there long ago, chiselling deep into the mountains and hauling endless rocks and boulders to create their lofty fortresses from where they unleashed a reign of terror on the peaceable villages below until at last they were punished and turned to stone. Others swore they were inhabited even today by a ragtag colony of crones and witches, hags and banshees whose calls might just be heard above the plaintive cries of the night, scratching a squalid living amidst the ruined palaces of a vanished race of heroes. Whatever the truth, there was little to draw anyone to such a remote and impenetrable spot and so the white giants in the north remained derelict and unloved, a vague memory, a folk tale, a bedtime story to frighten the little ones, the legend of the Nine ladies who turned to stone for a forgotten transgression.
But this desolate spot, so feared and foreboding, was in fact still occupied by one little girl, the last of her kind. She lived at the top of a perpendicular stalagmite, a towering column of crumbling concrete as high as the clouds in the sky, with views as far as the eye could see. From here she commanded a panoramic view across its four corners and the lands beyond. On a clear day she could even make out the great Metropolis to the south, a kingdom she had read was crafted entirely from a million glittering shards of glass, a translucent spectacle that was the new wonder of the civilised world, a world away from her gnarly, carbuncled mountains, with sturdy rock pigeons the only neighbours of her craggy roost, resplendent in their iridescent blue and purple coats. Together she and they nestled snugly in the windswept crevices and hollows that she called home. Their morning cooing and cawing was her very own alarm call and together girl and feathered friends would stretch and yawn bleary eyed at each dewy dawn and gaze ahead, at a gigantic adventure playground to explore every day. To her eyes this was no failed idyll or forbidden territory but a magical enchanted place, home of her ancestors and she its last guardian.
If the little girl was solitary she certainly wasn’t lonely, or at least didn’t know it, scarcely remembering human company enough to tell if she missed it. Besides she had the woods, fields, trees and neighbouring towers to clamber, and the company of the foxes, rabbits, birds, bees, butterflies and dragonflies that shared her beautiful wildscape. Gazing out from her bedroom in the clouds she could just make out the vaguest outline of the great highways circling its borders, and nearer, the many winding paths linking the towers to their garden plots and wide lawns with their overgrown flowerbeds. She often whiled away the nights imagining what life had been like once upon a time when the towers had been the heart of a great vision, a utopian dream, a bold rebirth after the devastations of the Great wars. Her bird’s eye view was a living, moving map of the tumbledown geography beneath, the grand creations and perambulations so hidden at street level unexpectedly clear, the familiar routes and daily strolls trodden long ago by her ancestors perfectly revealed.
Back on the ground those paths and flowerbeds reverted to a dense tangle of thorns, bushes and giant weeds as Nature had gradually reclaimed its own. Without constant maintenance the pleasure gardens, spacious dwellings and wide boulevards, once a source of such civic pride, had all too soon returned to bog and marsh, the ramshackle paths, mysterious black circles and thin barren maypoles choking with creeping vines and verdant ivy all that remained of the dreams and aspirations of the vanished empire, its proud ambitions and ideals reduced to pitted potholes and blank eyed citadels. Once upon a time this had been the wonder of the modern world, a dream for a bright new future, its lavish landscape and spacious dwellings heralding a new way of living, a radiant city in which to work, rest and play. The little girl knew nothing of this – it was simply her tangled playground and she alone now inhabited its vast empty spaces knowing its overrun paths, nooks and crannies by heart. And although no-one seemed able to penetrate the obstacles barring the way to the Troglodyte Mountains she had become quite adept at avoiding the many perils, monsters and terrors to enter the world beyond. She had memorized every track and path through the woods and marshlands to the outlying villages – those swirling mosses and fearful forests proved effortless, nimble and fleet of foot as she was, whilst the trolls, wolves and apparitions lurking within them appeared quite tame to her. Eventually she had created her own personal atlas of this deserted realm, a chronicle of her journeys etched into her heart around its edges and boundaries and the routes to the Outer Lands, a personal topography of the terrain that was part cartography, part experience, part identity; an A to Z of her memories, her history, her sense of self.
So the girl lived there, quite at home in the solitude, taking pleasure in its wildness. The Nine ladies, far from being the dark dread of the outside world, were her guardian angels, silent sentinels and keepers of her ancestors’ wisdom. The heart of her universe, a source of never-ending adventure, they fanned the visions of the far beyond that she read about in the books she would pluck from the mantelpieces, bookshelves and libraries gathering dust in her neighbouring cobwebby buildings and apartments. A haven of words and pictures, a vast repository of ideas, thoughts and philosophies, books were her dreaming, where she could hover above the clouds and fly beyond her own horizons. Devouring everything she came across, she would conjure up images of the curious places and strange worlds they described. Books were her friends and confidantes, their absent authors her first brush with human companionship, whose words pierced her heart with linguistic riches, and the legendary Bibliotheca, custodian it was said of all the books ever written, was to become her life’s Quest, her Holy Grail. By day she would forage for new titles, replacing finished reads to their rightful shelves; she was always most careful to keep the books in the same order that she found them! Then in the long summer afternoons when it was just too hot to explore she would settle into a shady nook in one of her favourite wild flower meadows and read in the dappled sunlight. By night she would continue at the top of her turret, her pages illuminated by the immense night skies, the twinkling stars or pale smiling moon….she would gaze out at the distant lights and imagine the adventures awaiting the brave and bold explorer.
Then one day she noticed a small and faded stamp in the corner of a well worn book. She pored over it, curious as to its meaning. It wasn’t part of the title and it definitely wasn’t part of the original print of the book. It was truly a mystery. There was a crest, a heraldic device of some kind and an inscription which read ‘Return to Reading Room, Property of the University Library’. Looking out from her little crow’s nest she was reminded of the legends of the illustrious Libraries of the Ancient Cities of Alexandria and Constantinople and wondered if the magnificent City of Glass to the south might also contain such a treasure. Could this be the location of the University Library embossed into the flyleaf of her book? There was only one way to find out. She determined to set out the very next day on the longest journey she had ever made. It would mean leaving her enchanted home, crossing the White Moss and traversing the whole of Clough End, passing the hamlets and villages beyond to the farthest reaches of the Outer Lands before reaching the mythical City of Glass at the very end of the world, an adventure to match any she had read of, to be sure. She packed only the barest necessities for the harsh journey ahead and most carefully of all the book with the precious inscription in its flyleaf, key to the kingdom of knowledge ahead. As each day passed she looked back encouraged that her gentle guardian angels the Nine Towers were still visible and pressed ever onwards, the pages of all the books still to read urging her on in search of the Great Library.
Eventually the solitary girl from the desolate mountains entered the City walls and the magical realm of Knowledge and Learning enclosed under the grand dome of its celebrated library. Bewitched in the endless walkways and colossal stacks of books and journals, many years were to pass before she emerged from her travels in the scriptorium. But subtle signs of her childhood years persisted. She was never able to sleep amidst the everyday noises of the metropolis in their normal two storey houses but instead made for turrets or the highest attics, craving her remote battlements and the plaintive cries of the wolves, boggarts and shadowy spectres that dwelled in the treacherous swamps and misty plains of her homelands. Her peculiar affinity for the urban pigeons always confounded the city dwellers, their grimy blue – grey feathers reminding her of the resplendent coats of the rock pigeons she had long shared her crows nest perch with, whilst her unfathomable affection for neglected concrete architecture in unloved corners of a city in awe of glass and brightly coloured plastic never failed to raise eyebrows. In short, despite all the treasures of the great library, she never felt quite as at home as she once had, alone in her deserted, enchanted towers.
And so at last she began the long journey back to the Troglodyte Mountains. As she drew nearer, it seemed to her that the peaks had diminished and its tall towers looked smaller than she recalled. She wasn’t even sure she was in the vicinity for try as she might she couldn’t count her Nine Ladies on the horizon. In confusion, she stopped at the nearest hamlet, now a busy plaza and shopping centre, to ask what had become of her guardian angels, totems of her ancestors, and learned that most of the ugly old gargoyles had finally been demolished, just one or two allowed to remain, fashionably renovated in bright and cheery facia and fancy plastic fittings. Soon she could see for herself that the entire area had been given a makeover, the tangled forests and knotted paths tidied up and smart new bijoux houses with tiny back yards replacing those wide expanses of unused real estate.
Her brooding mountains, those remote and desolate stalagmites whose tall towers perched atop enormous peaks were gone, their fierce, forbidding architecture, wild tangled gardens, potholed streets and boulevards now vanquished. There would be no more tales on dark nights by the fireside of a giant race of fierce and warlike ogres who had dwelled there long ago, no more nursery fears of swamps and marshes haunted by wraiths, spectres and ghostly apparitions, no lost souls haunting the ancient paths and tracks across the mosses, not in Fresh Fields, the bright, clean and clinical kingdom of the new all conquering Lego people.
Her enchanted realm has a different name and another life now, its wild places, wolves, foxes, dragonflies, birds, bees and butterflies displaced with the clearances and like them she is banished, all that remains an atlas inscribed in her heart - a map of a life lived in the ruins of her ancestors, a personal geography of faded glories, wide boulevards, lofty ideals, a wonder of the modern world, a vision for a bright new future, a radiant city: an A to Z of her identity, her history, her sense of self.
No, this tame new world can never be her home...
Thursday, 19 March 2009
brutal is beautiful!
one of my esteemed boffin friends, mr hale, has drawn my attention to an interesting article in the always 'on the button' manchester confidential.
in Lumpy Concrete Art jonathon schofield defends three controversial 60's concrete horrors, including our very own hollaway wall, which i drew your attention to at the beginning of the year, the 20th century society's january building of the month. like me he is keen for the city to take stock of its recent heritage and appreciate the grandeur of a period more maligned than appreciated:
Get up close to the wall and its impressive, ten times better than Tadao Ando’s concrete thingy in Piccadilly Gardens. It’s full of solemn power, and bashed about grandeur. But above all it's simply weird, drawing you in with its stop you in the street, ‘you-what?’ magnetism...
his other two featured highlights are also worth a mention and a visit - the first living right in the city centre near the gorgeous cis building, a modest but attractive screen wall fronting miller street creating a processional way of the entrance to new century hall; the other a series of bizarre totems on the salford campus. here's his piece in full with great pictures. have a quick read, feast your eyes and please support the petition to list the holloway wall from current development proposals.
because, as schofield ends in his homage to the beauty of brutal architecture -
All cities need context. As we walk through them we need to feel the layers of the city’s history under our feet. It’s best if a city provides a visual reminder in odd tucked away corners – Holloway’s Wall – or right in your face – Mitchell’s three giants - of what it was before and how it then looked on the world and itself. These concrete features do this, they’re not only a physical reminder of the time in which they were built, but also of the mood of that period in our history.
i couldnt have put it better myself...
in Lumpy Concrete Art jonathon schofield defends three controversial 60's concrete horrors, including our very own hollaway wall, which i drew your attention to at the beginning of the year, the 20th century society's january building of the month. like me he is keen for the city to take stock of its recent heritage and appreciate the grandeur of a period more maligned than appreciated:
Get up close to the wall and its impressive, ten times better than Tadao Ando’s concrete thingy in Piccadilly Gardens. It’s full of solemn power, and bashed about grandeur. But above all it's simply weird, drawing you in with its stop you in the street, ‘you-what?’ magnetism...
his other two featured highlights are also worth a mention and a visit - the first living right in the city centre near the gorgeous cis building, a modest but attractive screen wall fronting miller street creating a processional way of the entrance to new century hall; the other a series of bizarre totems on the salford campus. here's his piece in full with great pictures. have a quick read, feast your eyes and please support the petition to list the holloway wall from current development proposals.
because, as schofield ends in his homage to the beauty of brutal architecture -
All cities need context. As we walk through them we need to feel the layers of the city’s history under our feet. It’s best if a city provides a visual reminder in odd tucked away corners – Holloway’s Wall – or right in your face – Mitchell’s three giants - of what it was before and how it then looked on the world and itself. These concrete features do this, they’re not only a physical reminder of the time in which they were built, but also of the mood of that period in our history.
i couldnt have put it better myself...
Saturday, 31 January 2009
the birth of the timid modernist...?
though it's traditional to regard december as the period of reflection and self assessment, it occurs to me, as this first month of 2009 draws to a very rapid close, that in reality january is when all the navel gazing actually happens. because january is the time when we re-read those crumpled lists and resolutions hastily made in the dazzling glow of new years brilliant and deafening fireworks, fooling us into temporary aberrations of unfounded optimism or sheer foolhardiness...
like the two faced janus it is named after, this first month looks as much at the retreating year as the coming one. it is a metaphorical bridge between the past and the future, the year we have lived and our aspirations for whats to come. it is in effect a rehearsal, a trial period for the rest of the year...a sort of introductory offer. january is for many somewhat bleak, stark and joyless after all that festive fun and frivolity and not for nothing has it been dubbed the most depressing month of the year. we have just these four weeks to try out, refine or abandon all those crazy dreams for self improvement, reinvention, flagellation, before the year starts in earnest. by february gym memberships drop, attendance at weight watchers crashes and the long dark nights can seem interminable.
as for me, i too have looked back at 2008, assessed my failures and achievements and made a long list of 'to does' in an effort to focus my attention for the coming year. i've also attempted to identify just what it is that im trying to do, or in contemporary parlance, understand and articulate my 'practice'.
the problem with being what often feels like a lone visual culturist in a city of poets, artists, playwrights, actors and novelists, is the sense of isolation, of not having the camaraderie of one's peers. and crucially unlike them, i simply dont have a practice, a title or definition to guide my progress. without this sense of self awareness or identity, my gaze tends to range far and wide, encompassing too many interests, and i am always in danger of floundering ineffectively in the backwaters of the cultural zeitgeist, a mere dilettante in a world of solid practitioners, all creating artefacts or making work within definite boundaries or disciplines.
last year i was writer in residence at apartment and i came to enjoy hiding behind that handy title, though i was ever uncertain as to my function amongst the artists and curators, an imposter in the world of art. i have also been made welcome amongst loiterers, flaneurs and urbanists, but again have no real purpose in their midst, a mere voyeur in a world of activity, agency and creativity. i have been shortlisted in the writing category of the manchester blog community, but turned out to be a fish out of water amongst the other worthy shortlisters, with no actual writing under my belt, no manuscripts, recitals or readings to my credit. i have a keen interest in the built environment and the metropolis, but am not an architect or landscape designer. i have presented papers about the way we live now and how we navigate space in todays city, but am hardly a social anthropologist or cultural geographer.
so this january i have been pitifully attempting to pinpoint just what it is i am, what is it i do and how i can do it better and more effectively, find an audience, fellow enthusiasts, some of my own kind to play with and find my own path amongst. and as we progress to february its surely time to get down to business, face the coming year, embrace it and do something useful with it...
looking back at my past ruminatings whilst preparing the Reading Room section of the recent apartment show i realise how much of my output has been a defence of modernism in general and especially what is all too often dismissed as 'grim' or 'utopian' but always misguided and failed post-war social housing. my new year list of urgent things to write about in the diary reiterates this, comprising as it does the umist hollaway wall, the threats to the umist campus, and the 20th century society's murals campaign.
owen hatherley in his brilliant blog 'sit down man you're a bloody tragedy' has as his visual motif the beautiful tag 'militant modernist', the title of his forthcoming book, described on the ballardian as
'a call to have the courage to be modern against all the current postmodern pieties of exhaustion and fragmentation' and 'a revolutionary modernism against its absorption into the heritage industry and the aesthetics of the luxury flat'.
it is also a call to arms to this humble scribbler to get off the fence and come out as at the very least a timid but determined modernist. perhaps this is my new title and aspiration for 2009:
EP Niblock, diarist, bluestocking and modernist, defender of the brutalist aesthetic!
like the two faced janus it is named after, this first month looks as much at the retreating year as the coming one. it is a metaphorical bridge between the past and the future, the year we have lived and our aspirations for whats to come. it is in effect a rehearsal, a trial period for the rest of the year...a sort of introductory offer. january is for many somewhat bleak, stark and joyless after all that festive fun and frivolity and not for nothing has it been dubbed the most depressing month of the year. we have just these four weeks to try out, refine or abandon all those crazy dreams for self improvement, reinvention, flagellation, before the year starts in earnest. by february gym memberships drop, attendance at weight watchers crashes and the long dark nights can seem interminable.
as for me, i too have looked back at 2008, assessed my failures and achievements and made a long list of 'to does' in an effort to focus my attention for the coming year. i've also attempted to identify just what it is that im trying to do, or in contemporary parlance, understand and articulate my 'practice'.
the problem with being what often feels like a lone visual culturist in a city of poets, artists, playwrights, actors and novelists, is the sense of isolation, of not having the camaraderie of one's peers. and crucially unlike them, i simply dont have a practice, a title or definition to guide my progress. without this sense of self awareness or identity, my gaze tends to range far and wide, encompassing too many interests, and i am always in danger of floundering ineffectively in the backwaters of the cultural zeitgeist, a mere dilettante in a world of solid practitioners, all creating artefacts or making work within definite boundaries or disciplines.
last year i was writer in residence at apartment and i came to enjoy hiding behind that handy title, though i was ever uncertain as to my function amongst the artists and curators, an imposter in the world of art. i have also been made welcome amongst loiterers, flaneurs and urbanists, but again have no real purpose in their midst, a mere voyeur in a world of activity, agency and creativity. i have been shortlisted in the writing category of the manchester blog community, but turned out to be a fish out of water amongst the other worthy shortlisters, with no actual writing under my belt, no manuscripts, recitals or readings to my credit. i have a keen interest in the built environment and the metropolis, but am not an architect or landscape designer. i have presented papers about the way we live now and how we navigate space in todays city, but am hardly a social anthropologist or cultural geographer.
so this january i have been pitifully attempting to pinpoint just what it is i am, what is it i do and how i can do it better and more effectively, find an audience, fellow enthusiasts, some of my own kind to play with and find my own path amongst. and as we progress to february its surely time to get down to business, face the coming year, embrace it and do something useful with it...
looking back at my past ruminatings whilst preparing the Reading Room section of the recent apartment show i realise how much of my output has been a defence of modernism in general and especially what is all too often dismissed as 'grim' or 'utopian' but always misguided and failed post-war social housing. my new year list of urgent things to write about in the diary reiterates this, comprising as it does the umist hollaway wall, the threats to the umist campus, and the 20th century society's murals campaign.
owen hatherley in his brilliant blog 'sit down man you're a bloody tragedy' has as his visual motif the beautiful tag 'militant modernist', the title of his forthcoming book, described on the ballardian as
'a call to have the courage to be modern against all the current postmodern pieties of exhaustion and fragmentation' and 'a revolutionary modernism against its absorption into the heritage industry and the aesthetics of the luxury flat'.
it is also a call to arms to this humble scribbler to get off the fence and come out as at the very least a timid but determined modernist. perhaps this is my new title and aspiration for 2009:
EP Niblock, diarist, bluestocking and modernist, defender of the brutalist aesthetic!
Friday, 9 January 2009
new year resolutions...umists hollaway wall
just when it seems there simply cant be any sections of the city left to regenerate, that the looming recession might just be the accidental saving of the few remaining post-war architectural gems happily minding their own business and bringing harmless joy to some of us, worrying news pops up to the contrary...
anthony hollaway's 1968 sculptural wall is practically invisible and entirely neglected. chances are you've passed it on the way from piccadilly station to the umist campus or to stockport road and barely noticed this overlooked treasure. or perhaps you have noticed it subliminally and dismissed it as merely a graffitied eyesore.
but this is no ordinary wall, as anyone who looks at it more closely and gives it a second chance will discover. even moss covered, lichen ridden, strewn with discarded takeaways, assorted rubbish and bird droppings, the hollaway wall is a delight, its sturdy exuberance a testimony to the hardy optimism of a small band of utopian modernists of post-war britain, a lovely and elegant length of concrete sculpture. it is as architecturally significant as the piccadilly pavilion, centrepiece to the renovated piccadilly gardens by signatect tadao ando, commissioned at enormous expense for the 2002 commonwealth games, the obligatory 'iconic gateway to the city'.
a deceptively simple curved concrete wall with a covered space on its concave side providing yet more coffee chains and a modicum of shelter, the pavilion has hardly faired much better than the hollaway and is already looking a little shabby, sandwiched inelegantly between rows of plastic urinals and tram machinery. nonetheless this concrete structure, part buffer, part artwork, is a significant coup for the city - ando's first ever british project. to fully appreciate just why this self taught superstar is regarded as one of the world's greatest architects, read benjamin secher in the telegraph. in truth, though ando's reputation is well deserved, the piccadilly pavilion, commissioned as a prestigious kick start to the regeneration of a shabby section of central manchester, now seems hardly the serene japanese garden he aspired to and it has as many detractors as admirers.
in sharp contrast to this and other contemporary iconotastic commissions, the hollaway wall which made no such bold claims and sits unobtrusively in a quiet corner of the city, finds itself in suddenly in the limelight, its future uncertain. in short, it seems that not satisfied with wreaking havoc on the owens campus the powers that be have turned their pitiless gaze towards the splendid umist, with plans apparently afoot to sell off much of the site which includes some of the city's finest and sadly increasingly rare 1960s buildings and structures.
the 20th century society is currently featuring the wall in its building of the month section and is supporting a well deserved submission for listing status. richard brook, senior lecturer at manchester school of architecture, waxes lyrical about the wall, its significance and context within umist as part of a broader 60's utopian vision -
The masterplan for the campus was developed in 1960 by W.A. Gibbon of Cruickshank and Seward and it is Gibbon’s legacy that presides over the stepped site as it descends toward the Medlock Valley. Chandos Hall, the Renold Building, the Barnes-Wallis building and the Ferranti Building are all by Gibbon and all feature his trademark white concrete. He is known to have visited Brazil prior to this commission and was influenced by the work of Niemeyer, though the only real flourishing gesture is the curved stair that elegantly sweeps into the courtyard between the Renold and Barnes-Wallis buildings. The Renold Building was unsuccessfully proposed for listing in November 2005. A further two of the group are currently under threat from the sale and redevelopment of the site as the University of Manchester seeks to consolidate its estate. Also under threat is the innovative Chemical Engineering Pilot Plant by H.S. Fairhurst; originally the service runs were all defined in their own specific colours, predating Pompidou by five years.
This building is flanked by a sculptural wall, similarly at risk, about which little has been written or researched. The wall was built in 1968 to designs prepared by artist Anthony Hollaway, commissioned by the University of Manchester Institute of Science + Technology (UMIST). The artist was working in collaboration with architect Harry M. Fairhurst; they also worked together to design the concrete relief panels of the Chemistry building on the same campus and, much later, the windows at Manchester Cathedral.
Many of the structures similar to this, by artists, were retaining walls. This was designed as a sound buffer. As such, this particular wall has more ‘object’ status as it stands upon its field rather than embedded within. The work was designed to ‘enhance weathering and texture’ by the use of ‘rough sawn formwork’.
modernists, urbanists, mancunians - don't let this careworn creature disappear. please don't take for granted that this and other post war icons will survive the tail end of the noughties building boom or the current recession. visit the wall, get close up and take in its battered beauty, love and cherish it. stroll around the resplendant umist campus with its concrete flourishes, its cornucopia of public artworks, murals and secluded gardens, its harmonious marriage of victorian splendour and 60's optimism. then show your support and demand its listing and appreciation. and do it now, before its too late...
as for me, the holloway wall is as much a part of my life and my quirky corner of manchester, my personal m1, as the mancunian way and its neighbouring tower blocks, so 2009 might just be the year this sprightly bluestocking turns activist and chains herself to it....
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