Cultural Heritage Revolution?

In the midst of global protests and demonstrations in connection with the ‘Black Lives Matter’ movement and in the immediacy of the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis, statues to imperialists, racists and the traders of enslaved people are finally coming down.

In Bristol, the statue of Edward Colston was toppled on Saturday 6th June, rolled through the streets and tossed into the harbour. By Wednesday, several more statues have been taken removed, some with official sanction and watched by cheering crowds. More than 100 city councils across the UK have signed up to holding a review in order to consider removing statues, and even changing street names, and in America there is a growing hope that the end is nigh for racist memorials.

Many of these things have happened before, in some guise, some stories of which have appeared in this blog (including blogs on a Tiananmen Square statue, the Buller Statue in Exeter, and the Wellington Monument in Glasgow). But there seems to be something ‘different’ about this moment. Perhaps it is the context of Coronavirus?

The ‘traditional’ official answers tend revolve around platitudes towards disadvantaged communities – their pain is ‘felt’, their sense of injustice is ‘understood’ – but now is not (and never is) the ‘right time’. And, of course, any direct action from a crowd is always ‘completely wrong’!

So, when can the completely wrong be ‘right’? Does the removal of statues represent an ‘erasure of history’? And should we always champion the ‘Voice of the People’?

When the completely wrong is ‘right’?

In the first few hours following the (un)ceremonial dumping and dunking of Edward Colston in Bristol, many commentators lined up to tread the fine line between supporting the ‘sentiment’ of the protest, while deploring their actions. The Labour Party leader, Keir Starmer, for instance both said that the statue ‘should have been removed a long time ago’, while also saying that its removal as part of the weekend protests was ‘wrong’. Such public figures do not want to be associated with ‘criminal acts’, but an official sanction of popular sentiment – perhaps even when this sentiment is expressed through direct action – has many precedents. Perhaps most famously, the toppling of the statue of Saddam Hussein in 2003, or the removal of Soviet statues in much of eastern Europe in the 1990s was a moment that was widely endorsed by many official representatives. Queen Victoria was taken away in Dublin a century ago by the Dublin Corporation (and sold to the city of Sydney), while in 2012 a statue of Jimmy Saville was removed from a shopping centre in Glasgow. Perhaps more prosaic is the implicit (or even explicit) acceptance of what might be termed the creative critical engagement of many statues, such as the famous Wellington Monument in Glasgow or the (less famous) Buller Memorial in Exeter, which both habitually are allowed to be adorned with traffic cones.

A pandemic in which black, Asian and minority ethnic communities have suffered so badly together with an event of Police brutality in America, provides a context in which deeply ingrained and institutionalized systems of racism and systematic oppression can be acknowledged. This has prompted a more general reflective exercise about which elements of heritage are to be cherished – and given permission to remove symbolic statues.

Is this ‘Erasing History’?

Several commentators have decried what they see as an ‘erasure of history’, but we need to think about what ‘history’ is. Far from ‘destroying history’, David Olusoga has talked about this moment as one of creating history. What better way to commemorate the world of today than by ‘displaying’ an empty plinth? What better way of honouring the many millions of people who suffered as enslaved people, and who have been elided in standard historical narratives, than by removing the monuments to their oppressors? There is an interesting debate to be had as to whether the obliteration of these statues is better than some nuanced attempts to address them in other ways, Lisa Johnson, for instance, has written about the Dutch monument of JP Coen. Following a debate within the Dutch town of Hoorn (including a legal ‘trial’ for the local slave trader, JP Coen), a decision was made that the statue was ‘guilty’. Rather than remover the statue however, JP Coen’s ‘sentence’ included the addition of extra text at the monument (and a permanent Museum exhibition), which would make Coen’s guilt clear and be a constant reminder of this dark past in the present townscape. This certainly sounds positive, though Lisa Johnson reflects whether the focus on an obviously racist man who lived several centuries ago was just an easier (and ‘feel good’) thing to do; and that ongoing racism, exclusion and oppression (particularly with reference to the Dutch decolonization process in the 20th century) was largely ignored as a result. In many ways, this can be read as a warning – that we should not allow the present focus on the removal of monuments to nasty people who lived hundreds of years ago, mean that we (continue to) turn a blind eye to present injustices around us.

Is the ‘Voice of the People’ always right?

Reading some of the press reports and commentators about the destruction of the Edward Colston monument, one might think that the ‘Voice of the People’ is now always correct – that direct action of the crowd should never be critiqued. But a story I read this morning about how some people in a small town in Derbyshire has decided to protect what many people would see as a racist monument, provides a more critical prompt to this question. The justification for protecting the monument seems to be rooted in the idea that the wishes of ‘local people’ must always be correct – though the journalist also includes a quote from a local who wishes to remain anonymous who questions whether the ‘wishes of the local people’ are as clear as the would-be protectors of the monument would have us believe. This case reminds me strongly of many examples of local/community festivities that include practices of ‘blacking up’ – such as the Darkie Day Parade in Padstow, Cornwall. The idea of local-ness is sometimes difficult to challenge, since it tends to carry ideas of ‘authenticity’ and democracy – the sort of material that most liberal-minded people tend to cherish. Rather than ‘localness’ acting to insulate practices from outside scrutiny, however, I would argue that we should always be attendant to the politics and power structures that are inherent within any such practice, at whatever scale they operate. On occasion, therefore, I would say that it is OK to be critical of local ‘direct action’.

What now for Edward Colston?

The last few days have seen many suggestions for what should happen in Bristol now. The Mayor of Bristol does not seem interested in putting Edward Colston back on to his pedestal, but what should be there in his place – if anything? So far, the best suggestion that I have seen has come from the street-artist, Banksy. Perhaps unexpectedly, Banksy has argued that the state of Edward Colston should be fished out of the harbor and replaced back on to his plinth – only with the addition of some ropes and protesters-in-bronze, so as to create a permanent memorial to the removal of Edward Colston.

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30 Years of Telling Stories about Dartmoor: a 380 Year Life History of Landscape Heritage Myth and Reality

Just a few weeks after I first came to Exeter University as an undergraduate student in October 1988, I remember being taken by Vic Ambler, the Warden of the St Lukes Hall of Residence, for an evening walk to Dartmoor. We got dropped off near Challacombe, and walked via Grimspound, the Headland Warren and Bennett’s Cross to the Warren House Inn. Just before we reached the pub, we walked past the Devil’s Playing Cards; four mysteriously shaped fields laid out on the hillside, in the shape of the four suits of a deck of playing cards. I remember Vic telling a story about how these got their name: that during a Great Storm, the Devil crashed through the roof of the Church at nearby Widecombe-in-the-Moor and carried off a man called Jan Reynolds who was playing cards at the back of the Church. As he flew across the moor, Jan dropped the four aces that he had up his sleeve and they fell to earth as four enclosures. I squinted at the hillside – OK; I could pick out the Diamond quite clearly… perhaps the Heart; but one needed to have a bit more imagination to make out the Club and the Spade. It was a good story – though I would have thought that the Devil would have been happy with someone playing cards at the back of a Church Service?

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Widecombe Church (Author’s Photo)

The walk, across Hameldown, between Widecombe and Warren House is one of my favourites, and the legend about the Devil is a nice story to impress visitors. It might even place me as a ‘local’, or at least as someone who ‘knows’ the Dartmoor landscape. Over the following years, I became more and more familiar with Dartmoor and its legends; lots about the Devil, many about ‘hauntings’, and a good few about environmental hazards – deep bogs or terrible storms. Indeed, there’s a story about a ‘Great Storm’ of 1638, written up on a series of tablets in the Nave of Widecombe Church, in which several people were killed – victims of God’s Judgement. I vaguely realised that the Devilish Legend about the Playing Cards was referring to the same storm event as the tragedy of 1638 in Widecombe, but never really followed up on how and why the two stories were connected.

In the Autumn of 2013, I was to run a 3rd year day field trip to Dartmoor to talk about landscape history and archaeology. The Headland Warren, Bennett’s Cross and the Devil’s Playing Cards was an obvious destination to take a group of third years in the Autumn Term of 2013, and all my Landscape Knowledge or Lore comes into its own when running such a student field trip. The legend of the Devil will be memorable for the students – just as it was for myself in 1988 – and if that helps to instil the ‘factual’ elements of landscape history, then all the better. On Friday 18th October 2013, I led a group of 35 students up to Dartmoor, as part of the Undergraduate Level 3 ‘Geographies of Heritage and Memory’ module within the Geography Department at Exeter.

 

I wrote a blog about this field trip here – and was struck by the juxtaposition of the two stories about the ‘Great Storm’. Of course, the students also asked some tricky questions – surely, they ask me, the Devil should have been happy that people were playing cards in Church(!); and how come the figure of ‘God’ turned directly into the figure of the Devil. These loose ends needed tidying up….

I re-visited the Church at Widecombe and took some photos of the tablets on the wall of the Nave. This story was very clear – that it was God that brought on the Great Storm and God’s Judgement that carried off several parishioners.

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The poem about the storm; Widecombe Church (Author’s photo)

I also began talking to my colleague in the English Department, Joanne Parker, who had previously written about Dartmoor stories and legends. We had been working together within the ‘Past-Place’ research team, at Exeter, and so the idea of producing a ‘life history’ of storytelling associated with an event such as the Great Storm took hold.

Together, we started to patch together the accounts of the Great Storm, of October 1638, from the first pamphlet publications only a couple of weeks after, through renditions in poetic and prose form during the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries, and to their re-deployment in tourist legend in the 19th and 20th centuries. The first accounts of the event appeared in London in November 1638, and in this version, the storm is very much associated with God’s Judgement – though we also found the vestiges of some quasi-scientific reflection and interest. The Devil gets a mention in the 18th century, but only starts to dominate the accounts in the 19th century – which is the point at which the stone enclosures (the Devil’s Playing Cards) near the Warren House Inn enter the scene. At the end of 2019, we have now published a full scholarly account of this work in the Medieval and Early Modern Studies journal, Parergon, (Volume 26, number 2) https://parergon.org/current.html

  • Abstract: This article explores the nexus between the folk heritage of an unusual archaeological site, an early modern account of ‘ball lightning’, and the literary construction of an affective atmosphere. It examines how a violent storm in October 1638 provided a symbolic reservoir for narrative accounts of both the performance of God’s power and the Devil’s trickery, thereby providing lessons for civil conduct alongside explanations of some unusual archaeological features. Tracing a biographical life history of how the storm has been remembered at different periods since the event, we chart how various narratives of landscape can unfold over several centuries.

Just as my imagination was captivated in 1988 – and just as I have recounted it to many visitors in the last 30 years – the legend of the Devil has good currency through which to support ‘insider’ credentials. In some ways, its slightly comical and clearly mythical nature provides a gloss of specifically ‘local’ landscape knowledge. It is a story of ‘place making practice’, both over the last 380 years over which the legends have been circulated, and also the 30 years over which I have been telling the stories myself – as a ‘professional landscape historian’. And over the last 6 years, the blog on a WordPress site has now become a published journal article!

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Dartmoor resident (Author’s photo)

 

 

Local and Global Heritage of Protests – Tiananmen Square 30th Anniversary

30 years ago today tanks rolled in to Tiananmen Square in Beijing, and violently ended a pro-democracy protest. The 4thJune 30thanniversary is being talked about in the press, and being commemorated by many people; some publically and many, no doubt, through private reflection. Marked by various events and media stories in many parts of the world, in China, the anniversary is being marked-by-implication, through being a non-event, of heightened security in many city centres – a curtain of official silence alongside, perhaps, a dignified reflective silence among those who remember.

30 years ago, I was an undergraduate student in Exeter University. I was very much involved in campus politics – at the time, this meant the “Grants-not-Loans” campaign to protect the student grant and rights to benefits (the idea of paying tuition fees seemed ludicrous), together with a broader on-going commitment to stand up to Thatcherism and the rise of what I would find out later to be called Neo-liberalism. We had recently staged a sit-in, taking over the Vice Chancellor’s office; we had been on protest marches in Exeter, London and Manchester. In June 1989, the student-led protests in Beijing seemed to be part of our movement, protecting student rights, and seeking a progressive and more inclusive future – indeed, similar in nature to the protests from behind the Iron Curtain and the fall of the Berlin Wall, which were still some months away.

Towards the end of May and start of June in Exeter, I remember students gathering on the lawn outside the Devonshire House Student’s Union building. I am sure that we all knew that signing a petition in support of our brothers and sisters in Beijing was hardly going to change anything in itself, but somehow there was a genuine feeling of connection; that lighting a tea-light candle in a jam jar actually meant something – even if just a material and public display of solidarity with those protesters in China. Their struggle and our struggle were one.

But then, on the 4thJune 1989, everything seemed to change.

We came to understand that their struggle was of a different nature, and was something that could lead to death or imprisonment. At first sight, all that sitting around strumming on guitars, signing petitions and lighting candles seems incredibly stupid and banal. But, while those vigils on the lawn outside Devonshire House in Exeter were certainly naïve, they also made the connection with those in Tiananmen Square somehow momentarily more real. When the shock came, it seemed to be more painful, with a profound sense of bereavement. Naïve, we might have been but our tears were honest and heartfelt.

The construction of a monument to mark those feelings seemed to be a natural response. I don’t know whose idea it was – it doesn’t actually matter – but I think we all felt a sense of genuine investment and connection to that monument, which ‘sprang up overnight’. I remember that the University authorities were not keen on it at all and wanted it removed, but everyone knew that it would be unmoveable. At least for a few years….

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Tiananmen Square memorial, on the lawn outside the Devonshire House Union Building, Exeter University

By definition, the student collective memory at any University is always fairly short-term and in constant flux. Most students are only at a University for the duration of their degree, and so by the mid 1990s, very few people at Exeter University could remember the circumstances of how the Tiananmen Square statue came to be where it was – nor why its location, on the lawn in front of the Union Building, was so significant. Furthermore, while the material nature of monuments is often seen as a very tangible and unchanging medium of commemoration, the Tiananmen Square memorial at Exeter University had a knack for changing! First, being made of textile, the flag deteriorated and fell off. It was replaced a few times, but with half-hearted protection, the figure very much transformed from being ‘Marianne’ in nature and representative of a cry for freedom and comradeship across the world, to being more baton-wielding ‘special forces’ in nature. Indeed, the loss of the flag seemed to run alongside the decrease in the angle of tilt in the figure’s arm, producing an ever more frightening pose.

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Memorial Statue, late 1990s – still on the Devonshire House lawn, but in a more menacing pose

Then the memorial statue disappeared completely. The lawn was earmarked for development, but the University authorities would find a ‘suitable location’ for the memorial statue – nevermind that it was the actual location that was the key element in the memorial, much more so than the now-transformed warrior-like statue.

Perhaps with an eye towards diplomacy, with the University actively seeking Chinese partnerships and wanting to attract more and more Chinese students to take courses in Exeter, the University’s ‘suitable location’ turned out to be a field on the edge of the main campus. The statue is still visible from the road, but there are no paths to the statue and very few regular passers by. The memorial now stands as a largely forgotten curio. It is on the Exeter University Sculpture Trail, though without reference to the connection between student protests in the UK and China, which meant so much back in 1989. And the lawn area that once stood just at the bottom of the entrance steps to the Union Building is now an outdoor seating area of a Costa Coffee shop. The memorial statue itself seems to be an empty vessel, though I guess it is still representative of the very real and profound connection that some people in Exeter felt with people across the world 30 years ago.

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The memorial statue, now relocated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Landscape Painting and the Invention of the Danish Landscape

I recently saw a very good seminar by Dr Gry Hedin of the ARKEN Museum of Modern Art, in Copenhagen. Entitled “Can landscape painting influence climate change?”, Hedin’s paper explored the development of landscape painting in Denmark from the 18th to the 20th century. (See also Hedin, G. (2018) ‘Anthropocene beginnings: entanglements of art and science in Danish art and archaeology, 1780-1840’, in G. Hedin and A-S.N. Gremaud (eds) Artistic Visions of the Anthropocene North: Climate Change and Nature in Art, (Routledge; New York), pp. 15-40).

This was a period in which ‘deep time’ was discovered, and this narrative was communicated to the public partly through art. It was an excellent paper, lavishly illustrated with images of many of the period’s most famous artists, from Jens Peter Møller and JL Lund in the early 19th century, through the work of Skovgaard and Lundbye in the mid-nineteenth century, and Peter Hansen at the turn of the 20th century, with works such as Ripe Rye (1891):

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Peter Hansen’s ‘Ripe Rye’

It was the images of the paintings of this last group that struck me as being familiar, but I couldn’t place it at the time. According to Hedin, it was in the 1890s that a genre of Danish landscape painting developed that focussed on fields of cereal crops. These monochrome fields of industrial farming act as a celebration of human control and the practical marshalling of landscape resources epitomised for Hedin, in Peter Hansen’s The Ploughman Turns. Nature seems to be reduced to plain surfaces; a modern and thoroughly engineered landscape of production, clearly portrayed in Hammershøi’s Landscape from Falster for instance:

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Vilhelm Hammersøi’s ‘Landscape from Falster’

This is not a ‘natural’ landscape – and nor is it an ‘ancient’ landscape, unchanged for millennia. Rather this seems to be a narration (or ‘curation’) through which the rapidly industrialising landscape of late 19th/early 20th century Denmark can become naturalised, and legitimated as the authentic landscape of the Danish nation. Certainly, this genre of landscape art seems to go hand-in-hand with the development of modern Danish agriculture, which, through the attendant growth of influential agricultural co-operatives, lies at the heart of wider Danish modernisation and economic expansion during the 20th century. Harald Slott-Møller’s Danish Landscape (1891) is typical of this style of painting – the ‘natural’ national Danish landscape is a field of cereal crops:

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Harald Slott-Møller ‘Danish Landscape’

There are three ‘critical heritage’ points that I would like to make from this:

First, while the landscapes depicted in these paintings appear to be thoroughly modern – give or take some technical machinery, they could have been painted yesterday – one should always remember the side of things that they do not show, but which they are completely connected to. Most obvious to me – at least when I am cycling around the countryside near Aarhus – are the huge pig factories; covered barns and silos (to store all that cereal-based feed), which dominate the Danish rural landscape. Pigs are everywhere; you may sometimes hear them, you always smell them, but you never see them!

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Modern ‘pig factory’, near Odder, just south of Aarhus

Secondly, while these modern landscape paintings depict a thoroughly recent landscape, they seem to have instilled themselves within the psyche as to how the Danish landscape should look – and perhaps even as always looked. Most oddly to my mind, this industrial landscape has come to be seen as the epitome of a Danish landscape even among landscape historians and archaeologists who are working in entirely different eras. The Slott-Møller painting was familiar to me because I had seen something like it on the cover of a book: Fabech et al’s (2000) Settlement and Landscape. Skimming through the 54 chapters of this landmark publication by Aarhus University Press, I see that the vast majority of chapters deal with the Prehistoric era, with just a few chapters on the medieval era, and next-to-nothing on the post 1500 landscape, whether in ‘Denmark’ or elsewhere. It is perhaps ironic that the stork seen flying low over golden fields in Slott-Møller’s painting, is now extinct in Denmark – for reasons that I would assume are connected to all that modern industrial farming! It is a nice painting, but it seems odd that it somehow stands for ‘landscape’ to a group of archaeologists who are mostly engaged in Prehistoric subject matter.

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Settlement and Landscape, front cover, Aarhus Library

Lastly, as I cycled home from Gry Hedin’s seminar, it suddenly struck me why those images were so familiar. Of course, I had seen such an image, countless times, last Summer and early autumn. Mostly in magazines, newspapers or perhaps on bus shelters – connected to a massive advertising campaign by Danske Folkpartiet (the Danish People’s Party). Throw in a church and a flag, and for the Danish People’s Party this modern, recent and industrial version of the landscape is Denmark.

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Danish People’s Party poster

This is Denmark

 

Longer days and mending legs

Well, having spent the last couple of months off work (and in blogging silence) with a broken leg, I now know a lot more about the Danish health care system (which is excellent, and with particularly good hospital food). My cast came off on Midwinter’s Day – the Northern Hemisphere’s shortest day of the year – just before Christmas, and so I feel that there is something more meaningful about the days growing longer than I have done in the past.

Whether recovering from a broken leg, or seeing, feeling and sensing the days lengthening, there differences are imperceptible at first. Indeed, the days immediately afterwards somehow seem to be especially dark and bleak (and painful) even when you know that things are heading the right way. Slowly-but-surely, however, movement becomes easier and change more apparent; walking about on crutches becomes possible – slow at first, and then more comfortable. I have been telling everyone that having my cast taken off was the best Christmas present ever, and certainly worthy of celebration. And there is something enduring in that sentiment – at least in high latitudes – which has nothing to do with Christmas, and nothing to do with broken legs.

Things are still not easy in early January, but the days are getting longer. My broken leg has given me a different (and distinctly literal) perspective this year, but I am consciously reflecting on how numerous people, over countless generations, over many millennia must have experienced as part of an everyday experience of living through the winter months…. responding to recent short days through reflecting on previous stories, and making plans for longer and warmer days to come. I back on my bike again this week, and I know that I will soon be hearing woodpeckers in the forest as I cycle to work at first light. And from previous remembrances, I know that I will soon see the sun rise at exactly that spot, over the island of Samsø, as I reach the point where there’s a break in the trees.

Celebrating Boundaries and the Heritage of Distinction (Part 4): Norway, Finland and the gifting of Halti mountain

In this blog, I return to a theme that I have covered a few times before; that of how ‘heritage’ gets entwined with a celebration of boundaries. In previous posts, I have talked about (in Part 1) BEXIT and problems in Europe of how ideas of cultural ‘distinction’ becomes celebrated through notions of heritage; how heritage is used to justify seeing Europe as a sort of mosaic of necessarily distinct homogenous and strictly bounded cultures. I then followed this by tracing how this happens on the ground, (in Part 2) through various assumptions made about the distinction of ‘Cornwall’ and ‘Cornishness’. And a further blog (in Part 3) about how such tendencies can be seen through the unlikely lens of practising ‘hygge’ in Denmark (part 3).

In this blog, I am going to look at another ‘Scandinavian’ example; of how Finland is bounded, should be bounded and might be bounded, and explore some of the consequences of seeing the world in bounded fashion through a slightly paradoxical example, of how apparent disruption of boundaries actually seems to cement the idea of boundaries.

Last month (December 2017) saw the 100th birthday of ‘Finland’ – at least it was 100 years since Finland gained independence from Russia on 6th December 1917. As would be expected, the occasion saw many efforts on the part of the Finnish state and state supporting entities, to celebrate this centenary event. Not surprisingly, much of this effort worked through the management, curating and performance of various aspects of heritage.

The role of ‘heritage’ within these acts of celebration can be ably examined using the work of people like Anssi Paasi (‘institutionalisation of the region’) and Hannu Linkola’s work on the management of Finland’s landscape narrative. Even a cursory analysis of this material reveals a huge conscious and unconscious practice of ‘boundary marking’ through reference to items and processes of ‘heritage. Instead, however, I am going to focus on a seemingly unlikely (if not conscious critical) example of the efforts to give a piece of ‘Norway’ to ‘Finland’ as a birthday present:

Through more than 40 years of efforts on the part of local campaigners such as Bjørn Geirr Harsson in Norway, a proposal was placed before the Norwegian Government to gift a small piece of land along the Norway/Finland border to act as a birthday present. See this campaign video.

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At first glance, this example seems to be wonderfully celebratory of the idea that borders are always arbitrary. It turns out that the highest point in Finland was actually on the side of Mt Halti, which has two peaks; one at 1,361m (about one kilometer on the Norwegian side of the border), and one shorter peak –  Hálditšohkka’s – at 1,331m, which is still in Norway, but only about 31m from the border with Finland, which lies at 1,325m above sea level.

 The peak “would be a wonderful gift to our sister nation”, said the mayor of Kåfjord (in Norway) Svein Leiros, who with other local politicians has written to the government in Oslo to express enthusiastic support for the plan. “We want to reach out a hand to our neighbour that we will be able to shake across the summit.”

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As an article in The Independent (January 2017) put it; There is no real reason or need for the gift, but that’s kind of the point. “All over the world you find countries that fight or make war to enlarge their countries, but in this case Norway is willing to give away a small part without anyone asking for anything return,” Geirr Harsson added. “It is a gift from the heart of the Norwegians to Finland so we don’t expect anything back; we just want to give them something really nice when they celebrate 100 years as a free nation.”

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This seems to be a story with a positive and warm glow, and which seems to be seeking ideas of peaceful sharing rather than of strictly marking territory. “On the surface, this is a cute film about a very unique kind of gift between nations. But at its heart is something real and relevant,” says David Freid, director of Battle for Birthday Mountain: “While we witness the rising tumult along international borders – from Ukraine and Russia, to the South China Sea, to Trump’s proposed border wall with Mexico – the idea behind ’Birthday Mountain’ is a rare international gesture worth admiring.”

But what does this gesture really mean? And is this gesture really critical of borders?

In many ways, the gifting of this land both points to the arbitrariness of national boundaries, but also perhaps underlines their value and meaning in terms of how they naturally act to mark off supposed units of culture. The giving of this piece of land would be a correspond to a (tiny) altering of the supposed mosaic of national boundaries, rather than calling their essential territorial meaning in to question. This would be a gift from ‘Norway’ to ‘Finland’ – an exchange between two essential entities; the territorial detail of these entities might no longer be ‘set in stone’, but the singular authority, and their ability to bound areas of land by marking territory is enhanced. The metaphorical image of two nation states shaking hands across the summit of the mountain just acts to reinforce claims to the natural legitimacy of essential nation states. And one could add that such a gesture might be seen as a particularly ostentatious and maybe even aggressive form of gift giving on the part of Norway, which is both very wealthy and also very mountainous (with a multitude of peaks much higher than Halti). Even after the gifting of this land, the highest point of the mountain (at 1361m) would still be on the Norwegian side of the border. The giving of a gift such as this would be an act of incredible power.

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In practice, the gifting didn’t happen, since Norway’s constitution clearly stipulates that the country is a “free, independent, indivisible and inalienable realm” – and so the surrender by the state of any part of Norwegian territory to another power is prohibited. This hasn’t stopped a fairly high profile campaign. An American-based group of Norwegian ex-pats has started a Facebook page, which (so far) has garnered nearly 20,000 ‘likes’. But I found the statement around the edges of a comment in the Guardian newspaper (from July 2016) highly revealing:

“Public reaction has been overwhelmingly positive in both Norway and Finland, with the only objection so far coming from the indigenous Sami community, whose reindeer roam freely across the border and who argue that the land should belong to neither country”

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To me, this example highlights not only the arbitrariness of national borders, but also the practice of how marginalised people are airbrushed out of the debate. … the implication that the local Sami people who have lived in the area for generations before either (something called) ‘Norway’, or (something called) ‘Finland’ even existed don’t count. Are the Sami people some sort of killjoys by arguing that the land should belong to neither country?

The ‘birthday mountain’ story has a nice feel to it, but it carries an implication that the practices that count with respect to these landscapes is the clicking of the LIKE button on Facebook. The practice of reindeer herding is not as important – and we should carefully gloss over and ignore any colonial overtones of how the Sami people and Sami society have been abused and marginalized for centuries.

 

Marshaling the Vikings: the politics of the Viking Museum in Denmark

Back in May 2016, I wrote a blog on how the populist Danish People’s Party (Den Danske Folkpartiet, or DF; an influential xenophobic and anti-immigration political party in Denmark) were calling for the complete refurbishment of the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde, Denmark. Built in the late 1960s to house the five famous Viking ships salvaged from the Roskilde Fjord in 1962, the present museum now looks a little dated. According to a newspaper report in Politiken, Alex Ahrendtsen, a Danish People’s Party (DF) cultural spokesperson, imagines an ‘iconic museum in Viking style’. “We are in an international Viking competition; Norway, especially, is far ahead. There, they have really invested. And then it’s annoying if we’re back in Denmark with a crumbling concrete museum that scares tourists away” he says.

Viking Ship2

The DF dream, however, appeared to be hampered by the fact that architect Erik Christian Sørensen’s Museum Hall of 1969 was protected under national heritage laws in 1997. The concrete museum cannot be replaced by a more ‘Danish’ building, because it is a building declared to as a ‘Danish’ architectural icon already! This is a debate about who the Danes are – or at least who the DF imagines the Danes to be. DF wishes the Danish nation to be architecturally represented by an iconic building in ‘Viking’ style (as re-imagined in the early 21st century), in a move that both makes a strong claiming of natural, direct and unproblematic Viking connection as well as an explicit rejection of the modern design aesthetics that Denmark is also often associated with and reflected in the 1969 building.

The most recent financial settlement in the Danish Government (December 2017), however, sees a new twist, with the Danish People’s Party managing to secure 23 Million Danish Kroner (DKK) for a series of their pet cultural heritage projects, including their vision of the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde. According to a recent newspaper article in Politiken (11th December 2017), DF have secured 10 million DKK for the Roskilde project, for a two year examination of the possibilities of rebuilding the Museum in Viking style: “I’m pretty happy with that. It has taken some time, but now it begins to draw light. For now, the state has committed itself to preserving and safeguarding the Viking ships”, says Alex Ahrendtsen. The plan involves moving the ships and carrying out a full investigation as to whether the Museum building should be renewed in its present (modernist) state, or demolished and rebuilt in ‘Viking style’. The National Museum Board would prefer to preserve the central parts of the present museum hall, but the Danish People’s Party Alex Ahrendtsen, on the other hand prefers complete demolition and rebuilding: “we need a nice museum with the best of Danish architecture, which simultaneously exudes the Viking Age. It will in itself set a standard and attract many people”.

One might wonder what a building that ‘exudes the Viking age’ might look like. I don’t think that the ‘real’ Vikings a thousand or more years ago built any large museums – or at least there are none that survive in the archaeological record – so a museum ‘in Viking style’ is a blank canvas on which to sketch one’s dreams of self-identity. The Danish People’s Party’s ideal museum, therefore, would be a building that exudes the aesthetics and style of an imagined Viking origines gentium of the Danish people.

Viking Ship1

For this purpose of ‘imagineering’, the Vikings have been a remarkably durable vehicle over the years. The Vikings have been robust enough in terms of recognisability and consistency of image (of long ships, horned helmets and long beards) to sustain a powerful sense of imagined community, yet also flexible enough to fit changing tastes and requirements over ideas of civilisation and their positive cultural legacy. They also (helpfully) herald from a temporally distant-enough epoch to allow one to gloss over aspects of slave trading and pillaging, or at least to allow one to place them in context of a (once) violent world. The Vikings as brave and highly skilled seafarers and traders, who left a distinct cultural imprint across the entire continent of Europe, is a much nicer image to memorialise and celebrate. In this guise, they can be channelled as ancestors to be cherished – something that I guess the Danish People’s Party would probably like.

This seems to be at the heart of a speech celebrating the Vikings by Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson, the former Icelandic President, back in 2005. Likening the present day Icelandic population to the Vikings, Grímsson talked about how Icelanders “are risk takers. They are daring … We don‘t like bureaucracy, we travel the world without extra baggage; without ulterior motive; without military or political strength …. young entrepreneurial Vikings have arrived in London full of confidence and ready to take on the world”.

Viking Ship4

Imagined in this guise, Vikings are great – certainly ancestors to be proud of, adventurers ‘without baggage’ and ‘without political or military strength’. And since they traded and settled, intermarried and blended with populations all over Europe, then perhaps this is an image that we can all have a stake in? This is something that is probably a long way from the imaginations of Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson or the Danish People’s Party, but if the Vikings are flexible enough to accommodate the imagined community of 21st century entrepreneurs and business leaders, then perhaps they are also robust enough to act as a vehicle through which to understand – and celebrate – a broader community of people who travel to unknown lands?

Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson (2005): “The heritage of discovery and exploration, fostered by the medieval Viking sagas that have been told and retold to every Icelandic child. This is a tradition that gives honour to those who venture into unknown lands, who dare to journey to foreign fields, interpreting modern …. ventures as an extension of the Viking spirit, applauding the successful entrepreneurs as heirs of this proud tradition…. [this is] demonstrated by the Icelandic term used to describe a pioneer or an entrepreneur, – “athafnaskáld” – which means literally “a poet of enterprise”.

I don‘t suppose the Danish People‘s Party intend their imagined Viking space to spread this far, but if we look at contemporary Denmark, perhaps it is the refugees and migrants who have found a home in Denmark that are the true ‘Vikings‘. These are the contemporary Vikings; poets of enterprise, who travel without baggage and without political or military strength. And if a new Viking Ship Museum does get built in Roskilde, perhaps its ‘Viking style‘ can reflect the immigrant communities as the true inheritors of the Viking spirit?

Poets of Enterprise

Poets of Enterprise

 

Another Chapter in the Continuing Life History of the General Buller Statue in Exeter, UK

I thought I had done with writing about General Buller following my initial reflections (here) in November 2014, and further thoughts (here) in July 2015, following the critical intervention (or ‘guerrilla memorialisation’) event that took place that Summer. In tracing the ongoing ‘biography’ of the General Buller monument, I argued that it can be seen both as a meaningful vehicle of contemporary politics, at which a critical and creative engagement with the past can occur, and also as a dynamic site, with an open-ended life history that has time depth. The General Buller Statue, therefore, is never ‘cast in stone’. The status ‘does work’, serving as a site of contemporary debate; it can engage, as well as be engaged with.

These observations accord with debates and critical comment about many statues around the world today, most recently through the high profile events and deliberations surrounding the fate of many statues and monuments to the Confederacy in the USA’s southern states, as well as debates in recent years about the fate of Cecil Rhodes in South Africa (or Oxford – see here). The question over whether we should manage such ‘difficult heritage’ by removing monuments, adding extra plaques, or leaving them be has certainly had a high public profile, matched by some interesting academic debate, such as Lisa Johnson’s paper on JP Coen’s statue in Holland. Indeed, the broader issue of how to deal with contentious pasts in the present formed a central theme of a recent Book Review forum in the Annals of the Association of American Geographers that dealt with David Lowenthal’s Past is a Foreign Country – Revisited. Whichever side of the fence one sits – whether arguing for the removal or preservation of a statue – most of these debates tend to focus on the subject matter of the statue or monument: should we or shouldn’t we ‘memorialise’ General Buller (or Cecil Rhodes, or General Robert E. Lee etc.)?

But late at night on 10th June 2017 in Exeter, a young man called Tom Calloway, aged 18, fell from the General Buller statue and died.

Exeter_Buller_Tom memorial1

Since Tom Calloway’s tragic death this Summer, there has been a more-or-less constant effort in maintaining his ‘presence’ through memorialisation activity at the site. How-ever ‘spontaneously’ this activity began, this seems to be more than the ‘spontaneous memorial’ practices that one often finds at the sites of recent tragedy. The statue is located directly outside Exeter College, and so many of Tom’s colleagues, friends, teachers and classmates regularly come past ‘his memorial’. And where does it leave General Buller?

Exeter_Buller_Tom memorial2

At the time of his accident, Tom Calloway was undertaking the ‘tradition’ of placing a traffic cone on General Buller’s head. This playful and creative engagement with formal memorial sites has a long tradition and many parallels, perhaps most famously at the Duke of Wellington’s horse statue in Glasgow. It was Glasgow City Council’s concern about the potential for accidents to happen (and threatened plans to prevent people from climbing the statue) that brought out the wider public’s fondness for seeing the traffic cone donned on the Duke of Wellington. Public heritage debate demanded the Duke of Wellington be adorned with his ‘customary traffic cone’, and so Glasgow City Council dropped their security plans and tacitly turned-a-blind-eye to nocturnal activities with traffic cones. In Exeter, General Buller has been adorned with traffic cones and other paraphernalia for as long as I can remember, whether in playful jest or as purposeful critique, but what will happen now?

In terms of representing something meaningful for the people who pass by every day, General Buller is now a site for remembering Tom Calloway. Debates over whether and how we should remember General Buller’s role in the Boer War; whether he was a ‘war criminal’ to be put on trial, or an embarrassing ancestor to be kept hidden from view, now seem of secondary importance. In its most affective guise, the statue no longer memorialises General Buller at all.

Fishing for Memories: the Material Consequences of Nostalgia

I recently gave a lecture on a ‘Sources and Methods in Heritage Studies’ course at Aarhus University on a theme of doing interviews and oral histories. It is a research approach that I have used quite often in my work; something that I enjoy and something that I feel has a lot of potential, both in terms of having analytical power in providing material through which to understand the world better, and also something that has a great deal of ‘traction’. Interview and oral history material can be exciting! People are always interested in conversational material as a lens in to a field of research – and people always enjoy hearing some interesting stories in class.

My task of putting the lecture together, one might think therefore, should have been easy. And I have plenty of really nice material to draw from as case studies in order to illustrate the lecture. However, I was also keen to get across to the students the importance of having a strict ethical code of conduct; of ensuring that such material should be collected fairly and the use of the material should be carefully thought through, so that interviewees should provide ‘informed consent’ for the material that a researcher collects. This provided me with a problem – I had lots of nice material (lots of juicy stories), but I have never done an interview with anyone in which I asked an additional question: Is it OK if I use some of the juicy bits for my teaching?” … I can hardly instruct all my students to adhere to strict ethical guidelines about the use of interview data if I cannot stick with the instructions myself! And so, despite having a lot of really nice oral history and interview material, I felt that I couldn’t directly use this material in my lecture.

Upon realising my dilemma, I was reminded by all those automated telephone messages I have sat through, which talk about how “this conversation will be recorded and used for training purposes”. Such phrases always annoy me, and I am not about to start asking such a question in my research interviews – nor go back and check with old interviewees whether it would be OK to use their material! So, what should I do?

I decided upon conducting an imaginary interview with my Gran (1912-2002), together with some commentary from my Grandad (1913-1967), who actually died before I was born. And since they were both born in the small fishing community of Mousehole, near Penzance in West Cornwall, then the subject of ‘fishing communities before the War’ was an obvious choice.

Mousehole2

Mousehole – a ‘typical’ Cornish fishing village

I guess this is a sort of auto-ethnography, since the interview narratives derive from my memory of stories that my Gran used to tell me, but there are also some archival materials. In practice, the exercise ended up being a strange personal monologue involving an intergenerational narrative stretching back over five generations of my family to the 1880s. The narrative contains several statements of ‘factual truth’ (some interesting and more widely relevant, and some banal and of interest only to a few people). As a whole, however, the power of the narrative lies in between the lines of what is said; within the margins of the ‘factual account’ produced from my memory of my Gran’s stories, and perhaps within what is not said – or remembered by me.

I did actually try to do an oral history with my Gran once. It must have been in about 1989 or 1990. I was an undergraduate student who had just done ‘oral histories’ in a University Methods course, and probably saw my Gran as an important ‘research resource’; a subject to be exploited for the sake of my course assignment. I wanted to ask her about her memories of the fishing industry in Cornwall during the 1920s and 1930s – but she wouldn’t tell me anything (and I don’t blame her!). Over the years, however, her stories gave me a lens into the history and cultures of fishing in West Cornwall, from the 1880s to the Second World War. …. Specific stories about the time that a whale got caught in the nets, which had to be cut loose and abandoned, or when my Great Grandfather’s boat got blown off course in a storm and nearly wrecked on the Isle of Ushant (Ouessant, in Brittany). These were the exciting stories for a small boy to remember. But the central narrative about the whole period, which remains with me today is this:

Gran: “In my grandfather’s day, [i.e. 1870s-1890s] all the fishing would be for pilchards…. Our boat was The Activity – that’s the boat in that painting [over the mantle-piece] He had that painting done after The Activity won the Mount’s Bay Cup, [in 1887] as the fastest boat in Mount’s Bay”

Me: [gesturing to the painting] “Is that your Grandad on the boat?”

Gran: “No, that’s my father as a boy – my Grandfather was ill when they ran the Mount’s Bay cup, so couldn’t go, so he made his son the ‘skipper’, even though he was only a boy, and made sure that the artist painted him in the picture as the ‘skipper’. They had the picture painted the following season, by an artist in Sunderland… the artist made sketches one year, and they collected the painting the following season, as they followed the shoals around the coast”

Activity_1885

‘The Activity’

I have always thought that The Activity was a good name for a fishing boat; the ‘Matthews’ family fishing boat, sailing out of Mousehole, owned by my great-great grandfather, skippered for the day by my great grandfather, Thomas James (TJ) Matthews. Intermixed with the family saga, is a story of pilchard fishing, not as an isolated and ‘placed’ activity, located within the fishing harbours of West Cornwall, but as a mobile – almost nomadic – industrial experience, taking place around the coasts of Britain. I asked my Gran about the pilchards, and she told me that they were mostly salted and sold to Italy, and so, while Mousehole (and west Cornwall) today can sometimes be packaged up and marketed to tourists as an inward-focussed and strongly ‘local’ place, it seems that it was built upon pilchard fishing as an international trade, and nomadic experience. And it is also slightly ironic that a fiercely proud and strongly Methodist sea fishing community was dependent on the fish consumption habits of Catholic Europe. But my Gran didn’t seem to know much more about the pilchards.

Gran: The Pilchards all went away before the Great War. When I was young [1910s and 1920s], all the fishing was for herring – that’s what my father caught in the Hopeful, and my Uncle caught in the William.

While The Activity is a good name for a fishing boat, I have always thought that The Hopeful is an absolutely splendid name for a fishing boat! We have several pictures and photos of The Hopeful – indeed, I always look out for it (PZ 634) in early photos of Mousehole Harbour, which can be purchased in postcard or print form today from ice cream and souvenir shops on the Cliff. My Gran’s recollections of the 1920s and 1930s are direct, lively, and supported by photographs that my Grandfather took. My Grandfather trained as a carpenter, became a schoolteacher, but died before I was born. He wrote a thesis about fishing in West Cornwall for his teaching qualifications, and was obviously a keen photographer, who actually took several photos while out on fishing trips.

Researchers nowadays talk about IK or TEK (Indigenous Knowledge, or Traditional Ecological Knowledge), to refer to the practices of a preindustrial way of life, in which sustainable human activities formed part of a harmonious relationship between cultures and natures, in which the landscape (and seas) were cared for and traditional communities were resilient. Reaching beyond the tangible heritage of wooden fishing boats and solid stone harbours, these photos speak of a more intangible heritage of skill, experience and knowhow. In the form of ‘Traditional Ecological Knowledge’, perhaps these heritage narratives can provide instruction for policy makers today?

Within these photographs is a story that my Gran could illustrate from her memory, recognising faces, skills and practices – but it is largely a memory of how the herring fishery collapsed. The herring ‘went away’! Many boats went longlining and mackerel increasingly took over as the more important catch. But eventually, of course, the mackerel ‘went away’ as well.

Me: But Gran, you keep saying that these fish ‘went away’ … that the pilchards ‘went away’; that the herring ‘went away’; that the mackerel ‘went away’ – like they went away on holiday or something. But this is all just from over-fishing!

You have to remember that I was an arrogant and unthinking teenager (destined, it seems, to be a vegetarian animal rights campaigner) who was not very well trained or experienced in showing sensitivity during interviews, even to my own grandmother! (I went vegetarian in October 1989, and took up hunt sabbing in the 1990s!) Insensitive or not, the nostalgic story of ‘traditional fishing’ is actually a narrative of how fishing declined; a heritage of a community under stress, as fishing catches diminished, and as boats were decommissioned – even the perennially optimistic Hopeful was scrapped.

Pilchard catch-bad year Newlyn 1936

My grandfather’s notes describe this photo as ‘a bad catch’

This heritage of decline, of hardship, and of a fishing community struggling to cope and to comprehend is also marked within my Grandad’s photographs. A boat landing fish labelled as a ‘poor catch’, or accusatory suggestions of culprits to blame as fishermen look for answers to why stocks were declining – the sharks are to blame, or perhaps it is the French!?

This is the heritage of a community struggling with change – and a changing relationship between cultural practices and natural resources. It is also a heritage narrative that acts as a warning – that we shouldn’t over-romanticise them, or reify them as a salvation in the form of ‘Traditional Ecological Knowledge’.

This is the heritage of a community that is struggling and slowly dying – but it is in that form that it perhaps becomes evermore powerful; not as a guide towards ecological resilience, but as a ready-made sense of injustice that can be tapped in to.

Skip forward to 2016: As a marginal, relatively deprived and under-developed region, Cornwall had a special status within the EU allowing it to receive all sorts of extra funding streams, through ‘Objective One’, or ‘Convergence Funding’. Such regional development aid helped to build roads, public facilities, business parks, and a large University campus. Indeed, the ‘heritage industry’ of Cornwall has been one of the region’s largest beneficiaries, in the form of the Geevor Tin Mining Museum in Penwith and the Heartlands Industrial Museum-Park between Camborne and Redruth. And during the EU Referendum in June 2016, yet Cornwall as a whole voted strongly to leave!

brexit-cornish-fisherman_Mousehole

Building roads, industrial parks, museums, a university (etc. etc.) is all very well, but the story that mattered in June 2016 was a heritage of fishing, articulated as a heritage of loss and injustice. The Cornish used to fish for pilchards (until the pilchards ‘went away’); the Cornish used to fish for herring (until the herring ‘went away’); the Cornish used to fish for mackerel (until the mackerel ‘went away’). The romantic sense of place (so carefully nurtured by the tourism industry) trumped any understanding of late 19th and early 20th century fishing as an (international and nomadic) ‘industry’, and the temptation to blame formed the core of the narrative: the fault lies with the ‘French’ (or Spanish etc.).

So: here is a ‘heritage story’, of surface facts and information – about fishing boats and harbours as well as more intangible elements about experiences, skills and techniques. Reading in the margins, however, it is a story of communities under pressure – struggling to survive, and struggling to comprehend changes that are taking place beyond their control. Further than this, however, this is also a story of how heritage narratives themselves circulate and travel – and what they do today, whether they are ‘true’ or not.

For more on the history of Cornish fishing, see: http://www.cornwallgoodseafoodguide.org.uk/cornish-fishing/history-of-the-cornish-fishing-industry.php

Future Heritage Past: Hans Rosenström’s Shoreline installation (ARoS Triennial, Aarhus, Denmark, 2017)

As European City of Culture (2017), Aarhus has been host to a series of significant exhibitions and other creative events this year. Perhaps one of the most ambitious has been the 1st ARoS Triennial Exhibition, entitled THE GARDEN – End of Times; Beginning of Times (June 3–July 30, 2017). Quoted in Isobel Harbison’s Art Agenda review (http://www.art-agenda.com/reviews/%E2%80%9Cthe-garden%E2%80%94end-of-times-beginning-of-times%E2%80%9D/) ARoS’s director, Erland Høyersten promised that the exhibition would “thematize man’s [sic.] coexistence with, and view on, nature … over a period of 400 years”, the Triennial exhibition focussed on depictions of nature throughout history over three sites. Representing ‘The Past’ are over 100 works of art (mostly painting) located in a series of galleries within the main ARoS Art Gallery. ‘The Present’ is represented through a half dozen or so installations down at the redeveloping Docklands area, while ‘The Future, is displayed through a couple of dozen installations strung out along the coast and through the forest to the south of the city centre. Apparently, the Exhibition’s opening coincided with President Donald Trump’s announcement that the US intended to withdraw from the Paris Climate Change Agreement. It is not the task of this Blogsite to pass comment on the artistic merit, depth or meaning (for me, some ‘worked’ and some didn’t), but one piece struck me in particular as having resonance with this ‘Geographies of Heritage’ Blog, both in terms of its subject matter, and (perhaps ironically) in terms of its demise (or destiny!?)

Aros_Hans-Rosenström-Shoreline-2017-Photo-credit-Anders-Sune-Berg-4

Shoreline, by Hans
Rosenström (Three channel sound installation, concrete, paint, view, 10:16 minutes. Photo by Anders Sune Berg

I cycle along this stretch of coast each morning on my way to work, and the last installation that I passed each morning was Shoreline, by Hans Rosenström. According to the artist (see: https://hansrosenstrom.net/shoreline/), the view of the horizon represents the future, and the constructed ‘ruin’ (or folly) cites a fragment of a Caspar David Friedrich painting (Klosterfriedhof im Schnee, 1817/1819). It is a nice way of confounding linear temporalities, especially since ‘The Past’ section of The Garden exhibition contained some Friedrich paintings:

“Grounded on the earth, gazing out to the shoreline, the viewer will hear disembodied but present voices, overlapping and interweaving raising issues of how nature’s and our own communities are formed and relationships between them. The text is written in collaboration with the Palestinian poet Farah Chamma” (Rosenström 2017)

Interestingly, Friedrich’s Klosterfriedhof im Schnee was itself destroyed during in Berlin during air raids in 1945 – and it is Berlin, of course, which has become a lens through which so many scholars (planners and architects, journalists and writers, historians and philosophers) have since pondered on the temporality of life, place and identity (e.g. Gunter Grass, Cees Neeteboom, Karen Till, Neil MacGregor). Indeed, in his essay on ‘presentism’ and relations between time and heritage, Francois Hartog (2005: 9) called Berlin a laboratory of reflection, and it is to Hartog’s reflections on the temporality of heritage to which I am prompted by Rosenström’s Shoreline installation. According to Hartog, we are living in a time of overwhelming heritagisation and museification, where the past is daily created and merchandised. This proliferation of heritage, Hartog argues, is a sign of rupture: “heritage has never thrived on continuity but on the contrary, from ruptures and questioning the order of time, with the interplay of absence and presence, visibility and invisibility. […] Heritage is one way of experiencing ruptures, or recognizing them and reducing them, by locating, selecting, and producing semaphores” (Hartog 2005; 15).

Shoreline-2

So, does this make Rosenström’s Shoreline a semaphore? … something that causes us to question the order of time, and to critique Western linear conceptions of inevitable progress? In many ways, perhaps this gives our engagement with heritage (and engagement of heritage) some positive potential – that heritage process and practice can do something. Hartog mentions that heritage can help us reduce or overcome ruptures by locating ourselves, and so by asking these questions, does it allow us to make an intervention? The ability to locate ourselves through semaphores, and make selections, is suggestive of a purposeful or mobile sense of nostalgia, situated in the present but with an eye to the future. Maybe this can be something that has promise – though Hartog seems quite pessimistic:

“The future is no longer a bright horizon towards which we advance, but a line of shadow that we have drawn towards ourselves, while we have come to a standstill in the present, pondering on a past that is not passing” (Hartog 2005; 16).

So what happened to Rosenström’s Shoreline installation? The Exhibition ended on 30th July, and over a couple of days, the ‘ruined’ folly was taken down, broken up and carried away to be discarded. The installation was dis-assembled and ‘skipped’ – a ruin was ‘ruined’! Not sure what that means!