October 30, 2017 \ Studio
by Mark Johnston
Like a person proudly carrying the scars of a life well lived, our role as architects is not to erase the past but to build on it, adding our own unique layer as part of the life of our cities.
Plutarch’s thought experiment asks whether the essence of the ship of Theseus lies in the memory of it, or in its physicality. If every part of the vessel is replaced in the course of its journey, so that nothing original remains, can it still be considered the same ship upon its return?
In a more literal sense, the Ise Grand Shrine is deconstructed and re-built every 20 years to the same inherited design, and has been for over 1000 years. This retains centuries old craftsmanship and bridges a temporal gap between generations. The form and the experience of the shrine – of creating it – are what connects the shrine’s community to their ancestors. The Shinto belief of the death and renewal of nature lies at the heart of this ceremonial process; the physical shrine being less than 20 years old is irrelevant.
It is reasonable, then, to say that what the object represents is more important than the object itself. Theseus’ ship is defined by its form, purpose and spirit, rather than the materials from which it is crafted. This is no simple matter in practice, the representation is subject to strict rules that maintain its spiritual connection to history.
“Though physical things decay, their object or idea endures.”
The notion of decay, too, is valuable. In the Japanese art of Kintsugi – ‘golden repair’ – the spirit of ancient pottery was preserved from the traumas of its past with delicate intervention. The damaged object becomes something special; of greater worth, not less. These ‘defects’ become a part of the object’s history, its memory. It is distinct from the processes that brought it into being, with an individual character and identity. Here the physical age of the cup or bowl is important and the visible repair is a celebration of that, and of its permanence.
“Things we inherit from the past remind us that the men who made and used them were like us, and give us a tangible link with them.”
With Pye’s remarks, ownership is replaced by stewardship. Fingerprints accumulate, paint is chipped, leather becomes polished and cracked. The mark of some unknown person in permanent ink or crudely engraved into wood. Not the maker’s mark, but that of somebody who used and loved these objects: a book, a second-hand watch, a piece of vintage furniture. We don’t know these people, but we find a connection with them through the objects they leave behind. A palimpsest of lives long gone.
This notion of embedded memory exists independently of ownership too. A redundant doorway that hangs on the shorn gable of a partly demolished terrace, or a superfluous service hatch in a refurbished building. These remnants, often more trouble to remove than simply ignore, in time take on their own peculiar beauty. Of no practical worth, the embedded memory becomes their purpose and they become the curios of a forgotten time.
There is beauty in this imperfection. Like a person proudly carrying the scars of a life well lived, our role as architects is not to erase the past but to build on it, adding our own unique layer as part of the life of our cities. It is a reflection of our way of looking at the world; a conversation between the past and future, and everything in between.
October 23, 2017 \ Studio
by Alistair King
Place as a priority and care as a mantra is an ethos that permeates Alistair’s work, from housing for the homeless in Grangemouth to a new, more coherent, heart at Glasgow Caledonian University.