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How choose title dissertation do my capstone counseling orem speech class award presentation powerpoint ´╗┐OK, good morning, everyone. We'll get started. So welcome to Cambridge Talks. This year marks the ninth installment of Cambridge Talks, the annual spring conference organized by PhD students in architecture, landscape architecture, and urban planning at the Harvard Graduate School of Design. My name is Marianne Potwin and I'm joined here by Justin Stern and Adam Tanaka, fellow PhD students and esteemed co-chairs of this year's event. It's our great pleasure this morning to welcome you all to the second day of Inscriptions of Power, colon, Spaces, Institutions, and Crisis. Thank you all for coming and thank you to today's guest speakers for so generously accepting our invitation. Before we begin with our exciting agenda of the day, we would like to acknowledge several people who made this year's conference possible. First and foremost, a heartfelt thank you to the chair of the doctoral program, Erika Naginski, who provided critical guidance, both intellectual and moral, throughout this entire process. Another very special thank you to Maria Moren in the Advanced Studies office whose support extends well beyond this single event. We also wish to warmly thanking Dean Mostafavi, Michael Hayes, Jen [? schwartout, ?] [? ella armstrong, ?] Chantel Blakely, Ashley Alberts, GSD Events and Building Services. Special thanks are also due to Etienne Santiago for his constructive, meticulous help and cool under pressure in organizing yesterday's PhD colloquium. Finally, thank you to Brian, Lisa, John, [? mariqua, ?] Jason, and Morgan for sharing your experience as previous organizers of Cambridge Talks. This year's event would not have been possible without the generous support of the Harvard Graduate School of Design, the Weatherhead Center for International Affairs, and the Graduate Student Council at the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. We were also very lucky this year to receive support from the GSD's three professional degree departments. And we therefore thank the Department of Architecture, the Department of Landscape Architecture, and the Urban Planning Program. Today we center our attention on the theme of institutions or more specifically, on the ways in which institutions are physically inscribed in space. In framing our conference around this theme, we were well aware that the very concept of institutions would lend itself to multiple interpretations. On the one hand, institutions can be understood literally as established organizations. In yesterday's keynote lecture, Reinhold Martin intertwined the university with the corporation, the church, and the family. But institutions also invoke less tangible practices, such as establish rules or customs that play an important role in a given society. Our goal today is to situate our collective inquiry in an intermediary, yet critical, scale of analysis within spatial studies. A scale of analysis all too often absent from our disciplinary discourse, which focuses on the micro and the macro systems that govern design. We devote our attention today to help mediating structures, discrete organizations, and bureaucracies circumscribe spatial practice and lived experience. Over the course of the day, you will hear from practicing architects, planning scholars, landscape historians, and many more. We have three very exciting sessions today. Our first panel, entitled The Disciplinary Expectations of Scale, will interrogate the question of scales in the formation of the design disciplines. It will include presentation by Eve Blau, Mark Jarzombek, Prescott Scott Cohen, and Victoria DiPalma and will be moderated by Dean Mostafavi. Our second panel, The Spaces of Institutions, will grapple with the coalescence of institutions and design with case studies ranging from the advent of the modernized hospital to the role of the corporation in the revitalization of the mid-century American city. This panel will feature presentation by [? elijo ?] Reuben, David Theodore, Jesus Escobar, and Brian Goldstein. And it will be moderated by John [inaudible]. We will conclude the day with a roundtable discussion featuring Reinhold Martin and Ericka Naginski. I would now like to invite Erika, professor of architectural history and director of the doctoral program at the Harvard Graduate School of Design, to offer welcoming remarks. Thank you, Marianne. I'm going to take these five minutes to celebrate our students. One of the challenges of the program is to orchestrate how our disciplines cohabitate, collide, coalesce under the rubric of architecture, landscape architecture, urban planning, and design. And it's actually not self-evident, how we manage to keep all those balls in the air. The event today is traditionally preceeded-- and I can say traditionally because we are now in our ninth year of Cambridge Talks. We're going to be celebrating a decade next year-- by a PhD colloquium. And this year's organizers are actually from the urban sector of our program. And since they have been very humble, I actually would like to say a few words about them and what they brought to the table today. Adam Tanaka is someone who is interested in regulatory frameworks for urban development in the American context. And he's drawing from the fields of political science, law, urban planning, and real estate. Marianne Potwin has interests that lie at a very intense kind of intersection of humanitarianism and urbanism. And ultimately will be looking at a dissertation topic that explores how space is used, produced, and represented during the unfolding of humanitarian crises, particularly in non-Western context. I tremble for her because I hear that she may be going off to Afghanistan this summer. And Justin Stern, finally, is someone who focuses on the history and theory of urban form and rapidly urbanizing regions, particularly focused on the intersection between spatial morphology and industrialization in cities in east and southeast Asia. Now, if I sort of give you these miniature sort of syntheses of their work, it's because I want you to think about how these are the three minds who brought today's speakers together and who conceived of these panels under the rubric of inscriptions of power. But more than that, I also want to say a word about the PhD colloquium that we were privileged to witness yesterday. This is a moment when those students who are actually ABD-- in other words, they've passed all their general examinations, have defended their proposals, are at that juncture, that juncture where they're really coming into their own as intellectuals. And one of the things that is always touching to me-- and I feel very proud-- is to listen to their talks and to see emerge out of that the future of our fields. And to see the transformation, the metamorphosis, of young, eager, talented minds turning into colleagues. And that was what we saw yesterday. I just want to say a few words about the content of these talks, because they importantly set the stage for the wonderful spectacle of intellectual profundity that we will see today. We started out yesterday with a talk by Nick Smith. Nick is actually defending his dissertation next week on Tuesday. And he's already accepted a tenure-track position as an assistant professor of urban studies at Yale-NUS in Singapore. And we're extremely proud of that. We have been very successful in placing our students in positions, and it's because of them. Nick is an urban studies theorist whose methods align themselves-- and he insists on this quite forcefully-- with political anthropology. And yesterday he described what he called the fragmented authoritarianism governing planning processes in peri-urban situations in China. I think he described a rather exceptional case. And what was so interesting to me was to see the kind of, shall I call it, that thick description that unfolded around the complexities of land use, that oscillate between a village collective and ideologies of state. This was followed up by John Davis. John Davis is a landscape historian. And what he did for us was to trace out the emergence of professional expertise in the Army Corps of Engineers in the antebellum United States. And as part of that tracing out, showcased for us a series of rather megalomaniacal works-- aqueducts, domes-- that were really less-- this is what was so fascinating about it-- less about the importation of French Beaux-Arts than a kind of spectacle of a brand of technological eclecticism, really, that expressed tectonics, forces, support systems in altogether surprising ways. We then had an afternoon panel inaugurated by Fallon Samuels Aidoo, who will be finishing next year, which is wonderful for us. She's an urban historian. And she described in great detail with a rather extraordinarily archivally-based project how the claim to the city in the case of Philadelphia between 1950 and 1980 was more to critical transportation infrastructures whose liniments fell into a kind of abyss of a complex network of agents involving risk governance, community development, and the right to work. Not all of these things, necessarily, were working collectively and ultimately, tragically without resolution. And lastly, Amin Alsaden, who in some ways is the most, who is the, as it were, youngest of the crowd in the sense that he is a recent ABD student who has actually been teaching at the American University of Sharjah this past year. He's an architectural historian who's embarking on a dissertation that explores the entangled narratives of crisis that set the stage for modernism's dance with modernity in Baghdad in the 1950s and '60s. The premise, I think, and we'll see in the years to come, being that a serious attempt to grapple with so-called non-Western context for late modernism can move beyond perennial accusations of regressive historicism and reductive approaches to multivalent cultural heritage, hopefully giving us-- and I'm sure of this-- a robust story of architectural encounters. So this, in a sense, was the initiation of our colleagues. And I know, Reinhold, that you ended your talk with a lovely, but depressing metaphor, the kind of end of the arc of enlightenment found somehow in the ruins of the university. I'm hoping that we're also sitting-- and I'm hoping this because of what we saw yesterday-- at the threshold of a new arc of enlightenment. Thank you very much. [applause] Good morning. I think next year we have to have dinner at the end of today, rather than last night. Because I'm sure that people had too much of a good time. And it will probably be about 11:30 before a few people roll out of bed. But anyway, I'm very, very happy to be here. Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to be here. Marianne, Adam, and Justin, I think based on what I've witnessed so far last night, and the conversations that we've had before, what Erika just said, I think this promises to be a wonderful, wonderful day. And I can tell you how proud I am of what you're all doing and what's happening in the program and what I've really witnessed in the last few years in terms of the transformation of the PhD program. Actually, in the whole doctoral program together with new geographies, with Cambridge Talks, I think there are really wonderful things that are happening in the school. And now, to hear that everybody is out there to see Brian here in New Mexico and all these exciting things, I think I think this is wonderful. So really, congratulations, and I'm really looking forward to what is going to happen in terms of the transformation of the program in the coming years. I also want to take this opportunity to thank all of our speakers for being here, taking the time, coming from afar, and for giving us your time and your thoughts and your ideas. I think last night, thank you, Reinhold, I think last night, hearing you know, the conversation or the presentation about the university, sometimes when you're sort of in the midst of the university and you get to see how universities actually work today, as opposed to how they worked yesterday or yesteryears, it makes you reflect, you know, what you are doing and what are you part of. And what is happening and what can you do to, in a way, to at least make sure things don't get worse, things get better. And I think this-- couple of things, this concept of the apparatus that you were discussing and very much this notion, more from, probably, more from Mike and Ben than from Foucault of the operators are something that is really about not just itself, but about what it does. Its kind of performance, its performativity. It makes you reflect about the current kind of state of the institution. And I think it, in terms of universities, one thing is for sure that on one level, the concept of the sort of, the mouth and the ear, don't quite work in that same fashion. In the sense that the mouth, or the speaking mouth, is actually listening. It's got to be the mouth that is linked to the ear. And that interrelationship between hearing, understanding, and speaking is one of the true characteristics of the contemporary university. Because university administrators simply can't operate in that same fashion, the authorial fashion, of the times past. And so, there's a very interesting relationship that exists now in terms of university leadership-- I'm talking about university presidents and so on-- which is, it's like the idea of the hearing mouth. At the same time, I think what is interesting is that there is a kind of nostalgia for the authorial, for the singularity of the voice. So at one, it's the idea of participatory action, and yet there is a sort of nostalgia for singularities, for authorial, visionary projects. And there is obviously a kind of problematic or difficult reconciliation of those two conditions together. Because people clearly don't like, don't enjoy, don't support the idea of singular visions because they're exclusionary. At the same time, the concept of the listening mouth, or the mouth that hears, can also appear to be too conceptual, too much something that is diluted because of the fact that it has to reconcile so many different conditions. And I think this is the contemporary dilemma of universities. And success really means ways in which you can navigate the kind of charismatic set of relations that exist between these conditions. One of the other sort of transformations that's sort of, perhaps, important to put on the table is that the kind of singularities that universities had-- all men, all women, all African American-- they kind that don't exist in the same way that the concept of diversity of mix of that kind of tensions that exist between multiple constituencies is also very much part and parcel of the kind of institutional makeup of universities. And therefore, that also adds another dimension to this role of the operators in terms of the relationship between what is governable and what is outside of governorability, outside of control? What is visible and what is covered? And this is also constantly the thing that institutions are dealing with in terms of the addressing of the things that are under the table, the things that are not said, the things that are hidden. In any case, I think the positive side of all of these things is that there's also this diversity has led to the understanding and the need for the understanding of others and other positions, other possibilities. And within the context of an institution, for example, like Harvard, one thing that's happened under the presidency of Drew Faust is really this notion of one university. Meaning at least an attempt towards collaboration, an attempt towards some form of the acceptance of the work of others and how one comes together. This is something that is very much reflected in, if you like, the project of the GSD historically, because of the way that it's very deliberately a school of architecture, landscape architecture, planning urban design, [? asp ?] design studies, and PhD, and [inaudible] programs. And I think this is a great advantage for us. But it also, of course, has meant that we have been using this to collaborate with other parts of the university, which is also the necessary dimension of the discussion about architecture. Today we're focusing on architecture and landscape and planning. But actually, I think that the context of this conference and the implications of this conference go beyond the disciplines that exist within the GSD. In any case, I think what is valuable is that the PhD program is in a way presents that kind of diversity, that it's open, it embraces architecture, it embraces landscape architecture, it embraces urban planning, urban design. And now of course, recently since last year, we have-- and this is maybe in some ways a kind of anomaly to be honest, but I think also an exciting kind of anomaly in how we reconciled it, which is the introduction of a PhD in technology-- which we also have to now bring into the mix of how these technologies or representations actually interact with the other disciplines. And how they also present their own kind of possibilities and autonomies. So I'm very glad that this is the case with the PhD program and that the organizers have, in some ways, utilized the context of the school in order to set up the conversation that then we will, of course, address in the first panel. But once again, really, thank you very much to all of you for being here. And I look forward to hearing all the presentations. Thank you. [applause] Thank you, Dean Mostofavi. You know, this is interesting, because sometimes when you're putting together a conference, it's a very daunting task, especially for the first time. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. But our biggest concern was about whether or not all the pieces would fit together. And they're already starting to fit together. The goal being, you know, 1 plus 1 equals 3. And they're already starting to fit together in really exciting ways. And so, that is such a great-- that's just great, a great feeling. This first panel, entitled The Disciplinary Expectations of Scale investigates where and how scale intersects with discipline in the world of design. When Adam, Marianne, and I began to think about the different panels for this conference, we frequently found ourselves landing on the issue of disciplinarity in the design fields. As Erika touched upon earlier, and the dean, our program is quite unique among doctoral programs housed within professional schools of design. Whereas similar departments at MIT, Cal, Columbia to name just a few separate urban planners, architects, landscape architects, into relatively distinct doctoral programs, the GSD approach is very unique to combine all three into a single program. And issues of discipline and scale come up frequently in discussions when we meet together as a cohort. Design institutions like this one are generally marked by a deeply collaborative spirit. At the GSD, this plays out day-in and day-out in the seminar rooms, studio, and of course, right here in Piper Auditorium. Yet, at the same time, the different departments within the GSD are perpetually engaged in a process of carving out their own territory within the broad ecosystem that we refer to as design. In fact, as the dean mentioned again, this is a deeply relevant question for the entire university at this particular moment. As we celebrate the value of cross-disciplinary collaboration with what seems to be a never-ending number of interdisciplinary seed grants, symposia, and new degree programs, we also have to ask whether or not there are times when established organizational frameworks for the production of knowledge should be left untouched. So the core issue where we see these kinds of debates unfold in design is in discussions about scale. The first panel addresses how the scale of analysis changes and has changed as one moves between the realms of architecture, landscape architecture, and urban planing. We are interested in framing scale through multiple senses of the word, the physical scale of the site of intervention adopted by the architect, landscape architect, and urban planner, the scale of inquiry in academic research and the methodological tools that we cling to, and the scale of analysis that is addressed in the pedagogical approach of the different disciplines in design, to name just a few. We also seek to unravel how scale increasingly functions as one of the operative methods by which the different fields of design-- stated otherwise, the different institutions of design-- wrangle for authority within the academy and global design practice. Scale- in particular, claims regarding the territorial scale of expertise-- functions as a political tool in the design world. Disciplines transform themselves in different ways through different models of behavior. In some cases, the perception of a vacuum leads to new institutional formations. Perhaps the best example of this is the establishment of a degree program in urban design at the GSD nearly 60 years ago. On the one hand-- or should I say, the one scale-- there was a perceived nebulousness to conversations about architecture when it got too big and complicated. And then, on the other scale, urban planning had retreated into its own disciplinary formation, one that moved away from physicality and aligned itself closer to the social sciences. Urban design stepped into fill this void. In other examples of disciplinary transformation, the different fields of design sometimes seem to bumble around in an attempt to solve a problem, inadvertently creating broad new models that knock up against other disciplines. And in other moments, one discipline confronts another in a deeply intentional public challenge, a hegemonic attack that invokes expertise and scale as a cause for redrawing disciplinary boundaries, epistemological shifts that are meant to capture our attention and in some cases, render other approaches, other methods of making sense of space in city building, obsolete. So in this panel, we hope to provoke a conversation that tackles some of these issues, the disciplinary expectations of scale. Questions we hope the panel address include, are we entering a collaborative and post-disciplinary moment in the design fields in which the distinguishing traits of architecture, landscape architecture, and urban planning are becoming more fluid and entangled than in the past? Or do the challenges we are faced with in professional practice and intellectual discourse today require more traditional, structured modes of intellectual direction and professional practice? So with that in mind, it is a great pleasure to begin this morning's panel. I'm very pleased to introduce our first speaker to the stage, Eve Blau. Eve is adjunct professor in the history of urban form here at the GSD, where she previously served as the director of the degree programs in architecture. Her research is centered on the history and theory of modern architecture, urbanism, and modes of representation. Some of her recent publications include Baku-- Oil and Urbanism, a Project Zabreb-- Transition as Condition, Strategy, and, Practice, and The Architecture of Red Vienna, which recently was awarded the Victor Adler state prize from the Austrian Ministry of Science, Research, and Economy. One of her many current endeavors is as co-project investigator on a multi-year research initiative sponsored by the Mellon Foundation and entitled Re-conceptualizing the Urban Interdisciplinary Study of Urban Environments, Societies, and Cultures. Please join me in welcoming Eve to the podium. [applause] Thank you very much, Justin. It's a great pleasure to be here. It's a great pleasure to be a part of this whole event. Cambridge Talks always seems to generate discussion that kind of persists for a long time. Until the next one comes along and then sort of picks up that thread and twists it along new routes. And so, it's a terrific thing. And I also think that this particular panel on disciplinary structures, or the theme of the whole thing, is very interesting, too. I apologize for not being here yesterday. I was actually stuck in New York. And it wasn't snow, actually. It was sort of mechanical problems on an airplane. So I would like to start, actually, and this is not what my talk is about. This is an image showing something. With the issue of scale itself, which is a major concern in my own research and teaching, and for a number of years-- and that's what this slide is about-- I taught a course on scale. And its most recent iteration was a scale, city, object, field. At other times, it was scale, city, object, subject. And I fiddled around with it in various different ways, sort of figuring out what it was all about. But in all of its iterations, it was about scales of design intervention. And I guess it was inherently-- or sort of, by definition, really-- cross-disciplinary or interdisciplinary. It might have been cross-listed, but it wasn't in the architecture department. And since then, the themes of that course have been integrated into a course I teach on urban form and the pro seminar in urban design. Now, the focus of the course itself-- and it's kind of interesting, actually, to think of in this context-- was on how scale operates and signifies in design. How it operates, both as a physical attribute of objects and assemblages and spaces and that as something that is perceived. Is this the-- yeah, there we go. And get these operations are often in conflict with one another. So the starting point were two simple working propositions for this course. And the first of them was that since scale registers in relational, rather than absolute, terms, it always implies some other. You know what, I'm going to do something here. I'm being blinded. Oh, I can't. Where was I? That since scale registers in relational, rather than absolute, terms, it always implies an other. In other words, it always implies a system of reference or a context. Whether that context is some implied hole or another object or a set of objects or fabric or field, it nevertheless always implies some kind of larger context, of which the design object, in which it is situated or it relates to. And the second proposition that follows directly from this, actually, is that because scale is both a physical attribute of objects-- in other words, it's objectively constituted-- and it is also something that is perceived, so it's both objectively and subjectively constituted, it operates in highly ambiguous and contradictory ways. And here's an example of that kind of thing. Sort of Gestalt Theory about perception. And certainly scale is all about that. So as we explored in the class over several years, these attributes of scale give it agency, actually. And they do that first because, by operating in terms of an implied other, scale not only registers difference, but it can also enable architecture-- or built form, generally-- to generate otherness itself. And it can do that projectively and programmatically. And that's something, actually, that Rem Koolhaas has always understood always instrumentalized. And here is his representation of Meis's Crown Hall at IIT and the IIT campus, itself, that they had far-reaching urban-- that there was a far-reaching urban agenda here generated by Meis's building. And in fact, of course, it generated Rem's building which followed it. And programmatically, here is another project of Rem's where this is a case-- the Casa de Musica in Porto-- where he's jumping up the scale of a house into the scale of a concert hall. And that actually jumps up the architectural, or the urban, agency of the project itself. So the second aspect of scalar agency, I would say, because it surfs the dielectric of modernism's rationalist and irrationalist tendencies-- and I'm there quoting Hal Foster-- that is that dialectic between perception and actuality, scalar in determinancy, which is often produced by this sort of inter-scalar layering, has been an urban design strategy for weaving together different scales of urban fabric actually more or less since Sixtus the Fifth, or actually even before that. Because if you think about the Gothic palazzos in Venice, they're all doing that, layering several scales on top of each other. And it's a very urbaninstic, it's an urban strategy. And this, of course, you recognize. Now, as some of you know, I'm very interested because of all this in camouflage as well. And the interesting thing about camouflage is that it plays on the fluctuating figure to dissolve form into pattern. And so what that does, and these images sort of explain that, is to make the figure and the field indistinguishable, to sort of break up the object. And it's much more effective, that kind of operation, than trying to make something look like something else in sort of military camouflage. And of course, as environmental and evolutionary biologists have shown that camouflage, and up here is a little owl in a tree, that camouflage in nature is actually more of an empathetic response to environment than it is a defensive strategy, actually, or a means of evading predators. Because they found that there are as many animals who have, you know, extraordinary camouflage techniques in the stomachs of their predators as there are of other ones. But it's a kind of-- again, it's a very urban kind of thing. It shows a kind of urban, in the sense of social, impulse, this empathy. And I suppose ecological or however on wants to describe it. So as the course evolved, the subject matter of the course also tended to focus on design strategies that actually bridge and blur and transgress the boundaries between traditional categories of intervention. And that was a natural kind of occurrence. You know, those categories-- architecture, city, region, territory, and so on, and even urban, rural, and so on-- so here, you know, focusing on mega structures and [? mat ?] buildings that are basically, fundamentally strategies for destabalizing, for disrupting as we would say in that sort of innovation speak, and rethinking those categories that are sort of traditionally used to think about these things. So in other words, and I guess the takeaway from this example of this course that I was-- that the whole discussion of scale made me think of-- is that actually non-normative practices are far more telling than normative disciplinary categories. Or as Thomas Kuhn said, pointed out a long time ago, it's not the paradigm but the paradigm shift that is important. And so this led me to think particularly about urban design. And of course, I also figured that urban design was what I was sort of called upon, or charged with, to talk about. Now, the thing about urban design, the interesting thing about urban design in this context, is that of course it is not actually a discipline. But rather, it is an interdisciplinary practice or a bridge practice that operates somewhere between architecture and landscape and planning. So that, in other words, urban design is already destabilized as a hybrid practice. So that fact, interestingly, going back to teaching here, inevitably becomes the central focus of the sort of traditionally disciplinary-focused pro seminar. And the pro seminar in urban design that I've been teaching for the last few years. That particular question as a result, the question of what is urban design, becomes the major focus for the whole semester. And it comes up every week again and again. And of course, there's no consensus in any of the canonical texts on urban design. I don't know if you can have canonical texts if you have no canon. But anyhow, the things that are in the urban design reader and other texts. So over time, actually, I've re-framed the question itself. Instead of puzzling about what is urban design and how does it relate to the other practices, what is the operative scale of urban design as the sort of leading question here. And we always have a number of guest speakers. That's the way these pro seminars work. And we always ask them to address that question. And some do and some don't. Or they do it all sort of implicitly. But Peter Rowe recently, actually, addressed that issue directly. That he gave an extremely interesting and useful response to that question. I always get into conflict with this thing. And I think it's particularly relevant to this session. And he started out with the observation that cities are allometric. That means that they're constantly changing their proportions among their parts as they grow, kind of like adolescents, really. And here's an example of an extreme adolescent. This is Moscow, for instance, with the expansion plan for 2025. You have the existing city at the top. And here is the projected growth. So allometric. And they're also made up, as Peter said, of bundles of things. As he described them as self-similar patches whose internal and external relationships are continuously changing. And those relationships, as we discussed with Peter in that class, enhance the operative scale of urban design is both politically and physically constituted. And as Peter put it-- and I think this is a very sort of important point-- that as Peter put it, politically, the operative scale of urban design is determined by conflict. That the project or the intervention has to be complex enough to involve conflict. It has to involve a plurarity of interests and competing claims that can't be simply resolved so that the urban design intervention itself is part of the resolution of the conflict. And just as an example of that kind of thing physically, so that's the political dimension, physically or spatially, formally, materially, or involves all of those things, the operative scale of urban design is defined by, as he put it, thingness. And here it's thingness in the Heideggarian sense of formed matter. And Peter gave a much more involved Heideggarian elaboration. I'm actually just surfing that dialectic. But thingness for matter. So in other words, the resolution has to involve shape and mass. In other words, it has to involve architectonic form. And if you zoom out too far, it loses its specificity and its materiality. So in other words, the operative scale of urban design, one could say, is at the nexus between political complexity and thingness, materiality or architecture. And the operations, therefore, the operative scale of urban design, are both inter-scalar and interdisciplinary, all right. So now I would like to suggest sort of moving forward from this that the operative scale of urban research is similarly inter-scalar and interdisciplinary. And I'll just touch on this. Of course, to a certain extent, it depends on what the research question is. But I think that even at this sort of broadest level, if we want to understand the disparate forms and processes of urbanization that are proliferating across the globe, from mega-cities to urban regions to peri-urban conditions to shrinking cities and so on, if we want to understand what all of these things are and how they relate to and differ from each other and if we want to develop theoretical frameworks for understanding the contemporary urban across scales and geographies, then our research has to be both specific in time and place-- this is the sort of thingness, the materiality factor-- and it has to be comparative-- this is the sort of complexity factor, the theoretical complexity factor. So like design intervention, theoretical historical intervention involves this inter-scalar telescoping in and out. And in this case, I would say it's across both spatial and temporal scales. And I'll just show you a quick little example of that. In this project that Justin mentioned, which is something that began as a research seminar with students. Justin was in it. So were a number of other people, Christina. On Baku-- Oil and Urbanism, which was an attempt to understand the relationship between oil and urbanism. And the problematic here was that oil, as a rule, does not generate urbanism. It hasn't. And the political and economic regimes of oil are generally understood to be diffuse or to have the affect of defusing rather than concentrating population, and therefore, also political power. And Timothy Mitchell''s book-- brilliant book, actually-- Carbon Democracy is a very good explanation of that sort of thesis. And he points out that oil has a very different regime of power from coal, for instance, that tends to concentrate people. Whereas oil does not. It disperses them. And then, if we think about Dubai and cities like that, that's an example of post-oil urbanism. These are efforts after the oil. This is what to do with the money and how to diversify the economy. And this is, of course, a huge problem now, particularly in Russia. Something that we're looking at, too. So it doesn't generate urbanism. But in Baku, it did. So why and how? And so, we've been examining relationships between oil and urbanism. And this involves a kind of zooming in and out of space and back and forth in time, because oil was one of the earliest global industries. And Baku was a kind of ore site of that. Oil production first industrialized in Baku in the 1870s when it was part of the Russian Empire. And European companies and investors came, the Nobel brothers, the Rothschilds, Shell, and Royal Dutch. And Baku became a sort of modern, cosmopolitan city. And here you can see some of the 19th century architecture. And this is the Nobel brothers refinery back in the 1870s. Now we realized as we were working on this that the urban scale was effectively trans-territorial and transcontinental actually. That it wasn't just, you couldn't really look at it just in terms of the city. So we started to map all of this stuff. The Nobel brothers' distribution network, very large scale, as you can see around 1900. It extended across Russia, but also into Europe, both North and South Europe, and China, and Central Asia. And the distribution channels, as we found out, also operated to circulate ideas. And in the early 1900s, for example, the Bolsheviks use the Nobel's oil distribution network to distribute revolutionary propaganda all over Russia. So it was instrumental in undermining itself. And Austro-Marxism was also something that got into the pipelines and was printed and distributed widely in Baku and discussed there. So that's the largest scale. Then we went into the regional scale. We looked closer. And there are actually two scales here, the growth of the city in relationship to oil on the Absheron Peninsula, both before the oil boom and during it. And different things become apparent. First you can see that unplanned growth is happening in relationship to the oil, until suddenly in 1889, here, sorry '98, the first plan is drawn up. And so we can see an increase of oil lands, too. The oil is that sort of oily look up there, that oily color, sort of beige-y color. And that it was followed by a building boom, urbanism is the black, the beige-y color is the oil. So then we zoomed in a city scale to see the merging of oil and urbanism. And we saw how the oil infrastructure, which you can see up here, the oil infrastructure, started to generate the urban infrastructure. So that there's railways and pipelines and piers and [inaudible] urban fabric. And then we also saw, actually, that urbanization began to organize oil production itself, according to its own logic. And this is this industrial district called the Black Town where the industry itself becomes organized urbanistically. And then there's the first consolidation, sorry, that's here the plan on the upper left, where oil and urbanism are just planned and unified together, drawn up by a German planner. So then we looked a little more closely at a historical map of around 1900. And you can see that on the piers here, if you read Russian, there are the names of the owners. And a few major ones, you know, like Nobel and Shell and Royal Dutch, but there are many more who are local Azeris. And so, these local oil barons began to plan the city and the oil together. They had purchased land, they brought in gushers, and they invested in the place. And so, if we move in again, we can see that the oil barons were building cultural and social institutions in the city, the first secular school for Muslim girls was built there, there were several theaters and newspapers and so on. And here you can see images of some of the buildings. And they hired European architects to build in sort of fashionable styles of the moment. So what this did, this inter-scalar analysis, was, it enabled us to see how oil production and urban production and cultural production in Baku were linked from the beginning of the oil industry in the 1980s. So it also showed how capital and knowledge circulated between them. And how these trans-continental networks impact spatial organization and design down to the scale of the architectural object. And we've done this analysis through the whole socialist period up to today. And here it is a map of some of the sort of channels, the infrastructure, the oil infrastructure in Baku today with all kinds of problematic pipelines and so on. That it's still an inter-scalar network now. And again, with very, very strong connections to Europe. And the politics-- and that's what's interesting here-- of infrastructure is made visible at multiple scales in the city itself. And there was a very interesting talk here last week by [? asha ?] [? amin ?] where he talked about the political significance of visible infrastructure. And so, here you can see how the pipelines-- one of the extraordinary things in Baku is that there are pipelines all over the city. You walk through them. You circulate through them. And so, it's the connection, it's that inter-scalar connection that connects Baku with the world and establishes its significance. So it's there, sort of in the infrastructure. So if you haven't had this interdisciplinary kind of, or this inter-scalar perspective, none of this would have been apparent. And there's one-- I want to just finish with very quickly another dimension to this operative scale of urban research that I've become increasingly aware of through my work on the Mellon Initiative on urbanism and the humanities. Which is a multi-- as Justin mentioned, I think. It's a multi-year cross-university initiative that is funded by Mellon Foundation that I'm co-directing with Julie Buckler in the faculty of arts and sciences. And the project is directed towards interdisciplinary study of urban environments, societies, and cultures. And it's interesting. This interdisciplinary framework goes far beyond the history and in the design disciplines, actually. And it completely destabilizes normative conceptions of what urban research entails in the context of the design disciplines and what the object, actually, of the urban research is or should be. So is a really interesting thing. And I've come to realize that actually no discipline owns the city. And that's a very complicated realization. And that, in fact, urban research and urban study is practiced by multiple disciplines in their own particular disciplinary and methodological ways. And that they produce their own forms of knowledge. And it's also clear, it's become very clear to me in this process, that communication across disciplines is actually very difficult. And there are entrenched practices. And there's great resistance, whether it's intentional or not. At the same time, however-- so you know all this, you know, when you run into a problem with anything to do with urban research, you turn to Henri LeFebvre. And actually, Henri LeFebvre 40 years ago, more than 40 years ago, in the Urban Revolution, he talked about the complexity of the urban makes interdisciplinary cooperation essential. He maintained that, but he didn't believe that it existed yet. And he talked about-- although, he did talk at that time about the urbanization of the planet. And I want to end here with his interesting proposal that he put forward in the Urban Revolution for how to conceptualize interdisciplinarity, or interdisciplinary urban research. And he noted that each discipline produces a residue. And I think that's a really interesting idea. A residue that evades its grasp that can only be approached using a different method, or using different methods, through other disciplinary frameworks. If every discipline were to succeed, and this is a quote, if every discipline were to succeed in bringing into view some residue, they, those disparate residues, would all soon become irreducible and would make an interdisciplinary field of urban praxis necessary. So I think that's a really interesting thing about the residues. Now the problem, of course, is to make it possible, which is a huge challenge-- and one of the things, I guess, I sort of throw it out for the discussion later, that I've become very aware of in this whole project, is that every discipline actually is exploring new discursive tools, or new to the discipline, every discipline uses digital infrastructures and platforms, every discipline is grappling with big data, every discipline seems to be mapping, although they're doing it in different ways and they understand different things by it. They're all telling stories and using video and audio and media formats. And so perhaps, actually, foregrounding these discursive tools might be a way to begin to bridge these disciplinary boundaries and to develop what LeFebvre called a field of urban praxis. Thank you. [applause] Thank you, Eve. Our second panelist, Mark Jarzombek, joins us today from MIT, where he is a professor of the history and theory of architecture, until just recently served as the interim dean of the School of Architecture and Planning. Marc's research looks at a wide range of topics from the 12th century to the modern era, with a particular focus on 19th and 20th century aesthetics in the history and theory of architecture. A sampling of publications includes Architecture for Societies-- A Global Perspective, Urban Hederology-- Dresden and The Dielectics of Post-Traumatic History, and more recently, A Global History of Architecture, co-authored with Vicram Prakash and with illustrations by DK Ching. And I think this is also a moment to recognize what an important contribution the Mellon Foundation is making in our field. Because Mark's work is also funded through a substantial grant from the Andrew W Mellon Foundation. And that project is entitled Global Architecture History Teaching Collaborative, which promotes the development and exchange of teaching materials for architectural history education across the globe. Please join me in welcoming Mark Jarzombek. [applause] Back, forward. Thank you for all the students and faculty who have organized this. This is a great opportunity. I think we're going to have some good conversations. Let me start a little bit with the title. We live in a global world. I think we all agree with that. What I want to talk about today is that I don't agree with the fact that we live in a global world. So let me start, perhaps, with a heuristic. And this is just, you type in contemporary architecture into Google Image, and this is what you get. Now, it looks OK. I mean, at first. But then, if you type in contemporary art in Google Image, you get something like this. Now, clearly, this is-- one can challenge such a knave way to think about our discipline. But there is a certain value, I think, that comes out of this, because clearly, even looking at these two images, this one clearly evokes something-- satire, diversity. It's clearly thought provoking. Oh, and did I mention it's colorful-- all the things that you don't get in this image. Now in 50 minutes, I'm not going to be able to sort of explain why we wound up here. But so I want to in some sense use this as a bit of a challenge to us, to ask is this really how we want to go down in history, as the producers of this? I mean, there are good buildings here, I mean, by some that we know-- by people that we know very well. So I don't want to focus on that problem. I'm just talking about just this sort of strange shock that occurred to me when I typed this in. And I almost fell off my chair. And the more I look at it, the more sort of strangely nauseous I get. And so it got me do to sort of produce, go into a long sort of self-psychotic doubt about what it is that we do in the institutions, and question a little bit the framework of the changes that took place in the '80s, in particular. So just looking back a little bit, back when Michael and I were students, our father's generation came out of the world of the world-- the story of man through the ages, the world history, Sigfried Gideon's eternal present. Martin talked about the great ideas. And the word global is not a great idea. And I would like to say that even today, in 2015, global is still not an idea. In other words, we would think it is, but I'm going to say we still are a little bit in that world, and perhaps more than we would want to do. And my next point, which is that what we produced was, in some sense, modernism as a history. And one of the great-- we have to remember-- we think modernism has been around forever. History's been around forever. But really one of the great accomplishments of the late '70s was that it had history on its own. It was its own disciplinary project, to delaminate it from art history, to in some sense give it its own autonomy, both in academe and in the literature. These are just sort of MoMA exhibits that you can sort of see that begin to sort of reinforce the institutional and disciplinary project of modernism's history. Then when Ken's book came out in 1980, that was like the first claim that finally, modernism could be [inaudible] by someone who sort of likes modernism, and a historian and so not a certain type of advocate. Now in that process, another type of disciplinary formation took place, which was emergence of traditional architecture. Now obviously, architecture has been around in a traditional sense for a long, long time. But if you just look at the titles of books, you notice that the first time the word tradition gets used is in 1972. And now if I say the word traditional architecture, no one thinks of anything weird about that, right? But that had to be sort of claimed. And in the mid '70s, end of the '70s, traditional architecture became traditional architecture, I mean as a discipline, as titles for books, as conferences, and so forth like that. So it goes from Japanese architecture to traditional Japanese architecture. So the point is that in the same time that of modernism gets its history, tradition gets its history. And this split was-- at the time, no one really noticed the split so much. But now we notice it, and it is terrible. It has ruined, I think, the project of what I'm going to try to talk about today. So traditional architecture, of course, arose in the context of a geopolitical movement, which has its own history. I mean, we haven't really fully historicized and understood the geopolitics of traditionalism, the revival of the concept of tradition. And these are just some of the sort of data points, a little bit, of that. So it all ends with the UNESCO project of 1972, and then in only a sort of, I guess, goes downhill from there-- I mean, according to my point of view. But it goes somewhere. It becomes completely naturalized, that tradition is, in some sense, a part of certain types of normatives. So in India, you can sort of see the impact of this on the curriculum. This is in 1983. What they did in 1983 was add the final phrase, which is-- they set out to study the various styles, blah, blah, blah. And then in a world with emphasis on Indian architecture-- so that's what they added in '83 was if you're from India, you should know something about India. That's the thing. And so here we are 2013, and so the last update of the curriculum by their accreditation thing basically still keeps all that language in there. And they have these books, and five have the word sort of India in the title. And the others are Greece, Rome, Romanesque, the Gothic, Contemporary-- ugh-- including Banister Fletcher. So basically what it is, is that you have euro-centrism plus India-centrism. And my sort of point is that you can't really tell the difference anymore. What's the difference between an India-centrism and euro-centrism of old? I mean, isn't it sort of like just one thing that's bad, now we have the one thing plus that's bad? So this is from website of one of the leading Japanese schools. The first year training teaches the fundamentals of spatial design, beginning with the human dimensions as a base. The spatial scale gradually expands to the subject of design's development-- so here we are on a question of scale. Students then learn the elements of architecture through classes on planning and general construction, while a class on Japanese-- while a, a class-- one class-- on Japanese architectural history cultivates foundational learning as an architect. So it sounds reasonable. Architecture is human dimensions plus constructions plus Japanese history. If I'm in Japan, yeah, [inaudible]. Now, one of the players in all this that sort of produced this normative effect, of course, is UNESCO in 1972 and so forth, the World Heritage List. I'm not going to get into that. And this is the text that they produced, Outstanding Universal Value. It's one of the great treatises of the 20th century, hardly ever discussed in architectural studios. If you have Vitruvius as one of the earliest ones, this is really one of the later ones. And any architecture student who hasn't read it shouldn't graduate. So the-- oh, dear, getting dark. So the project of UNESCO-- don't have time to get into it to too much, but basically you can sort of see that in one sense, they don't come in and do the Taj Mahal the Indian. They say to India, you have to identify your national treasures. And then you have to sort of make a case for them. And so once you've made a case for your national landmarks, then come to us, and then we will give the stamp of authority on it. And it's not just a building, of course. There's a whole territory that goes around the building. It's a legal territory. It's a legal protection. So if you're living in Amsterdam here, might want to live here. You might not want to live [inaudible]. And you want to put a thingamabob on your roof, well, you're going to have to ask UNESCO about that. But my point is not so much the nature of the structures and the strictures of UNESCO, but what it does to the principle of architecture itself, that we haven't really observed fully. So here is Obama visiting the recently UNESCO-fied and restored tomb of Humayun's Tomb. And so in the newspaper is "Obama visits Humayun's Tomb" and he's floored by India's history. Now when Clinton came to India, he landed from the airport, and they brought him right to the Parliament building, and that was the end of story. Then, when it was all over, at the end they had a nice dinner, and he flew back. Obama had just landed, and the first thing, before he even goes to the Parliament building, this is where the Indian Prime Minister meets him. So the entire encounter between these two nations is staged, literally, on a UNESCO site. So it brings to mind the question, not just simply about the touristification of this, but about the magnification of architecture into sort of the national project-- a magnification that doesn't occur to us so much in the US, because we don't see that here. But if you travel to Europe, you travel to Asia and Africa, this is very, very much important thing. And it's a different type of-- it's not just preservation anymore. We call it preservation, which is a big sort of mistake. Basically, it's an architecture philosophical project. So here is-- I just only showed this because I like the title-- "The Picture Perfect." So they took all the barns in Switzerland, and put them in a little valley so that the tourists don't have to travel all over, and they can just see all the barns in one little place. And of course it's picture perfect. And that's the whole point about this sort of type of historicism which sort of demands a type of picture perfect. You can have an app, of course, for this, which you can download-- Heritage app. It's free. And now it's there. That was last year-- 20,000 amazing pictures. I think we're up to 40,000. And all the pictures are like this-- just gorgeous, gorgeous stuff, right? But careful if you download it, because you're going to get TripAdvisor for hotels as a pop-up. So you know, it's all calculated in there. So the idea that architecture now is on the national stage has now sort of been modified in a particular way to sort of make the nation look good. And so another sort of odd heuristic-- in other words, if you just type in Egypt, you get a UNESCO site, India, UNESCO site, Russia, UNESCO site. I mean, it goes on and on. This as Ethiopia, and so forth. If you type in the US, you get, like, 55 pages of dollar bills. So I'm not showing you that. That's another talk. [laughter] So now, I mean, this got me to thinking-- in the 19th century, Hegel would have organized the world like this-- poetry on top, because it was the most ethereal, and we're supposed to invisibly understand the poetic alliteration of our superior mind. And then comes painting, then comes sculpture-- becomes bigger. And then comes the lowly world of architects, because they're at the bottom of the barrel, and some ethnography, and so forth like that. It's a classic thing. Well, if Hegel were alive today, I mean, which is sort of-- maybe, why not? I mean he would put architecture at top, because architecture's the closest to the national spirit, as opposed to poetry. And then some ethnographic tourism, and then pop music, and then contemporary art, and painting, I mean, just don't bother. I mean, it might be mentioned down at the bottom of the barrel. So it's sort of interesting. I mean, you know, to my art historical friends, I'm very proud of this little diagram. [laughter] I'm sorry to say that philosophically, we know what we're doing here. I mean, we're on top of the heap. And painting is at the bottom, right? Australia, it's modern, but it's a UNESCO site, but that doesn't matter. It's a modern site. So the difference that has been established in the last 20 years or more, is the difference between architectural history as you and I might know it in an academic sense, and architecture's history. So architecture's history has become a new discipline, an invisible discipline, a discipline outside of academe, outside of critique, outside of the history theory world, outside of how we understand the studio and so forth and so on. And yet the latter, architecture's history, is sort of where history is functioning in a very dynamic and dramatic place as a geopolitical force. And we haven't really captured that. We haven't understood it quite yet. We don't fully historicise it. We certainly haven't theorized it a very well. So architecture's history is sort of between the national imaginary and the nation state. So in thinking of Reinhold's discussion last night about Nietzsche, and how academe is sort of haunted by its sort of nation state background, and we thought, well, that's the 19th century. Well, we're the 21st century, and the nation state is doing pretty well for itself. And not only that, it has invaded the core of our historical consciousness. I mean it's really right there. I mean, we sort of might think that we're superior to the 19th century world view. On the contrary, we have the 19th century-- uber 19th century. We are more 19th century than anyone in the 19th century could ever have dreamed. So all this sort of has produced sort of this preservation industry complex, which is in its own sort of project. And it has produced a strange sort of cultural capital that has had deleterious effects on how we understand our own constructions when we get to understanding things. So here we just go to the library, and the emergence of nation state historicism has been sort of dramatic. So Indian architecture, which-- I mean, even that word Indian architecture doesn't make any sense, but we still use it-- Turkish architecture, Armenian architecture, Azerbaijan architecture, Iranian-- it goes on and on. OK, and we sort of think, that's great. Yeah, I'm going to Korea. Let me get the book on the temples of Korea. I mean, what's wrong with that? Well, I could say nothing's wrong with that, or I could say, like, precisely everything-- a toxic type of discourse. Well, when I was taught art history, architectural history, this is how I was taught. You had the great Euro line. And then if you were sort of weird, you did some China and India or pre-Columbian. These were people who liked to look at fuzzy black-and-white slides of ruins and strange things. Now today, we have something like this, which is all the nations have their own sort of national art history. And most students-- and PhD Students-- this is not for the PhD students. They presumably will understand that this is not how you construct history. But I'm talking about the general types of histories that flow in the schools of architecture might very well assume that this is sort of how it's done. And to make matters worse, we have to remember the cult of national museums. So more national museums have been built in the last 15 years than in the previous 150 years. And you know, national museums need curators. The job is to make an exhibition if you're in Kuwait on Kuwaiti art, on Kuwaiti architecture, or whatever. Now, the British, of course, started all this, back in the good old mid-19th century. And everybody now is in on the act. So I'm saying that if we want to attack Eurocentrism, what we have now is a type of Eurocentrism gone global. So one of the recent ones is the National Art Gallery of Singapore. And so I went to Singapore, and I talked to the curator there. This is his advertisement in the airport-- "Cutting edge ways of presenting history, redefining conventional museum experience." And it's a great exhibition. If you ever go to Singapore, you've got to go to it. Well, the curator, as it turns out, was chosen to curate this because he was their a former head of their equivalent of their CIA. And so he did that very well. And then he was looking for another, easier job. And he explained very openly-- he said that I know how to shape minds, so they thought I'd be really good as a curator for a museum. So be careful when you go in there, right? You're going to want to move to Singapore. And many of my colleagues do. Good luck. [laughter] So we have this strange misfit between sort of the modern sort of the nation state, which has gone into and invaded our history in very direct ways. And it sort of hits us right in the groin of modern and traditional. So here we are at an elite school somewhere in the Northeast-- I'm not going to say where, obviously-- surveys the arts of Japan from the prehistoric period to the 19th century. You go 19th, what happened to the 19th century? Why does this professor stop in the 19th century? Hmm? Well we sort of know why-- because there's another professor who will examine the history of Chinese architecture and urban planning from the 19th century to the present. This one goes up to modernism. And then modernism comes, and goes, oh, shit. No, you take the other guy. He's going to do the modernism class. So tradition, modern, right? So we have established this as a normative practice in our teaching. And we don't really see this as a problem. We just say yeah, this is how it works. It doesn't have to work like this. All right, so here's one of the leading scholars writing a book on Islamic architecture that ends in 1839. Why? Well, 1839 is sort of like on the cusp of the new modern era. The scholar feels uncomfortable now moving out of colonialism into modernism. It's probably another discipline. OK, so as we sort of become more global, and traditions become more static, and modern becomes more naturalized, the project, the promise of the global that I would say that some of us held out back in the '80s and '90s has evaporated. And the scale this is, for me, imponderable. So here we are at the Leeum Museum in Seoul. I was there with Rem for the opening. It was really a great event. But I came home a little bit perplexed by it all. So we know the two buildings, the one on [? rem ?] I'm not going to talk about. But there's Botta's and there's one by Jean Nouvel. Jean Nouvel did the Modern and Botta did the traditional Korean art. And I talked to Mr. Lee, believe it or not-- I bumped into him-- who's the CEO. And we talked about these things, and I didn't realize till a little bit later that he was Mr. Lee, when he gave me as a business card, which just said Mr. Lee. [laughter] So we started, well, why did you pick these things? And his answer was really interesting. And he basically said, well, Botta-- he's a good Europeanist. He likes European architecture. He's seen in Korea as a person who is eurocentric. And because he's eurocentric, he would understand Koreacentric, which is interesting. So therefore, he did the traditional building, because Botta was seen as a pro-traditional person. So if he's pro-tradition in Europe, he's going to be pro-tradition in Asia. He could be pro-tradition everywhere. Tradition doesn't really matter the content. It's your attitude, right? So then if you go to their website, you get this strange thing-- to two buildings, two exhibitions. And it says permanent exhibition of traditional art. And you go permanent? Well, tradition-- why is traditional permanent? And then they show a vase, which is obviously very permanent. And then on the other side, it's a modern thing. And it's sort of the flow of the modern contemporary. So we live in a flow, and on the other side is this permanent stuff. Now any historian knows this is complete nonsense. The whole point about nation state is that it is permanent. UNESCO makes it so. UN is going to make it so. It's always permanent. Now we live in an age today where the permanency of the nation state is under serious threat. And 20 years from now, we may have serious doubts about the new Caliphates and all sorts of strange things happening all over the place. So the end of the nation state is probably quite imminent, right? But it's reversed. They've got it reversed. So we have this sort of fantasy about modernity and flow and a fantasy of tradition and permanence, when actually, traditional art is the most impermanent of time. So traditional art is permanent. Contemporary art is supposed to be flowing, when it should be the opposite way around. Traditional art has always been under the context of political flows. And modern art is really on the crisis of permanence. So and then to make matters worse-- I mean, it just goes from bad to worse. And so there's this new discipline that's emerged called premodern, basically in the last 20 years. So here you are, the great Hollis classic. And it gives you the dates. And I had to slightly Photoshop it so that you can get it across the page. But you see that the first use of the word premodern is 1997. And then it builds up steam around 2000. And now we're going gangbusters. Premodern art, there's art in premodern Europe, there's history faculty, premodern research-- we now have a discipline called premodernism. Ceremonial culture in premodern Europe, blah, blah, blah-- it goes on. I mean, cosmology in architecture in premodern Islam, ceremonial culture in premodern Europe-- now premodern Europe is actually a disciplinary formation. That I can sort of understand. But there's this leakage that's happening now-- premodern art and premodern architecture. Building in time-- thinking and making architecture in the premodern era-- premodern era. Well, so in other words, if it's the case that modernism uber Alles, and even the guys living in the Renaissance have to be now sort of codified through the lens of modernity, I mean, what kind of civilizational arrogance is that? Should I ask? So let me just say it-- premodernism is a crap of bull. And if any of you use that word from now on, just shudder. I mean, I don't know. I mean, if you want to go ahead and use it, I can't stop you, but it is complete nonsense. And you're at Harvard. You should know better. Now, the problem is that all of these things have become so institutionalized that the fight against them is of a scale that is horrific. So here we are-- architectural history, how it's taught in the United States. States. So half of the schools in the United States teach the standard old Western-- no global. Part of them teach something called Western and non-Western, which means Western with some Japanese and maybe a little Chinese, if they're lucky. A big chunk teach no history at all. And there's a little chunk that teach something that I would generously call global. Europe, it's even worse. Half teach basically Western, and the other half basically teach a type of local nation basis. So I was in Munich, and I ask, should we do something global? They said, oh, yeah, we do global. We do a course on a mosque in Turkmenistan. That's their global. But basically, they have the required courses on German castles, because they think that everyone visiting Germany should know something about German castles. So that's the nationalization of tradition in the global world. So the global world has produced a type of global culture of anti-globals. This is what I'm trying to sort of get at here. So here we have sort of national art history guys, and all the curators. And then we have the national museums, and all their books and publications. And then we have the World Heritage guys, and then we have the traditional art guys. Well, I know one thing-- that sure ain't global. So somewhat to recap-- in the 1980s, we got rid of the idea of world. We celebrated the end of the canon, and we thought we were going to create something absolutely amazing and diverse. What we created was a monster. And it's our generation created this, right? Sort of we created a sort of a fantastic project, which is the history of modernism. But we didn't see, really, the consequence of that, which was this separation and the dismemberment, really, of sort of architectural education into modernism versus tradition and it's ancillary practices in the university industry, which sort of capitalized on that in a very direct way. And then we reduced all the requirements to make way for computation and technology. I'm not complaining about it, mind you. It's fair enough. And then we got rid of the faculty. MIT used to have a faculty member in anthropology. That disappeared. We got rid of all the other people. And so what we have today is a type of purified academic sort of worldview, which is not diverse, not critical, not self-interrogative, and it's sort of coasting on a type of platform which is wrong-- it's just wrong. I mean, wrong from the promise of what global could be. Right, of course, if you agree with all of those things. I don't. I think that the global could produce a certain different type of promise. So I think that what global history is, is not so much a question of the discipline. And I'm not interested in the question of global history. And that's not what I'm trying to sort of argue. And so I'm not making a case for history. And to battle over whether we have three credits or four credits for history is simply to produce the problem back to the [? carcerated ?] regimes of disciplinary behavior. So the point is to realise that a few decades ago, globalization produced a secondary promise-- that we were more than just a economically globalized people, and that we lived in a world that, for the first time in history, perhaps could produce a new type of consciousness, a new type of dialogue, and a new type of history and architecture production. But that promise did not live up to its potential ambitions, however naive they may have been back then, and maybe still are today. So we have redisciplinized our field in an extreme sense, in direct opposition to the global imaginary. And now we have institutionalized it globally with such hard cement that it may be impossible to ever undo the damage. Architectural history, global architectural history, is only the canary in the mine. And in the future decades, if it succeeds, then I think architectural. Architecture will succeed. If it doesn't, architecture will not succeed, period. [applause] Thank you. In the interest of time, we're going to skip the break. But I will let you know that the coffee has been replenished, although our speakers have been incredibly engaging, so you may not need the coffee after all. Our next presenter, our next panelist, is Preston Scott Cohen. He's the Gerald M. McCue Professor in Architecture here at the GSD, and the former chair of the Department of Architecture. He is the author of Contested Symmetries and Other Predicaments in Architecture, as well as numerous other theoretical and historical essays. And his work has been exhibited at such institutions as MOMA, Cooper Hewitt, SF MOMA, and the Fogg Museum of Art. In professional practice, Scott's firm, Preston Scott Cohen, Incorporated, works at a range of different scales, from building canopies to houses to large-scale institutions. And some of his firm's projects include the Tel Aviv Museum of Art, the Datong-- Nick, is that Datong in China? Datong Library, the Nanjing Performing Arts Center. And I think today he's going to be talking about a project in Michigan. So please join me in welcoming Professor Scott Cohen. [applause] Thank you. I did have a great time last night with everyone. It's really great to be part of this symposium. I was a little bit late in submitting my title, but fortuitously-- or accidentally on purpose-- it became TBD-- Taubman Building Design. I also thought about Ann Arbor Building Design, ABD, but I went ahead with this one. Why this project? It is very current, and thus, I am intensely preoccupied with it. The groundbreaking is next week. But most of all because, appropriately for this year's Cambridge talks, it is undoubtedly embroiled in the politics of architecture and planning for an institution at all scales from the territorial, the urban, and the campus, all the way down to the furniture, where other matters of territorial dispute will continue to be waged among faculty. Let me begin with a warning. What you will see, what you'll be seeing, is not spectacular, not groundbreaking particularly, in terms of how it would look, is not composed of complex geometry like some of my previous projects-- no hyperboloids, no hyperbolas of revolution, no complex panelizations of these surface geometries. This is a modest building, an addition of 36,000 square feet, with a modest total project budget of $29 million at a State University, where, for many of the usual reasons, this kind of architecture of geometrical autonomy would not be tenable. Thankfully, I've always enjoyed struggling within and against givens, one of the most indisputable sources of architectural thought and mutation. The desire in all of the projects is to make the most intractable things about buildings become their opposite, become deeply interesting, and to become testaments to those varied sources of entrenchment. The task here was to add a peculiarly sided building with ambitions that far exceed its scope. For many reasons, a succession of deans at the School of Architecture and Planning there have tried to make an addition to Architecture and Planning, but have not been able-- have not been able to surmount, on the one hand, the disagreements among constituents vying over the site-- a site that belongs to both the Architecture and Planning program and to the Art program-- and another problem, which has to do with planning at the scale of the entire campus, and an interest, an intention, a longstanding intention, to link the North Campus through all the way through to the campus here, the Main Campus, and to do so through a path that would lead right next to the Architecture and Planning building to the Main Campus-- and in so doing, to actually make impossible an addition in that very site. So with these problems-- and there are many others that I could speak to-- we were under some difficult circumstances. So let's see. Let me just bypass quickly, and say that it came down to a very motivated, very ambitious dean, Monica Ponce de Leon, who rallied the faculty and the donor Alfred Taubman, rallied them around a project despite their several divergent goals. There's the faculties on the one hand, having to do with a myriad of different perspectives on cross-disciplinary collaborative teaching, but also around another idea, that of the donor, that there'd be a new relationship between the studios and the faculty offices-- a much more transparent and immediate connection, which was not easily accepted by the faculty. And on the other hand, faculty of Planning, who were far more interested in questions having to do with the way classrooms would be developed in the building, these two last renderings being our efforts to address those two ideas. And these are both images inside the building, the new building. OK, so let me just speak now for a moment. I'm going to have to at the beginning-- not to be tedious-- I would rather not explained all the war stories of the project that truly are political. They're too tedious, too lengthy. I should just say that, though, to pay my respect to all involved, that really I owe it that we have this building is the incredibly deft maneuvers of the Dean, and the support of the faculty, that worked with my firm from the planning and programming stages all the way through the schematic design of the interior, and the planning stages, and the planning. I have to have a good client, and a good political, and deft political client, politically deft client, to get through, to make a good project. So to bypass, though, these war stories, which every project has, I'm going to instead go into the project in a slightly different way, and to draw a parallel from another question of politics. Before doing so, let me just quickly tell you what some of the basics were here. It's an existing building, 240,000 square feet-- much larger than the one we're going to be adding-- a rather unforgiving facility that, as I mentioned, contains two programs-- Art and Architecture and Planning-- and to which no significant addition or modification has been made since it was built in 1975-- a very relevant year. We'll hear about that. Now the project is to add a new center, a commons, more studio space, faculty offices, a large classroom, student lounges, research areas. There are a lot of pieces in this program. The building is one of those, as I said, very tough, resilient things. It's a kind of descendant of Mies' pedagogy at IIT, the architect Swanson Associates being from there, having studied in that program. And I like its kind of resilience, grown even affectionate for it. And let me say that the site just was too-- made the program's scope far too little to work with. The building to be added would be too small, as I said, to stretch-- well, now I will tell you-- to stretch from this architecture-- part of the complex Architecture and Planning are here-- to that street. We would somehow have to make an addition to get to this, what is known as Bonisteel Boulevard. Now, this sort of problem-- how to make a building do something it really can't do-- a conflict between the site and the program with paradoxical ambitions-- has played and excited me many times before. Quickly to put this in context, most notably in Tel Aviv, where we had a building that was much too large for the site, and that had, therefore, to be buried half underground, and relieved by this light well to make sense of that. Or here, a building attenuated horizontally for very many other kinds of reasons, or here a project in New York, where a canopy is caught and compressed between two behemoths that couldn't make a good urban space, and that we had to make one out of anyway. So this kind of problem is always simulating for me. But here in Michigan, we have, again, a very aggravating, frustrating, and therefore motivational situation. OK, could not have that kind of explicitly geometrical authority that I like to bring to bear. What to do with this rather linear, attenuated building? Very simply, we made a building that is skewed in such a way that it can have one of its corners get ever closer to that boulevard. And we lifted it so that the square footage would go further. Owing to the plan of the Commons, this is now the center-- the space called the Commons. Owing to the plan of this particular space, the building would be forced in a way-- if you can say it that way-- to crane its neck and reach past this, the art wing, and in a way be hammered over by that art wing, which has a kind of tail further extended on the other end. I like very much the way it looks like the whole art wing is displaced. And both are mutually displaced. OK, and so now this-- and I like very much the idea-- that while solving that particular problem of getting from here all the way to there, and putting a center on the edge of what is really the whole building, we also end up making a path through and between our building and the existing art wing, and even beyond and out by having lifted it to make the new path that will link to the other campus. This had not been the kind of path that was initially intended. A far more formalized, new urbanist strategy was proposed here. And the addition initially was to have been made on top of part of the Architecture and Planning building. It would have been on top of this area, initially. That proposal ran into all sorts of other problems in years past-- thankfully. It was a very bad idea. Now going back to the main problem-- the stretching-- here comes my little metaphor about politics-- I usually don't turn to metaphors. But I couldn't help myself. And those who know me well will know why I was sort of attracted to this idea. It's not because of Luigi Moretti, who I love very much, but because I happen to be fascinated and attracted to political scandals. Now, this is one of the most delicious episodes and one of the most intriguing of all American political scandal sagas. Maybe it is no coincidence, as I said, about the year '74, the year the building was opened, that this occurred then. I'm not talking about the entire Watergate scandal. I'm talking about one particular incident in the scandal. The incident involved-- there's the man, sorry-- brilliant, let's all remember, he really was-- involved this person. This was an extraordinary iconic spatial problem in Watergate. Rosemary Woods, I hope some of you will remember, defended at all costs her boss. And when it was asked where the 18 missing minutes went, she suggested that by accident she had erased them, those minutes, by having had her foot pressed on a pedal in the office next to the president's during the time that she was on the phone on some other call. Someone who had been in this office in the Watergate hearings knew that this couldn't have been possible, and asked that the hearings move into this office for one day to examine how it could be that she would have done this. And they understood where these phones were. Sure enough, she proceeds to demonstrate how accidentally she had kept her foot pressed on this pedal. And this is the great image of Rosemary Woods stretching. It is called the Rosemary Woods stretch. And it's an image that appeared on all of the great media in use. It was everywhere published as one of the great images. And this was really a kind of devastating point of political mistake-making during the Watergate scandal. She accidentally on purpose managed to keep that foot there. [laughter] And what I like very much-- obviously the contortionism and the idea that it could have been an accident that couldn't have been an accident, that she is compelled by her own motivations, but that, of course, she's pretending that she had none-- all in defense, of course, of a great project-- Nixon's presidency. So here we have, you can see a metaphor for what we do as architects. We contort, and we pretend that these are inevitabilities-- things that we had to do. I'm going to just quickly do the conventional walk through, and then I'm going to tell you why I think this is a kind of project with some relevance, just by its straightforwardness and certain other ways. OK, so we have this Bonisteel. We're going to come down a little bit because there's a hill here. There's a path through the site and under it and out. And we can also go into the existing building here. OK, we can come in here. This will postpone a kind of lobby, a kind of gallery lobby. There is an interesting stair, kind of spiral-like, that will extend there. We can go back into a classroom that looks out. We saw it earlier. There is a group of faculty offices. We will go up that stair and we will arrive here. We will be above the Commons by a little bit-- this is an interesting detail I'll tell you more about. Being above it, we will descend again slightly, and make our way into the existing building and up this of the two stairs, rather than this sequence that had existed, where people pass through the Art wing into a building with absolutely no apparent beginning point, a building which is really a mat, a complicated maze of rooms, most of them windowless. This is a building all with rooms on the perimeter, all with windows-- a very different character. Once we're up the stair-- as I said, we can come down here-- we could also turn around and proceed up and around, or we can proceed up this way, and reach that same point. There's the elevator. We can go around here, and can make our way back down again. So we are at a point, interestingly, when we arrive here, of making a choice to go down or up. And we're sort of in the midst of an oblique sort of space, because this ramp is going up. And so is this one. There are pairs of ramps-- that one, that set, and that set, both going up to the same point. And that happens on the final plan at the top as well-- this set of ramps going up, that set of ramps going up. And that being the highest point connecting to this new studio lounge for the students. And interesting problems excite me and interest me. We could not put any kind of double-height spaces in these buildings for many reasons having do with smoke evacuation. This is really a testament to the struggle to introduce any kind of empty, or what's called wasted space in buildings like this, a plan like this, where we have to introduce fire curtains in very interesting ways, and have a layer of circulation that's redundant to that one out here. But it's higher in our building, and leads to this group of offices. And then we use the fire stair itself as a shortcut through. There are a lot of almost-- talking about 19th century-- quirky, idiosyncratic, highly specific, highly determined conditions. And this, of course, goes against the paradigm of flexibility of rational planning that had guided the production of the initial building. Here we see the new Taubman paradigm of offices adjacent immediately to the existing studio that we propose. OK, multidisciplinarity is manifest in the arrangement of the furnishings of the studios with collaborative and independent desk arrangements, and so forth. And that is a big piece of this project after having had to make the cases that citing it this way could be something supportable by the larger university. So you see there is a great deal of tension between those two scales. And the rules governing the entire university disallow us to introduce a certain number of classrooms and dissolve classrooms into open spaces, to pretend that they're studios, so as not to break many of the rules having to do with how many classrooms are made on campus-- so many tensions between the autonomous school and the overall university. Here you can see the sequence inside, the arrival to that stair that will lead onward into that central atrium. OK, now I'm going to tell you some of my kind of idiosyncratic and very specific aims for logically introducing these conflicts in architectural terms. The interesting thing is that this space is kind of contested architecturally, as it were-- not a word I like to use very often. And it has to do with the relationship between three axes. One will be an axis which is defined by this new studio wing. And we will find out that the roof and all of its saw teeth are perpendicular to the axis. There's no question that this is the dominant axis of the building. And yet, when we are in this atrium, there is by far a stronger axis, apparently, in the arrangement of the plan that governs it, which is here, which is the bisector between two axes-- one that's going that way, one that's going that way. So there's a kind of central bifurcating axis that way running through the stair and this door. And then finally, and I think the most interesting of all possible axes, a third one, which is the corner of the Miesian pavilion broken open and diagonally ascending to this point. You recall that two ramps rise to this point. And so this axis is defined by a tilt, by a low point and a high point. This axis is the axis that allows the existing building to lay claims on the Commons. The Commons is thereby absolutely, inextricably bound to the existing building by that diagonality and by that slope. And it's an interesting resolution to another problem, another constraint-- very interesting problem having to do with the way that building was built. This is part of the existing building. The plenums in it cannot accommodate today's scale of infrastructure. We were required to have much thicker plenums. And therefore it was necessary to ramp. There could be no continuous, same-level connections. And so to ramp that space, and to claim it with this oblique diagonal axis, is to solve an inherent constraint. Therefore, it was not my will, but I was compelled, you can see. So the contortion, the obliquity, and the contestation of these axes is integral to be constraining conditions. Now we can see how all this kind of produces a very complex and interesting series of interrelated spaces. The ascendancy of the stair from below in that gallery makes its way up to a point, as I mentioned before, which is both above the Commons and below the point of the space, below the level of the space around which and in which it's embedded. And then it continuously proceeds upward into the stair that's centered on another axis-- the axis that goes from that point to that one. So there's a kind of orbital and I would call it perambulatory movement that is simultaneously involved in these kind of spiraling and oblique series of conditions. There you see for the first time the roof that I will be talking about, the ascendancy in the section, the complexity, and idiosyncrasies of all of that. The rotation of that six-sided form, 90 degree binding back to the Miesian pavilion, and all others at angles obscure, unrelated to anything other than that this reached to that point maximally, and given the setback, not any further than that. OK, here we have the atrium. This is the main idea of the project. This will be a space which I frankly measured, and considered very much with respect to Piper, the room we are in, which was kind of a test case for what could be done in this area. In fact, the area of this is almost identical to the area of Piper-- including that, though, but all in a flat floor. You can see the multiple axes. What it does, the perambulation, and what the multiplicity of the axes-- you can see the saw teeth not running at the angle of that axis-- what all of that does is establish the implication of a rotation around a z-axis, a vertical axis-- a space which seems to be turning in that way. And it gives an autonomy to a space that is bound to both studios. Thereby, it manages, I would argue, to make the two studios, to put them on a par with one another, despite how diminutive the new one is relative to the immense, older, existing one. The two-- there's a parity established by the centrality, by the autonomy of this space that they both flank. And given the ceiling belonging to the logic of that studio, it asserts itself with even greater authority over the center than the oblique axis, one could argue, that initiates from the much larger existing studio. The idea of stirring a building, stirring it with a z-axis, is one that I've been interested in at other scales. To return to this theme, here, for example, a column does the task of introducing the orbit, not a void, not a sequence, not the multiplicity of axes in contest. Now I'd like to turn to a very differently vexing problem-- the specific consequences of the whole premise of the project on the relationship between the new building and the existing building on the exterior, and the relationship between the facade and the interior of this project in particular. The problem is that if we assume the existing studio is the terminal space of the two buildings, we have two readings. One is that this is a podium on top of a very different system below it, which is that maze, that warren of rooms, that field condition-- the kind of field that [? yves ?] has studied. And the other is that it is a kind of integral complex, and that this is merely a kind of limb extending from that larger body-- very different it is thereby-- or finally, that this is an autonomous and independent building, contiguous but with its own interior and exterior relationships. Understood on its own, the new building is what I would call a kind of duplicitous building, a building in which two contradictory entities are forced to join. And that is the Commons are forced to join with the studio wing. And it has a kind of inherent what I call isomorphism between its inside and out-- the new building. I want to just show you though, that the section of the whole complex that exists today enforces this idea as well. The ground inside this building has filled the existing building to make a courtyard, which is on the same level is our Commons, but not our ground, which is below. You can see here this very interesting section within the existing complex that will now be a bridge here that will connect to our Commons. Here we see the isomorphism that I've talked about. It's a one-room building, and the windows on this side a series following the skylights, one of which in the series which would have been there kicked over to there to look that way, and displaced by a fire stair. Such things as those are exciting. There's another reading, by the way, which is that the four windows that were here have been displaced to one, two, three, four, the fourth now binding that wing to the Commons part of the building. But the most clear manifestation of the idea of the isomorphism is clearly having to do with the way light is brought in to the studio. A very different color temperature is established by doing something that took a great deal of arguing with people to be allowed to do, which is not to put windows in the north-facing verticals of the saw teeth, but to make these opaque planes, and to reflect natural southern light off of those into the studios. In this color temperature, this southern temperature of light, which will be only in spring and in fall, since, unfortunately, the winter will always be gray, almost, in Michigan, it's quite different than this, the north-facing windows here, bringing light into the existing studio. This will lead me now to a bit more of an assessment about the questions regarding that form of lighting and roofing-- that the light was inspired, the southern light, by a wall that happened be at an identical angle in my studio office, where we used the southern reflecting light, and experimented with it to determine how it could be done in Michigan. But I think a more interesting question to ask about it has to do with what that kind of industrial roofing, reconfigured with skylights that are now on top rather than in the vertical planes, means with respect to architecture's connection to sources in this culture of industrially produced architecture. There is a connection which I wished to make to that tradition, and at the same time, obviously, to just manifest the multiple conflicting paradigms that interest me regardless of those traditions-- both kind of an autonomous and contextual response. But I think something I'd like to point to is that this is not actually a kind of, as it were, Mannerist industrial shed building like that. My saw teeth are proportionate and quite conventional in those proportions. They do, however, do something quite similar to Chipperfield's in Mexico City, insofar as having the skylight on top, though his were actually northern facing and mine are southern. Nonetheless, the peculiar combinations, this kind of museological interest in these kind of roofs and the potential that they be normative and conventional in their proportions, is an exciting intersection of two approaches to these roofs, not also like this, where they are attached and independent skylights. But in my case, in plane and cut from the block, which produced many challenges having to do with drainage and other things, but to extrude a form with this conventional proportionality more similarly to the way Chipperfield does, but with overall proportions which evoke something else. But most significant, I think, for me was something curious that occurred, which has to do with the fact that this facade bends in plan at this point, and owing to the fact that the widths of all of these bays are identical forces these to be taller and longer. And with the brick pattern, the soldiers coursing in these areas, combined with normal coursing, we introduce another idea which has to do with bringing the potential back to the building for a kind of geometrical autonomy, the autonomy that ends in this attention with construction at the scale of the unit whereby we have to produce curvature with independent panels-- and these are other projects-- there's Datong-- but in this case implicit, and actually two dimensional. So these triangles that descend to the control joints, for example in the brick, which are sheared and displaced and it's quite interesting in other ways-- but the point I wanted to make is that there is a kind of suggestion of panelization, even of curvature, of texture, which is over and beyond the chiseled profile extruded form that we initially understand the saw teeth to produce. So here 3D and 2D are mixed. OK, and this is the conclusion. The contest of furnishing is highly politicized and exciting. But the really interesting part for me, though, was to see how the programmatic interdisciplinary and the autonomies struggle in certain ways to bring about different kinds of surveillance of the space and inter-relation of activities, finally also to be in awe of the great lady, and to have spaces that link back to productions that are off site, and also in the building-- the Fab Lab and other things through the Media Center in the building. Sorry, that's the Media Center. And this is my last slide wherein I just want to show you one thing that I like very, very much, which is that despite all the normativity, some very unexpected things that happen. I have to trace one line for you, and you will get what the whole idea of the project is. And that is this line-- if we follow the railing, despite the fact that we're looking at two sets of autonomous ramps, not spiraling, not Tel Aviv, not [? ta ?] [? ewen ?], not Guggenheim, but just two sets of offset ramps-- something else connects them that changes them quite significantly, and that is this. Watch how this happens. We have a railing here. It goes up the other side of the stair. It's now on the outside of the stair, comes around here, and it comes around there. We're still just on the same level. We go back down the stair. We're now on the inner side of the rail, and we're on the lower ramp, and all the way down until it concludes. It concludes the way this does. So a single line binds what are otherwise broken systems. And in this sense, in fact we do achieve the kind of geometrical autonomy we desired and thought we never could have by accident and on purpose. Thank you. [applause] Our final presenter is Vittoria Di Palma, Assistant Professor at the University of Southern California School of Architecture. Vittoria specializes in modern European architectural history and theory, with particular focus in 18th century and 19th century architecture, early modern land use and landscape, and contemporary landscape theory and design. She is the co-editor of Intimate Metropolis: Urban Subjects in the Modern City, and the sole author of Wasteland, a History, which was awarded the 2015 JB Jackson Prize sponsored by the Foundation for Landscape Studies and the Lewis Gottschalk prize, which is awarded by the American Society for 18th Century Studies, among other awards. Please join me in welcoming Vittoria. [applause] Thank you very much. I have the enviable position of being the last presentation between you and your lunch. So I wanted to first thank [? maryann ?] Adam and Justin for the invitation to participate in this year's Cambridge Talks. I also wanted to thank Eric [? canaginski ?] for suggesting my name, and to Dean Mostafavi for hosting the event. Now I was asked to come here today to speak to you about two things, one being the book that I recently published, Wasteland, comma, a History, the second being how my book might relate to a larger set of issues having to do with landscape as a scale of investigation and its relation to notions of disciplinary. So in my time this morning, I'll aim to speak to both of those questions. So my interest in the subject of wasteland was first sparked by an apparent contradiction. In the English language, the word wasteland is often used to refer to the arid desert, the frozen ice sheet, the steppe, the swamp, the heath, the moor. Yet the term wasteland is also used to characterize, in negative terms, the toxic testing ground, the empty lot, the strip mine, the deserted military installation, the industrial plant now overgrown and falling into ruin. Now in the case of the desert or the steppe, wasteland is landscape as given by Nature. And the fear it provokes is of the universal kind-- the fear of getting lost, of being at the mercy of the elements, of succumbing to starvation or thirst. In the case of the toxic industrial site or the deserted military installation, wasteland is landscape as created by culture. The fear it provokes is the reflexive one of technology run amok, of sciences as the agent of destruction rather than guarantor of order. How do we resolve this apparent contradiction? How can wasteland be culture's antithesis, as well as its product? Now, one answer is that in both cases, wasteland is a landscape that resists notion of proper or appropriate use. But this is only part of the story. Now, if we look to history-- and I'm here as a historian-- the term wasteland first achieves prominence in English in the medieval period. And it emerges out of the confluence of two distinct though eventually related traditions, the first being biblical and the second being patterns of land holding that date back to the Norman conquest. Oops, sorry I just pressed the wrong button. How do I get back to mine? Sorry, I'd like to talk about the Taubman School. OK, here we go thank you. So the Old English precursor of the word wasteland was westen. It was found principally in biblical texts, and thus had religious connotations from very early on. In early versions of both the Old and the New Testaments, the westen is a place of bodily danger and hardship. Its desolation, its harsh climate, its lack of sustenance, and its menacing creatures are so inimical to human life that merely getting out of the westen alive constitutes a miracle. The westen tests, however, not just the body, but also the soul. And survival in the westen is dependent upon God, requiring faith and submission to divine Will. And we see these connotations illustrated in Giovanni di Paolo's Saint John the Baptist Retiring To The Desert of 1454, which shows the Baptist leaving the ordered forms of the city and its surrounding fields, and going up to the jagged irregularity of the far-off mountains. And the contrast between the geometry and the irregularity vividly conveys that opposition between the comforting order of civilization and the chaotic hostility of the westen. However, in the new translation of the Bible authorized by King James in the early 17th century, westen is replaced by two words-- wilderness and wasteland. And in this version of the Bible, the term wilderness is used to refer to wild land, land without or before human presence. While the term wasteland instead is more often used to refer to land that has been ravaged or despoiled, whether by divine wrath or natural forces or human action such as war and pillage. Thus, through the enormous influence of this canonical version of the Bible, wilderness became associated with the idea of a primitive or original state of Nature, while wasteland, due to its associations with acts of devastation, was more frequently tied with the post-lapsarian landscape. But even though wasteland constituted visible proof of divine censure, the Bible also taught that it was by transforming the wasteland into a garden that redemption was to be achieved. Thus, wasteland came to have two associated sets of connotations-- it was a sign of God's wrath and a place of salvation. It was, in fact, the place through which salvation could be won. So in this way, wilderness becomes understood as the place in which the lone individual might find God, while wasteland instead becomes the landscape whose transformation by community could result in redemption for all. Now a very interesting feature of these early biblical texts is that although the wasteland is consistently described as an uninhabited and desolate place, sometimes it has mountains, cliffs, and caves, while at other times, it's simply an expanse of sand. Sometimes it's described as completely barren, while in other places it's depicted as overgrown with dense woods or a tangle of thorn and brambles. And although at times it's devoid of any form of life, at other moments it's the haunt of wild animals, or a battleground for demons and other supernatural creatures. So from the very beginning, wasteland is a category of land united not by consistent physical qualities or common elements. And in fact, we could say that one of its key characteristics is a vigorous resistance to precise definition. Now in England during the medieval and early modern periods, land was thought of in dichotomist terms. There was cultivated land, and there was wasteland. Cultivated land included arable and pasture. Wasteland was everything else. Wasteland included forest and chases, heaths and moors, marshes and fens, cliffs, rocks, and mountains. And it was a category that in England, too, accommodates a wide variety of ecologies, united primarily by their resistance to domestication, by their dearth of conventional signs of civilization such as villages, cottages, animals, or cultivated fields. And in this map here illustrating the Pilgrim's Progress, we see how the biblical notion of wasteland and the English notion of wasteland become combined with swamps, mountains, and forests becoming the starring features of Bunyan's allegorical landscape. Now within this general schema, however, wasteland also referred to a category of land within the English land holding system. And the basic unit of the system was the manor, which included the manor house, the church, the village with its tenements, as well as all of its associated fields. And these fields were divided into three different categories-- arable where they planted crops, pasture, and what was known as the common or waste. The arable and the pasture made up the cultivated areas of the manor, while the common or waste was the land that was not at that moment under cultivation, nor destined for a specific productive use. Thus, wasteland had two related meanings in the system of land tenure. It was both the uncultivated land that lay outside of each manor's holdings, as well as certain portions of the manor's own estate. So if we circle back and look at all of these associations-- the biblical, the other having to do with land holding conventions-- it is the wasteland's lack of specific physical features or characteristics that unites them all. It's a category of land that is most commonly articulated in negative terms, defined by what it is not at that particular moment. Now this also, when I was writing my book, made for a difficult methodological problem. How do you know where to draw the lines around something that itself resists definition? How do you find the common ground that allows you to identify something as that which you're setting, wasteland, and something else as not a wasteland? Precisely because wasteland could be so many things, tracing the contours of its early modern manifestations meant going to all kinds of different historical materials-- husbandry treatises and maps, utopian manifestos and paintings, guidebooks and topographical prints, natural histories and activist broadsheets, spiritual memoirs, and philosophical treatises. And what I found in my research was that although some wastelands were rocky and some were swampy, some were overgrown and others were barren, the one thing that united them all was the aversive emotional reactions that they tended to inspire. My book thus focused on three distinct kinds of early modern wastelands-- swamps, mountains, and forests-- in order to explore the central operative role played by the emotion of disgust. And this, by the way, introduced a second, major problem, which is that the common reaction to an object that elicits disgust is rejection, whether by avoiding, or spitting, or retching, or fleeing altogether. And for this, this meant that the representations of landscapes categorized as wastelands were also very hard to come by, because people tended to avoid them or just get out of the vicinity as soon as possible. And so it's not really until the value of mountains or swamps radically changes that we start to find sketches and paintings or descriptions. So wasteland's resistance to representation was another central, though for me also quite interesting, challenge. So when we turn to the case of swamps, a particularly resonant example was presented by the vast stretch of mud, mire and mere-- over 1,300 square miles of swampy territory that was located in eastern England and known as The Fens. And when I looked at early descriptions of the region, what I found was that the earth was characterized as mud, the waters as putrid, its fauna as vermin, its inhabitants as disease-ridden, and its odors as stenches. Description after description expresses, and is often written in language that's designed very specifically to elicit, reactions of a visceral disgust-- an indication that the fears provoked by swamp wastelands went far beyond mere concerns for safety, touching instead upon deeply held notions of contamination, corruption, and impurity. Drainage was the only solution. William Dugdale's two maps-- a map of the Great Level representing it as it lay drowned on the left, and a map of the Great Level drained on the right-- show the effects of an ambitious scheme that was pursued over the course of the second half of the 17th century. In the first image, we see this vast extent of fen and moor and common marsh oozing over the landscape, blanketing and obliterating its distinguishing features. In the second, we see a host of new drains that have been carved into landscape, gathering and channeling the irregular waters between parallel banks, and revealing in their wake thousands of acres of fertile plow land now divided and arranged into neat, orthogonal plots. By separating the elements and relegating them to distinct categories, dividing earth from water with ditches and dikes, this comprehensive scheme aimed to impose rational control over a wayward landscape, mitigating its power to defile by subjecting it to the discipline of private property, and making it available for agricultural development. So what the case study of swamps reveals is a visceral disgust that inspires actions involving the application of technology that are designed to transform the landscape entirely, making it conform to proto-capitalistic notions of use and productivity. Mountains, on the other hand, allow us to consider disgust and its relation to aesthetics. And here an exemplary case study is provided by Derbyshire's Peak District, one of the earliest sites of domestic tourism in England. Drawn by descriptions of the region's seven wonders, which included two caves, a chasm, two unusual springs, a quote unquote shivering mountain, and the Duke of Devonshire's House of Chatsworth, visitors came to experience these assorted aberrations of Nature and describe their experiences in terms that suggested a grand tour of Hell. One of the earliest visual representations of this area, an engraving published in Charles Leigh's The Natural History of Lancashire, Cheshire, and the Peak of Derbyshire of 1700, is a view of the cave known as Poole's Hole. And we can see here that the cave is understood according to conventions of the monstrous. And the inclusion of these other images, including the fossil up there on the left, a boy who was born with a birthmark-- a flame-shaped birthmark on his stomach-- and then this woman with horns growing out of her head, make the point clear. Yet what we find an early descriptions of the region are not just expressions of fear and revulsion, but precisely that mixture of repulsion and fascination that tends to characterize disgust in its aesthetic dimension. What this suggests is that mountains provide the template for a powerful emotional reaction that mingles repulsion and fear with attraction, a reaction that later in the century becomes theorized as the sublime. The products of this modality of disgust are artistic ones-- both literary descriptions of mountainous landscapes and works of visual art like paintings, sketches, watercolors. It's the distance inherent in the act of representation that allows for a play of horrified fascination-- that simultaneous tug of attraction and repulsion which is precisely the hallmark of the sublime. So what the case study of mountains reveals, then, is an aesthetic disgust that uses the techniques of art to generate representations-- words and images that distance the object sufficiently for it to become an object of pleasurable and perhaps even frisson-generating contemplation. When we turn to forests, however, the questions change. Unlike swamps and mountains, which were understood as wastelands given by Nature, English forests were instead wastelands created by culture. By the second half of the 17th century, the forests of England had been decimated by unscrupulous tree felling, the growth of the iron and glass industries, and by the upheavals of the Civil War. What we find in the literature on forests of the time is that disgust is not directed at the landscape, but rather to the people were judged as misusing it. Furthermore, condemnation of particular activities within the space of the forest went hand in hand with social distinctions. So we find that hunting, an elite activity associated with the Crown, was allowed, while forging, poaching, wood gathering, agriculture and forest clearings, and building construction-- all practiced for the most part by commoners-- were proscribed. And here in Gainsborough's Cornard Wood, we see exactly various commoners engaging in all of these kinds of activities. So looking at forest thus furnishes an early example of human industry being identified as harmful, rather than as beneficial, and reveals the articulation of a moral disgust directed at the works and actions of humans, rather than at the pre-cultural landscape itself. The solution to the waste of England's primeval forest was a campaign of tree planting spearheaded by Royal Society Fellow and horticultural enthusiast John Evelyn. Evelyn's magisterial Sylva of 1664, probably the greatest book on trees and forest ever published in the English language, was written to encourage wealthy landowners to plant trees on their estates for economic, strategic, and aesthetic reasons. And here, Cassiobury was one of the very first to implement this. And you can see the combination of tree plantations-- kind of economic-- but also which are designed aesthetically in order to provide spaces for walks and recreation. So in the case of forests, we find a moral disgust directed at the actions of humans that inspires the deployment of a form of gardening that is understood in redemptive terms. Planting trees would atone for the sins of an unscrupulous culture, and produce an Elysian Britannicum, a new Eden, proof positive that the nation or at the very least its wealthy landowners had been saved. In recent years, the reclamation or rehabilitation of post-industrial sites that are often characterized in both the professional and popular press as wastelands has emerged as one of the most critical tasks confronting landscape architects, urban planners, and architects today. Transforming derelict post-industrial areas into flourishing public parks intends to radically redefine former sites of labor as contemporary sites of leisure. And this is a trend motivated not only by economic and practical concerns. And it's clear that there are broader cultural reasons for the recent proliferation and high profiles of such projects. Establishing or sometimes a claim to reestablishing what we used to call Nature on tracts of land despoiled by industry loads landscape design with a moral charge. Reclaiming, restoring, redeeming these kinds of sites speaks volumes about our contemporary crisis of faith in technology, and about our continuing belief in the healing powers of Nature. Now we do not understand landscape today in the same ways as early modern British men and women did. However, I would argue that even though their fens have become our wetlands and their dangers have become our risks, even though climate change has collapsed any lingering distinctions between Nature and culture, and that we now understand ourselves as united within a common global ecosystem, we continue to react towards landscapes we designate as wastelands in strikingly similar ways. We continue to look to science and technology for solutions to the threats posed by toxic, polluted, and by extension polluting landscapes, just as they did with their swamps. We continue to use art to generate pleasure when we contemplate oil spills, strip mines, slag heaps, and garbage dumps, just as they did with their mountains. And we still use gardening, or landscape design as we now call it, to redeem landscapes that inspire our guilt because we have laid them waste, just as they did with their forests. What a historical perspective can do is to make us aware that a particular constellation of associations has been embedded in the concept of wasteland from the very beginning. It can make us cognizant of our own inherited notions, and allow us to identify them when they surface in our own attitudes and actions today. Now what do we do with this critical awareness? Can it be used to forge new attitudes, new actions, and new ideas? I hope so. Wasteland has always been a category not of land, but of the imagination. And as an idea, wasteland is closely intertwined with notions of contestation and resistance. As wild land, it resists civilization. As useless land, it resists commodification. When desolate and barren, it resists cultivation. When wild and overgrown, it resists domestication. As common land, it resists notions of private property. And as part of a casual or underground domestic economy, it resists regulation and quantification. Wasteland is an abstract category, its definition dependent on the assumptions and values of its beholders and would-be users. To call something a wasteland is an act that involves all of the categories or terms that have been invoked in this symposium-- power, space, institutions, and crisis. But what is necessary, I think, to forge new attitudes and new ideas is an approach that takes into account these histories of contestation, these power dynamics, and one that allows the history of the wasteland to be written by both outsiders and insiders. At the same time that wasteland challenges us, teaches us the limits of our powers, stands as witness to our mistakes, it also offers its own particular attractions. And this is something I think also that's important to keep in mind. Wasteland allows us also to speak of the lure of the useless, of the marginal, of the dangerous. As a landscape apart, wasteland offers us an oblique vantage point from which to view and project the landscapes of our future, and hopefully also to write new stories of contested ground. Thank you. [applause] Thank you so much. So I'd now like to invite all of our speakers to the table. And we'll have a discussion moderated by Dean Mostafavi. and at 12:45, we will break for lunch. We need to hurry. Thank you all very much. I know time is running late, and I really do want us to kind of open this up very, very quickly. Just a couple of things from me. I want to thank all the speakers, really, for all their presentations. There are two ways to take the conversation, it seems to me. One is really to see the presentations as exemplars of the topic in the sense that scale is being discussed in relation to disciplines, and the idea of-- or the question which is being asked somehow in a kind of polemical fashion-- about whether we are also entering in a sort of post-disciplinary moment in terms of research, since this is also being discussed in the context of a PhD program. The other one is to be more literal, and to take scale as scale-- as a measure of something. And I do want to emphasize that also, a little bit, and to bring it back, in a way, more towards the kind of things that Justin was most discussing at the beginning, which I think has been the kind of the aim of the session. I was going to say, when one started architecture school a long time ago, the first thing that you got was a scale. You got this thing that you then negotiated your relationship to your world initially through this scale that you were given. And it was basically the way in which you translated what you thought you could do, what you imagined, and what you could draw. And that idea of the scale, of scale as something which is very specific to do with conditions of measurement, to do with sizes, dimensions-- of course there's that whole history of scale in relation to questions of proportion, and so on which becomes very, very critical-- is deeply embedded in the way in which, then, we also have the question of scale reflected in architecture and the idea of the object or the role of the building-- the notion of urban design as something that's bigger than architecture, because it's mediating between architecture and the city, but it's not the same as planning, because planning is dealing with something bigger. And therefore, there is this intermediary scale of urban design and what is it? And what is the architecture of urban design, and so on? And then there is really the question of the relationship of landscape, which has been going through a lot of transformations. Because in some ways, you could argue that the scale of landscape has also shifted from being much more focused on what was called gardens and parks to now dealing also with territorial scales, which is what planning in some ways was doing. Therefore, the understanding of these scales and their limits-- because on one level, you also have the way in which architecture itself operates at multiple scales of the Victorian house that exists at little scale, middle scale, big scale, and so on-- these limits have also created new forms of relationalities where you get, as Steve mentioned, for example, with megastructures, where you actually arrive at certain structures that it's ambiguous whether they're really buildings or they're parts of cities, and so on. Therefore I would like to get the speakers to sort of situate their own presentations in the context of the original brief, which was about this question of scale in relation to discipline. And now open it up to you rather than me talking much longer to see, because you've been wonderful and very patient. And we've had very, very inspiring presentations. But I wonder what your reflections are in terms of this whole issue of scale disciplines and whether we are in a post-disciplinary moment. And then if you don't ask any questions, then I'll ask. But there's already, yes, please. Thank you very much. Sorry for sort of jumping in so quickly. So I was actually-- I recently finished my PhD, actually, at the University of Michigan in Architecture. So I spent seven years in that building, so I have quite a personal connection to it. And it is a pretty terrible building. And of course, I know about some of the power struggles you alluded to. So you have my condolences, Mr Professor Scott Cohen. I guess I just wanted to sort of-- at the risk of being selfish-- I'm not there any more, but many of my friends in the doctoral studies in both architecture and planning still are. And a few years ago, when they were running out of space-- which I guess is kind of the reason you got hired in the first place, because they bought all these new digital digi-fab machines and they needed more space. So somebody had to lose their space. And as it turned out, it was the doctoral students who got kicked out of the building, which I'm sorry say to say, was a pretty accurate reflection of the Taubman College administration's lack of respect or lack of valuing their doctoral programs and their doctoral students. You know we're taping this, right? Be careful. And you can quote me on that. And so we the doctoral students, which is about 40 of us, we were pushed into like another building North Campus. We got a space in the basement of the building with no windows. I'm not making this up. [laughter] We really were stuck in the basement with no windows. And so for the sake of my friends, I'm no longer there, but for the sake of my fellow doctoral students there, I really hope you can give them some wonderful spaces in your new wing, with windows with their own shared offices, and just do a great job for them. You may already be aware of some of this sort of stuff going on, but I really hope that you can give them a great-- I mean, to be in the building really makes you feel like you're part of the community of Taubman College. And when we were kicked out of the building, and we really thought that was a reflection of-- So much for me trying to make it more polemical. [laughter] I'll be fast, because this is really off topic, in a way, of the bigger question here. Although it does involve the PhD group-- tragic conclusions came when we arrived here. We had our proposal for those spaces, for offices to be in very desirous positions. We did manage to evacuate a lot of program in the old building to give to them, back to them, but it's not optimal space, in my opinion. I can't claim that it is. There is an area that had been faculty offices that will now be the PhD offices on the second floor. It's not wonderful, but the PhD program also will have its own lounge. It has a new library annex that is inside the new building. And the colloquial configuration that we tried to create in the main space is intended to be the place where arguments with multiple constituencies going to have an event [? that's going to occur that ?] are not dark room for slides, but open to the public for debate and the kinds of things that the PhD people will initiate there, the kind of conferences that they will have. So they are stationed in the building again, but it's not the best. [inaudible] They'll have about three. No, I think the PhD situation is not optimal. I'll confess to you the dispute between whether it would be new faculty offices or new PhD offices, you know how that turns out if you can only have one or the other. [inaudible] Sorry. My question is actually to all four of you. And I'm going to try to formulate this in a coherent way. But it struck me as I was listening to each and every one of you that next to scale was also the question of the commons, or common ground, or common cause. When-- I turn to you immediately, Scott. Of course you described a Commons. And Vittoria, I guess my question is a little bit more historical, and you know how to answer this and educate me about this, but when you look at the debates on enclosure, the commons also is subject, pushed and pulled between being vilified and being celebrated. And that has to do somehow deeply with class. And I'd love to hear more about what those descriptions inspired is another kind of liminal zone, or I'm not quite sure. Mark, you talk about a sort of utopian moment that represented your generation coming out of a PhD program. And this moment when history of modernism could lay claim to discourse, yielding something that was monstrous, perhaps, and that has no common ground, but has fallen simply squarely into ideology, nation state. And [? yves, ?] looking at those wonderful maps, and seeing a kind of elite that is building the so-called public buildings, the school or whatever-- where is common there in this kind of multi-scalar study that you are taking on? Can I ask you all to be very brief? Because I can see that that's going to take us to 12:45. So just thanks. OK, brief-- the common-- well again, it's sort of all about context isn't it? The common is-- I mean, within the power structure of that place, the people who built the city were those who had been disempowered, actually. They're the local Muslim population who had neither money nor land. Baku was part of Russia, so there was a different elite governing. And it was this group of people who actually acquired land, and built their city, and built the culture. Because the Nobels and the Rothschilds and so forth were actually following that system that existed throughout the world of extracting and exporting. So that's, I guess, the commons there. There's no way that I can do justice to your question in this is very short amount of time. But I think it is an interesting way of finding common ground between us. And I guess what I would simply say is, what I found very interesting was certainly in the early history, wasteland and common are absolutely synonymous. They're both these undefined, essentially undefined kinds of landscape which are then open to many kind of uses. The interesting-- and it depends on what your perspective is how you're then labeling it. And if you're labeling it, then, a common, it also necessarily involves a particular articulation of rights-- rights not of ownership, but rights of use. And so necessarily, you're talking about rights. You're talking about a community. You're talking about a group of people. These are the kind of conversations that circulate around the common. And clearly, then there's a whole history of enclosure and efforts to wipe that out. But I do find it interesting, also-- and this has to do with our current attempts at having a kind of global discourse, and the way in which this notion of the common has emerged also in academia. And the way in which you could think about commons and then this question of disciplinarity-- how those two might come together or not. You, Mark. Yeah, it's a good question. I guess in the brutality of shortness of time here, which is actually a good thing, I would say the common cause-- I don't know where-- I have a sense that in some sense, the great mobilization that took place in the '80s to produce common cause around the question of modernism and to champion that, and its history and its theory and all these type of things-- is sort of running into a type of a stationary position. And if we think of disciplinary projects, when we can say we can critique discipline, or we can sort of jump ship and try to make something a bit different. And I'm a little bit nervous that disciplinary critiques are just too soft. I mean, disciplinary critiques were-- in the '70s and '80s, it was like open territory. Everyone knew that the canon was finished. So you could just make stuff. You could make PhD programs in the '70s. I mean, now to make PhD programs, I mean, in various places in the United States, they're making PhD programs. And they're so vastly different from what happened in the '70s, and so weird as these programs in a particular way, and so implausible in this particular way. Because they're trying to just do interdisciplinarity. And it's like one of here, one of this, one of this. And that's not a PhD program. A PhD program has got to have some spine. It's got to chop lumber. And I think in the 70's, there was a lot of lumber to chop. And you feel like you're making something. And now, the houses are built. And they're are built out of wood anymore. Now they're out of concrete. And I'm very worried about that in some sense, just intellectually as an intellectual problem. So the common cause is, can we say, OK is that been there done that, which is dangerous? Because I'm the last person to want to abandon a PhD program. I'm not saying that. But is there something we can get out of that, and look at it in a particular way that maybe looks to a different future? So that common cause is something that has no commonality yet, I would say. I mean, If we're only going to talk about only on the thematics of whatever that global promise was. But I don't know what Scott [inaudible], but just to-- the picture that you painted was very bleak. And I don't actually know whether the picture is that bleak in terms of practice, because one of the things that seems to be happening now, that wasn't happening 10 or 15 years ago-- at least, that's what I see in terms of some of the work in the school-- when people are traveling, or they're going to places, or they're engaging in projects, the nature of participation now is very different than the idea of international style or the kind of global project as a hegemonic project. And therefore, there seems to be a very different sense of understanding things when people do projects in China or India or South America. And to me, that's also part of a global engagement-- the understanding of things in other places and the incorporation of those ideas locally. And I see that as a positive thing in a way. But I think your picture-- it's always like the descriptions of some Indian school or something, which comes across as very, very sort of oversimplistic. And you kind of gloat at that. But actually, that's not the reality. I mean, I think that that's not what's happening in schools. In schools, there seems to be a level of subtlety and sophistication that's taking place which actually is global. It is sort of transnational in aspiration. So why are you so pessimistic? Or to put it another way, I mean, if we were to have had the internet, and had seen the proliferation of images of architecture in any decade of this century prior to the internet, wouldn't it have also generated the same response from you? I mean, if I'd had the internet in the '50s, you looked at all these buildings and just none of that matters, I mean, you'd reduce all the specificity of every project in all those images to dust because of the internet. And I think you could do that with anything at any time. You could have done it. That's why I said-- What's the point? I don't get it. That's why I said that this was a heuristic. And I think I also said that obviously, there was a danger in that, I think. So I'm not trying to say that that is anything real. I'm trying to use this artifice to generate conversation. The last 10 years or so, architecture-- I'm a huge fan. I love this stuff. I mean, I'm not in any way trying to sort of say that it's-- Actually, the architectural stuff looked better than the art, I thought. And I think architecture has opened up in a very real way, in a very perceptible way, globally. And I agree completely with that. So I don't want to sort of see these as collisions. I guess my question is more a bit of a-- I don't want to get us to get into the sense where, if we live in a global world, and if we're moving students around, and we can do this stuff, I think there is sort of like a native intelligence and a native pedagogical emergence will always produce creativity that we can sort of build on in our institutions. And that will be there, and I think the younger generation has sort of developed a voice that is very profound and very great. And in fact, my point is in some sense that the institution, when I think of the history project, the critical project, is sort of and in fact behind that. We like to think that we're a part of that contemporary world. But I think this the critical project of how history theory works has to catch up and be part of that. Because if that just happens in isolation, then the world that was so carefully and so magisterially produced in the last 20 years will wind up leveraging off into other things. So it's a slowness of the history theory project, because of its methodological nature, because of its attempt to capture these things in a more rigorous way. There's always one tenure generation behind, if you will. So there's going to be a tenure lag before some of the issues that I think are completely relevant to this generation are going to be put onto their doorstep as well. [inaudible] You don't think the-- I'm not trying to lay down [inaudible]. I was trying to-- [inaudible] understood the question. I think we are part of-- our culture is part of a problem of how to get to types of critiques that are not in the academe. And the way to do that is to, in fact, look at ourselves as well as part of the problem, if you will, as well as always exporting it to other types of things, which we normally would do. I'm trying to sort of problemitize our own productions a little bit, to avoid a type of operative confidence that I would question. Michael-- is anybody else, by the way, who will ask a question before we break? Or are you all-- I can. Yes, that's good. Then we'll do a very quick one if Justin-- Quick, but there is a crisis for me, at least, in the way we think about how to do global history. And it has to do with two things-- that the way, it seems to me, fundamentally the architecture that we know how to teach, most of us here, is because of very particular formations in Florence in the Quatrocento-- one, and which is really a totally artificial starting point-- and two, Hegel. And then, well, and one more, which is that the Western relation to religion-- I think Vittoria makes a really good point-- that it basically goes back to how we map the world in terms of a sort of contract with God. The Judeo-Christian and Islamic contract with God is something that moves through time with a promise at the end. Whereas in India, it's about recreating the moment of creation. It's a totally different understanding of our relation to the world that architecture comes out of. And it seems to me that it's not right to try to teach global architecture according to a Western Hegelian model that doesn't scan on in any way to architecture outside Western-- the beginning of the Renaissance. Maybe we can get Brian to have the-- and then we can-- As much an observation as a question, too-- I think to the same point, the interesting thing about the four presentations is the richest, most fine, and I would say convincing description actually came in a small scale, or the scale of detail-- the kind of solving of a small problem. And there are privileges that we give to a certain scale. But one interesting thing that I was struck by was that at least the right three of you tended to actually analyze at a pretty finite scale, not at a grandiose scale. And I don't know if that tells us that that's disciplinarily the tool that's most effective, or if it's just your own biases. But it was striking. Any reflections on those comments about global? Yeah, I wish I could talk more about it, but actually, it is so true that the minutia of a fire curtain, or how furniture is going to fit, and the real estate of rotating chairs, and convincing people the rotation of a wheelchair or the stacking that will have to-- is justification for certain kinds of otherwise thought to be wasted space. You have to kind of legitimize everything at that scale. And it ends up reverberating at the scale of the whole University of Planning-- at that scale. So in terms of who gets what, and how everything is allocated, the big square footage allocation scale, the political definition of scale depends on the little stuff. Any thoughts or more kind of projective what some recommendations or suggestions rather than diagnostic solutions? Or do you do have some thoughts for us, Mark? We need a lot more issue theory people. [laughter] I mean, we are so undermanned, so understaffed, so under-represented, so, you know, deprived of a critical mass to sort of engage these issues at a time exactly when I would say that it could be an amazing moment of time-- just as powerful a moment of time as it was sort of back in the '80s, so to speak. And yet, what do we have to work with? We have to work with models that come from the '80s, instead of models that come from the 21st century. And I want a model that works with the 21st century, and with 21st century problems and 21st century ideas, not with 1980 problems. We've got to get you to spend more time with your friend Erica. [laughter] I think that this morning started very, very optimistically and very positively, with all of you having jobs all over the planet from Singapore to Yale to New Mexico. And it seems that there's no shortage of enthusiasm for the work that you're doing. And I think that that seems like a really positive thing. I think that in the school, I actually feel that there is a great deal of enthusiasm for the kind of work that you are doing, that is being done. For the sake of our own sort of label, and the way that we try to characterize these things, we've been talking about it a lot in terms of the reference to this session, about the kind of the focus on disciplinary knowledge, which is what I think all of you are focusing on, but really trans-disciplinary practices or interdisciplinary practices, and making a distinction between the necessity of what you were saying about the close reading, but also forms of practice, forms of participation that are reaching out to other disciplines, and are trans-disciplinary and are interdisciplinary. I think that seems to be a really kind of positive way-- at the moment, at least, in the absence of any other alternative recommendations-- to sort of move forward that, plus the fact it de facto also involves geographies, involves multiple locations, and the intersection of those methods and modes of work and disciplines, as well as kind of geography, seems like a positive thing. So I hope that we will be able to collaborate and work at these multiple scales. And maybe in the afternoon, there'll be an opportunity to also raise this question when everybody's discussing the questions of institutions. So once again, thanks to all of our wonderful speakers and to all of you, and lunch is awaiting. [applause] sujet dissertation finances publiques Hostos Community College, South Bronx.

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