Re-imagining Spaces and Places: Interdisciplinary Essays on the Relationship Between Identity, Space, and Place 1800717385, 9781800717381

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Re-Imagining Spaces and Places

Emerald Interdisciplinary Connexions

Series Editor Rob Fisher, Director of Progressive Connexions

Editorial Board Ann-Marie Cook, Principal Policy and Legislation Officer, Queensland Department of Justice and Attorney General, Australia Teresa Cutler-Broyles, Director of Programmes, Progressive Connexions John Parry, Edward Brunet Professor of Law, Lewis and Clark Law School, USA Karl Spracklen, Professor of Music, Leisure and Culture, Leeds Beckett University, UK

About the Series Emerald Interdisciplinary Connexions promotes innovative research and encourages exemplary interdisciplinary practice, thinking and living. Books in the series focus on developing dialogues between disciplines and among disciplines, professions, practices and vocations in which the interaction of chapters and authors is of paramount importance. They bring cognate topics and ideas into orbit with each other whilst simultaneously alerting readers to new questions, issues and problems. The series encourages interdisciplinary interaction and knowledge sharing and, to this end, promotes imaginative collaborative projects which foster inclusive pathways to global understandings.

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places: Interdisciplinary Essays on the Relationship between Identity, Space, and Place EDITED BY STEFANO ROZZONI University of Bergamo, Italy

BEITSKE BOONSTRA Erasmus University Rotterdam, The Netherlands

And TERESA CUTLER-BROYLES University of New Mexico, USA

United Kingdom – North America – Japan – India – Malaysia – China

Emerald Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2022 Editorial Matter and Selection © 2022 Stefano Rozzoni, Beitske Boonstra and Teresa CutlerBroyles Individual chapters © 2022 the Author/s Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited. Reprints and permissions service Contact: [email protected] No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying issued in the UK by The Copyright Licensing Agency and in the USA by The Copyright Clearance Center. Any opinions expressed in the chapters are those of the authors. Whilst Emerald makes every effort to ensure the quality and accuracy of its content, Emerald makes no representation implied or otherwise, as to the chapters’ suitability and application and disclaims any warranties, express or implied, to their use. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-80071-738-1 (Print) ISBN: 978-1-80071-737-4 (Online) ISBN: 978-1-80071-739-8 (Epub)

Table of Contents

About the Contributors

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Preface

xi

Acknowledgments

Introduction Stefano Rozzoni, Beitske Boonstra and Teresa Cutler-Broyles Chapter 1 How Public Participation Can Lead to the Placemaking of Space and Resilience of Place Nakul Nitin Gote and Wolfgang Wende Chapter 2 Al-Tahrir Square, Cairo during 2011, from Undefined Space to Interactive Place Khaled I. Nabil

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1

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Chapter 3 Imprisonment of Public Space Esra Akbalık

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Chapter 4 Kuwait National Assembly Building: The Holy Assembly Anas Alomaim and Dana Alhasan

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Chapter 5 Place before Form, People before Profit: Reclaiming Venues of Art and Culture in the Midst of Tourism-Centred Reimaging of Cities Sami Chohan Chapter 6 Power, Cosmopolitanism, and Socio-Spatial Division in the Commercial Arena in Victorian and Edwardian London Elisabete Mendes Silva

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Table of Contents

Chapter 7 “A Place Perfectly Accordant with Man’s Nature”: Violent Spaces in the Fiction of Thomas Hardy Olivia Krauze

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Chapter 8 Rising Cittagna(s): A Dialogue between Literature and Urbanism in Contemporary (Post-)Pastoral Cityscapes Stefano Rozzoni

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Chapter 9 Rewilding My Garden and Community Activities Angela Specht

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Conclusion Stefano Rozzoni, Beitske Boonstra and Teresa Cutler-Broyles

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Index

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About the Contributors

Esra Akbalık is an Architect and works as an Assistant Professor in the Department of Architecture, Do˘gus¸ University, Istanbul, Turkey. She completed her PhD in 2017 with her thesis titled Architectural Artifacts and Starchitects in Global Geographies. Tangible and intangible processes of space production, politics and urban space, neoliberal discourse, and its spatial reflections compose her main research interests. She instructs third-year architectural design studios and offers elective courses including Social Aspects of Architecture, Architecture-Reading and Writing and Space, Participation and Design. She embraces architecture as a tool that helps to understand the emancipation and power relations in societies. Dana Alhasan is an Architect and Educator from Kuwait, with a background in city planning and heritage conservation. After graduating with a B. Arch from Kuwait University in 2011, she worked at Kuwait Municipality and then went on to pursue an MSc in Architecture (2017) that explored the role of collective memory on heritage conservation. She later joined the National Council for Culture, Arts, and Letters focusing on modern architectural heritage. For the past three years Dana has been teaching at the College of Architecture at Kuwait University. Anas Alomaim is an Assistant Professor of Architecture and the acting Vice Chair of the Department of Architecture, College of Architecture, Kuwait University. After finishing his Master of Architecture and Urban Design at Columbia University, he moved to California to pursue his PhD at the University of California, Los Angeles where he worked on the history of nation building in Kuwait. Alomaim worked in several companies and institutions in London, New York City, Los Angeles, and Kuwait. Besides working as an architect and an educator, Alomaim has curated, cocurated, and participated in several art and architecture exhibitions in Los Angeles, New York, Dubai, and Kuwait. Sami Chohan is an Architect, Urban thinker, and Educator based in Karachi, Pakistan. His research and pedagogical interests explore emerging spatial perspectives, practices, and productions that resist and counter the hegemonic spatial developments promoted by neoliberal policies, particularly in the Global South. He currently serves as Assistant Professor in the Department of Architecture, Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture, where he teaches both studio and seminar courses through disciplinary synthesis and interactions. He has also served as curator of the first-ever National Pavilion of Pakistan in the 2018 edition

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of the Venice Biennale of Architecture. Titled The Fold, the national exhibition project was inspired by the physical and social dimensions of the many informal settlements embedded in the fabric of Karachi. Sami holds a Bachelor of Architecture from Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture, and a Master of ¨ Technik Stuttgart with Arts in Interior Architectural Design from Hochschule fur ˙ ¨ an exchange semester at Istanbul Teknik Universitesi. Olivia Krauze is a researcher in English at Trinity College, Cambridge, and Deputy Editor of the interdisciplinary journal Romance, Revolution and Reform. Olivia’s research interests include sexuality, violence, the emotions and affect, medicine and science, and the novel. Her PhD thesis, provisionally entitled “‘Violent Emotion’ in the Nineteenth-Century Realist Novel, c 1850-1900,” sets out to deconstruct and situate this concept within a larger emerging discourse of Victorian medical writing on the emotions. She has previously written and presented on Thomas Hardy, George Eliot, Wilkie Collins, W. T. Stead, and nineteenth-century pornography. Khaled I. Nabil, Professor of Architecture, obtained his BSc in Architectural Engineering from Alexandria University in 1981 and his Master’s Degree later from Zagazig University in Egypt. He received his PhD in Architecture from Cairo University, Egypt, with the collaboration of Pennsylvania State University, in 1995. He has been practicing architectural design and construction supervision since graduation and became a Housing Design Consultant in 1996. He has won several architectural competitions. Since 2006, Dr Nabil has been a Professor of Architecture and Building Technology. Professor Nabil believes in technological innovation, and has succeeded to register six US Patents. Furthermore, Professor Nabil has recently published a book titled: Building Technology of Affordable Housing. He has a wide professional and academic experience, which entitled him to teach at 11 different universities in Egypt and abroad. He is currently teaching at Zagazig and British University in Egypt. His publications are at his site: www.khalednabil.net. Dr-Ing Nakul Nitin Gote, born in Pune, India, completed his postgraduate work in Urban and Rural Planning at the Indian Institute of Technology, Roorkee (IITR), during which his thesis was awarded by the Indian Institute of Town Planners. Thereafter, he joined the Technische Universit¨at Dresden (TUD), Germany, where he pursued his doctoral research under the aegis of the Leibniz Institute of Ecological Urban and Regional Development (IOER). His focus during his doctoral research, and ever since, has been on governance, urban resilience, and systems thinking. Nakul’s research interest lies in the application of systems theory for addressing the problems faced by urban systems in a rapidly changing world. In his spare time, he likes to marvel at the parallels between modern scientific insights and the wise words of ancient seekers and philosophers. Stefano Rozzoni is a PhD candidate in “Transcultural Studies in Humanities” at the University of Bergamo, Italy, in cotutelle with Justus-Liebig-Universit¨at Gießen, Germany, where he is a member of the International PhD Program “Literary and Cultural Studies,” and an affiliate member of the European

About the Contributors

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doctoral program PhdNet “Literary and Cultural Studies.” He is also a member of the Research Group “Ecology and the Study of Culture” at the Graduate Center for the Study of Culture (GCSC) in Gießen. His research interests focus on ecocriticism, posthuman studies, British Modernism, Virginia Woolf, and pastoral poetry. Elisabete Mendes Silva is Assistant Professor in the Department of Foreign Languages at the Polytechnic Institute of Bragança, Portugal, where she teaches English Language and Culture. She holds a PhD in English Literature and Culture studies. In her MA studies she specialized in English Culture. She has been a researcher at University of Lisbon Centre for English Studies since 2005. Her main areas of interest include Culture studies, English Culture, History of Ideas, Political Thought, and Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL). She has published widely in the areas of English culture, TEFL, and TELL. She is the coeditor of Teaching Crossroads. She has been involved in several international projects (e.g., Intact; AduLeT: CTwoSEAS; QuILL) within the Erasmus1 programme since 2012. Angela Specht is an Academic Coordinator in the Master of Arts-Interdisciplinary Studies program at Athabasca University (Alberta, Canada). She teaches in the community studies and governance and is focus area steward for Community Studies. She received her PhD from the University of Alberta (Edmonton, Alberta). In her spare time, she is an avid photographer, birder, gardener, volunteer, and loving caregiver to her elderly mom. Wolfgang Wende is a Landscape Planner who studied at the Technical University Berlin (TUB). After he graduated with a Diploma of Planning Engineering, he followed a doctorate fellowship of the State of Berlin for young scientists. From 2006 to 2008 he was announced as a visiting professor at TUB. His additional research from that time through today has focused on European Landscape Planning and International Biodiversity and Ecosystem Offsetting Systems. In 2008–2009 he changed his position to the Federal Environment Agency Germany and worked as a research officer. Since 2010 he has been a professor at the TU Dresden and head of a research area at the IOER. He possesses comprehensive international experience, for example as a visiting professor at the National University of Singapore for landscape policies and President of the German Environmental Impact Assessment Association. Wolfgang is also a member of the Leibniz Citizens Science Network.

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Preface

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places: Interdisciplinary Essays on the Relationship between Identity, Space, and Place is the outcome of a brilliant conference organized by Progressive Connexions that took place in Bruges, Belgium, on April 13 and 14, 2019. The aim of the event was to create an inspiring, professional, and creative environment for intellectual exchange among international scholars and other professionals from very diverse research fields, experiences, and geopolitical contexts about space- and place-related issues. The quality of the presentations and the generous transdisciplinary discussions among the participants immediately revealed the potentials of the preliminary studies offered during the event: therefore, the possibility of creating a collection of chapters based on the conference papers seemed natural. Yet this book should not be considered as a mere combination of conference proceedings; rather it represents a self-sustaining publishing project that includes work deriving from a full reelaboration, rewriting, re-thinking, and reimagination of the groundwork achieved in Bruges. The ethos of Progressive Connexions reminds us that, “interdisciplinary experiences [are] rooted in the values of inclusiveness, egalitarianism, collegiality and critical inquiry [which are…] pushing the boundaries of perceptions and insights which shape the world.”1 Along this line, this volume serves as evidence of how a dialogue – or, rather, a multi-logue – among different perspectives on key cultural concepts, such as space, place, and identity, is highly productive and greatly needed when reflecting on the world that we inhabit. Over time, the concepts of spaces and places have been widely debated in the academic and professional world. Yet there remain opportunities and margins for (ever-) new understandings and reframings of well-established assumptions regarding these themes. This belief clearly emerged from the authors when they met physically in Belgium in 2019, and a similar consideration accompanied the editorial process of this volume. Moreover, the recent pandemic has made it even more relevant how familiar notions, habits, and rooted knowledge concerning spatiality can become objects of sudden, crucial transformation. Writing, editing, and finessing the chapters during the pandemic has thus fostered the idea that reimagining spaces and places is a fundamental operation for responding to the

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Progressive connexions. (n.d). Retrieved from https://www.progressiveconnexions.net/ ethos/. Accessed on August 25, 2021.

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many crises of our times. In this sense, the present book stresses the idea of reimagining spaces and places as a way for inspiring its readers to find unexpected strengths and overcome the ever-new challenges that they face. In spite of all these challenges, editing the present volume was a particularly motivating and engaging process, especially due to the positive attitude of the contributors and to the great assistance provided by the publishing team. Therefore, this book, which is the result of an unexpected connection of minds and bodies, has come to represent a progressive collective work as well as the end of a journey that will hopefully inspire future studies and encourage innovative encounters for discussing spaces and places among scholars from all over the world.

Acknowledgments

Acknowledgment is due to Emerald Publishing Ltd. for believing in this project and for giving the editors the unique opportunity to materially (and digitally) bring this book into the world. The work of all the publishing assistants and copy editors has been wonderful. Thanks to Susanne Schotanus for her attentive readings of the chapters and valuable suggestions regarding the book’s structure. And thanks to Lorraine Rumson for the manuscript revisions, and to all the people involved in the publication of this book: your prompt and kind support has been integral to its successful completion. We also exhibit our gratitude to Progressive Connexions, which allowed for the inspiring Spaces and Places Conference in Bruges, Belgium, in April 2019. This gathering provided the initial spark for what became this collection. In particular, many thanks to Teresa Cutler-Broyles, the soul of this event, and the first fan of the wonderful presentations delivered during the conference: it is due to your intuition that nine of these preliminary studies on spaces and places have now become brilliant chapters in the present book. Thanks as well to Beitske Boonstra for your insights and perceptions which lent us clarity as we moved forward. And to Stefano Rozzoni for your tireless work, your inspiration in ensuring that these chapters came together in wonderful conversation, and for your always encouraging words, thank you. Without you, we would not be here. Finally, we would like to thank all the contributors of this collection. Even though the years since the conference have been challenging – especially due to the twists and turns caused by the pandemic, which has prolonged the timing of this publication – the contributors of this volume have exhibited a tenacity that can only be admired. Their openness to our suggestions and their promptness in embracing our requests has not only been inspiring, but it has also been greatly appreciated. Finally, it has made our editorial job easier, allowing for our own personal and professional growth as well.

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Introduction Stefano Rozzoni, Beitske Boonstra and Teresa Cutler-Broyles

“Deterritorialization is never simple but always multiple and composite,” as well as “inseparable from correlative reterritorializations.”1 Through these words, which rely on space-and-place-related metaphoric language, Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari summarize some key issues of their philosophical perspective: on the one hand, they shed light on the importance of negotiating established conceptual structures, viewpoints, and assumptions regarding cultural phenomena (deterritorialization); on the other hand, the two philosophers highlight how a similar intellectual operation always involves the reassessments of new truths and beliefs, which, in turn, also deserve to be rediscussed through ever-new perspectives (reterritorialization). Beyond offering a useful presentation of Deleuze and Guattari’s critical scope, this quote also serves as a valuable tool for reflecting on the process of constant transformation that entails important cultural concepts – such as space and place – especially when their complexities are analyzed under specific analytical lenses. Studying controversial notions such as “space” and “place” through the logic of de-/reterritorialization is particularly useful because it allows for scholars to embrace the plethora of different, idiosyncratic interpretations that the critical investigation of these controversial concepts has revealed throughout history. Along the line proposed by Deleuze and Guattari, the notions of space and place also become visible as being inextricably intertwined with continual transformative dynamics, and, consequently, as particularly profitable tools of knowledge production. The contributions in this collection are engrained with this awareness, and they propose a scrutiny of the changing dynamics of space and place in different disciplinary fields and through different theoretical approaches: in this way, this book also becomes a way of discussing many concerns of our times connected to spaces and places, from more political to more environmentally related topics. Since the so-called “spatial turn” in the study of culture in the 1970s, increasing attention has been dedicated to the relevance of spatial concepts when evaluating phenomena around us. Even though a few years have passed since the establishment of this scholarship, inquiries revolving around spaces and places are still prominent and far from having reached a definitive understanding: among the

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 1–5 Copyright © 2022 Stefano Rozzoni, Beitske Boonstra and Teresa Cutler-Broyles Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221001

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many possible opportunities for investigation that these concepts of space and place offer, this collection revolves around the relationship with the notion of identity. While identity is often called into service when discussing subjectivity and adopted for scrutinizing human beings, this book applies it to space and place for investigating how certain spaces and places are represented and conceived, and how the dynamics of their constant transformations inform us about the very essence of material and imaginary locations. Just like providing a univocal definition of “space” or “place” would serve as a limited, contentious point of departure for this study (different authors here employ different theoretical frameworks), this collection also does not aim to have all the chapters provide a cohesive conclusion. Instead, each contributor proposes their own perspective and understandings of space and place, as well as their own methodology: this aspect led to different outcomes regarding these concepts. Among them are methodologies deriving from well-established disciplinary fields such as architectural studies, literary studies, anthropology, sociology, and urbanism as well as from more recent scholarly areas such as ecocriticism or new insights from contemporary political studies. Rather than seeing this combination as a symptom of a lack of cohesion, the diversity that this project embraces should be regarded as an asset: in fact, it underlines the progressive connections among different fields, minds, and outlooks according to a pluralistic vision which determines a fruitful example of methodological hybridity: this approach, we believe, appears to be fundamental for scholars interested in exploring spaces and places today. Despite their diversity, however, all the chapters of this collection are linked by a thread that highlights the changeability and transformative power of the spaces and places discussed. As editors, we considered that an(other) umbrella concept was needed for better highlighting these aspects: therefore, we deployed the notion of reimagining. The concepts of de- and reterritorialization are particularly effective for expressing the scope of this collection; however, we did not aim to limit this book to the theoretical implications of poststructuralism, or to give too much prominence to philosophy over other disciplinary perspectives. Reimagining, as a transversal concept, works well for embracing several different viewpoints that spaces and places entail: as the Oxford English Dictionary reminds us, reimagining refers to “the action or an act of imagining something again, a reconstruction; […] which is a reinterpretation of another; a remake.”2 Therefore, discussing reimagining spaces and places allows for the development of the idea that rooted understandings concerning spatialities can – and should – be considered as objects of many possible (re)interpretations. The emphasis on “re-” as a hyphenated prefix stresses this unsettledness even more. This effect is discussed in the chapters in different ways: with an emphasis on the linkages between public participation and resilience, Nakul Nitin Gote and Wolfgang Wende’s study, How Public Participation Can Lead to The Placemaking of Space and Resilience of Place, investigates what kind of public participation is beneficial for resilience. Specifically, by focusing on the resilience of the community in the Ramnadi river corridor in Pune, India, the two authors

Introduction

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underline the contribution that spaces and places transformation offers in determining and empowering public participation through institutions. With a more attentive political view, Khaled I. Nabil discusses the transitions of public spaces, such as Tahrir Square, in Cairo, Egypt, during the 2011 Arab Spring. In Al-Tahrir Square, Cairo During 2011: From Undefined Space to Interactive Place, Nabil investigates the mechanisms and the motives that transformed what he considers a “noisy, uncomfortable space” into a “liveable interactive place,” by observing the transition of Tahrir Square from a symbol of authoritarian control to a site of demonstrations. Using a similar critical perspective, albeit focusing on a different socio-cultural context, Esra Akbalık, observes how the concept of “imprisonment” can be used metaphorically to define the urban or architectural practices of governments, which have the power to transform the daily use and the symbolic meaning of public spaces. Specifically, in Imprisonment of Public Space, Akbalık focuses on two case studies in Istanbul, Turkey – the construction of a mosque and the reconstruction of a cultural center, and an urban square that has facilitated the sit-in protests of the Saturday Mothers movement since 1995 – for discussing how public space and its transformation relate to political dynamics as well as to the population’s response to authoritarian governments. Alongside this political discussion concerning spaces and places, Anas Alomaim and Dana Alhasan analyze how the composite symbols associated with the National Assembly building in Kuwait serve to produce an image of democracy and independence that resonates with both local and international narratives. More specifically, in Kuwait National Assembly Building: The Holy Assembly, the two authors explore how religion and spirituality were integrated in the design process of the Assembly building in various ways, although these issues are not usually associated with the civic nature of modern democracy and nationalism. Therefore, Alomaim and Alhasan stress how the history of the Kuwait National Assembly embodies a dichotomy between the laws of the sacred and the liberating concepts of spirituality. While dissecting the implications of transforming spaces and places in contemporary culture, Sami Chohan expands on the process of investigating overstated and spatially exclusive venues of art and culture, which have appeared in many cities during the last two decades, in order to reclaim and reimagine these locations as more open and inclusive. In Place before Form, People before Profit: Reclaiming Venues of Art and Culture in the Midst of Tourism-centered Reimaging of Cities, Cohan reflects on both the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, Spain, and the Bharat Bhavan (or India House) in Bhopal, India. Chohan observes how the first structure fails to represent the people of the city, despite its world-wide fame; contrarily, the initiative of the Bharat Bhavan, as an institution to celebrate the artistic and cultural output of the nation, is discussed as fostering the idea of sites of artistic and cultural value that demonstrate strong notions of publicness and inclusivity. Elisabete Mendes Silva elaborates on the transformative dynamics of the urban world through a retrospective glance at the rise of shopping malls in London between the nineteenth and twentieth century. In, Power,

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Cosmopolitanism, and Socio-spatial Division in the Commercial Arena in Victorian and Edwardian London, Mendes Silva demonstrates how department stores in the late Victorian and Edwardian ages dictated new approaches to commercial culture; moreover, she observes that they favored the construction of inclusive spatialities bolstered by advantageous social, economic, and political circumstances despite the social and moral strictness of the time. The Victorian period is also the background of Olivia K. Krauze’s “A place perfectly accordant with man’s nature”: Violent Spaces in the Fiction of Thomas Hardy, which illustrates how the perversion of space caused by violence contributes to understanding Hardy’s literary aims. In fact, Krauze suggests that Hardy’s situation of acts of violence in a range of spaces, natural and domestic alike, is purposefully disorienting: it allows him to interrogate defined social ideas of “moral” indoor spaces and “wild” outdoor landscapes during the late Victorian period by emphasizing how spaces are neither safe nor dangerous, but rather are ambiguous, “perfectly accordant with man’s nature.” Stefano Rozzoni’s chapter takes a further step in the conceptualization of a dominant and well-rooted understanding of space and place in Western culture: the country/city dichotomy, which the pastoral has made evident in the contrast between the urban and the rural, is rediscussed through an ecocritical perspective. In Rising Cittagna(s): A Dialogue between Literature and Urbanism in Contemporary (Post-)Pastoral Cityscapes, Rozzoni negotiates perceptions of ontological separateness between the country and the city, while reflecting on their interconnectedness by using the neologism “cittagna” (a blending of the Italian words campagna – country – and citt`a – city): observing this concept both as a phenomenon in contemporary urbanism and as a tool for re-discovering neglected ecocritical narratives in pastoral literature, Rozzoni delineates a trend in contemporary culture that enhances the sense of continuity between humans and nonhumans. Angela Specht’s chapter closes the collection along a similar, environmentally oriented stance, but focusing on three stories about (her) family relationship to the land, and her participation in a community service organization: these accounts discuss notions of attachment and the creation of relationships of care through gardening practices, such as rewilding, in the area of Alberta, Canada. In Re-Wilding my Garden and other Community Activities, Specht thus offers an intimate, deep, and creative piece of writing on the relevance of building relationships with – and sharing spaces with – the nonhuman realm, as a way for “imagin[ing], creat[ing], and mak[ing] a hopeful and wild path forward to a different and sustainable future.” Reimagining spaces and places is therefore here to be intended as an intellectual operation that offers a critical glance over a wide array of phenomena, occurrences, and urges characterizing our times in crises. A totalizing diversity and complexity cannot be fully embraced by the scope of this book: through our collection, instead, we wish to spark initiatives in our readers to embark on reimaginig trajectories while continuing investigations into the ever-changing potentialities of concepts such as space, place, and identity, while

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acknowledging them as powerful tools for critically reflecting on the world(s) that we experience.

Notes 1. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A Thousand Plateaus. Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Translated by Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, pp. 508–509. 2. Oxford English Dictionary. (n.d.). Reimagining. In oed.com. Retrieved from https://www-oed-com.ezproxy.uni-giessen.de/view/Entry/249456?redirectedFrom5 reimagining#eid40807183. Accessed on August 25, 2021.

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Chapter 1

How Public Participation Can Lead to the Placemaking of Space and Resilience of Place Nakul Nitin Gote and Wolfgang Wende

Abstract Chaotic growth and climate change have led to increased uncertainty in social-ecological systems, like urban areas, and have lowered their thresholds to withstand shocks, thus increasing their vulnerability. To reduce this effect, the concept of resilience is increasingly being applied in urban governance and planning. Public participation is seen as an attribute, which potentially increases the resilience of social-ecological systems. What kind of public participation leads to resilience, and how, are questions which this chapter addresses. To answer these questions, this study focused on relevant literature regarding resilience and governance, and investigated the events related to the flooding of the Ramnadi river corridor in Pune, India. The governance structure within the Ramnadi river corridor was then analyzed using a causal loop diagram. By studying its nodes, linkages, and feedbacks, this chapter explores how public participation affects the resilience of the social-ecological system of the Ramnadi river corridor. Public memory, a minimum sustained level of perpetual participation, and the presence of proactive institutions which can effectuate various levels and types of participation, have emerged as the qualities of public participation which increase the resilience of social-ecological systems. Based on the presence or absence of these qualities, a new typology of public participation is proposed here, namely the binary of continuous public participation versus event-based public participation. This distinction proves to be an effective indicator of whether an instantiation of public participation can lead to resilience. The applicability of this classification for designing interventions for placemaking has also been discussed.

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 7–26 Copyright © 2022 Nakul Nitin Gote and Wolfgang Wende Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221002

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Nakul Nitin Gote and Wolfgang Wende Keywords: Causal loop diagram; flood resilience; governance; placemaking; social-ecological system; systems approach

Introduction The concept of resilience has gained wide acceptance amongst the scientific community as well as among policymakers due to its clarity.1 Resilience is a tool for sustainability (Anderies, Folke, Walker, & Ostrom, 2013). It provides a framework in which cross-scale interactions between systems can be studied, while the idea of sustainable development refers to the actions which are taken after considering these interactions. Thus, one can conclude that if sustainability is an end, resilience is a means for achieving it (Gote, 2019). Public participation is increasingly being seen as a fundamental component of democracy. This is because, in modern democracies, the decisions are taken by bureaucrats who are not elected through adult franchise. Public participation creates a direct link between the public and the decision-making bureaucrats (Creighton, 2005). This research aims to examine the linkages between public participation and resilience in order to study what kind of public participation is beneficial for resilience.

Resilience Resilience is a term used in medical science, materials engineering, psychology, and more recently in urban planning. By and large, the term implies a capacity to return to a previous state or recover after a deformation or disturbance. Holling (1973) pioneered the resilience concept in ecology by defining it as “a measure of a system’s ability to absorb change and still persist by maintaining the concerned relationships within it” (PG). This understanding was a paradigm shift compared to the earlier, engineering-based definition of resilience which was primarily concerned with the ability of a system to return to a previous state (which Holling termed as “stability”). If a system is to survive change, it needs to adapt to changing environments. This process of incorporating change continuously gives rise to resilience (Holling, 1996). As defined by Walker, Holling, Carpenter, and Kinzig (2004, p. 2), resilience is …the capacity of a system to absorb disturbance and reorganize while undergoing change so as to still retain essentially the same function, structure, identity, and feedbacks – in other words, stay in the same basin of attraction. This definition can be applied to social-ecological systems as well. To make any measurements or comparisons while using the resilience concept in socialecological systems, the questions “resilience of what” and “resilience to what” need to be answered (Carpenter, Walker, Anderies, & Abel, 2001).

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Thus, in this chapter, the resilience “of” the community in the river corridor “to” flash floods in the river will be studied.2 Another benefit of operating within the resilience framework is that it develops resilience thinking, which helps the researcher “nurture an enriched and integrated understanding of human-nature interactions and cross-scale dynamics” (Gordon, Torrens, & Fremier, 2014). This ensures that the forest is not missed for the trees, that is, the bigger picture is kept in mind.

Characteristics of Resilience In order to apply resilience in a real-life context for usage as an evaluation criterion, it needs to be operationalized. To achieve this result, the works of various authors have been aggregated to determine distinct – but also common – characteristics of resilience (Table 1). Through this exercise, the aim is to obtain a full grasp of data in order to explain how certain interventions have affected, or may affect, these characteristics. This observation will facilitate the evaluation of governance interventions with resilience as the objective. It will also help evaluate whether public participation leads to resilience and if yes, then how. Following is an elaboration of the four characteristics of resilience:

Adaptive Capacity The third Assessment Report of the IPCC (Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, 2001) defines “adaptive capacity” (AC) as …the degree to which adjustments in practices, processes, or structures can moderate or offset the potential for damage or take advantage of opportunities created by a given change in climate. AC can also be understood as the ability of a governance system to first alter processes and, if required, convert structural elements as responses to experienced or expected changes in the societal or natural environment (Pahl-Wostl, 2009). From these definitions, it is evident that AC is a broad and somewhat unclear concept. It describes paradigms crafted in political discourse and practice which are loaded with competing understandings of their mission and underlying principles (adapted from Fritsch, 2016). In order to conduct more effective research, it is important to clarify how this concept is intended here. This chapter understands AC as explained by Gain, Rouillard, and Benson (2013). They identify the following five features of AC: (1) A manageable natural and social system with few foreseeable thresholds and surprises; (2) Adequate supply of resources, technologies, infrastructure, knowledge, and skills that enables social actors to respond to evolving circumstances;

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(3) An effective innovation and capacity-building system based on adaptive cycles and experimentation of local and scientific knowledge; (4) A flexible decision-making system that enables local self-determination, while ensuring synergistic interventions and avoiding conflicting ones between scales; (5) Accessible participatory mechanisms that support fair exchange between social actors and encourage the sharing of resources and power (p. 15–16). These determinants have been used in this study to evaluate whether certain changes in the governance structure of the Ramnadi corridor have affected the AC of the corridor. As AC is a characteristic of resilience, these determinants will enable the researcher to link certain changes in the governance structure to resilience. According to Carpenter et al. (2001), Turner et al. (2003) and Tompkins and Adger (2004), adaptive capacity is a component of resilience that reflects the learning aspect that a system demonstrates when disturbed. AC can be increased through various adaptation strategies including urban planning and zoning to avoid climate-related hazards, planning with an eye on demographic and consumption change in the long term, developing heavy infrastructure for adaptation (e.g., dams, water management facilities, rapid transit facilities), the use of new technology, and plans for natural areas and ecosystem conservation (Adger, 2003). Lebel et al. (2006) also use “enhanced adaptive capacity” as an indicator of increased resilience. However, Gallop´ın (2006) is of the view that the relation between AC and resilience is unclear, and that resilience is a subset of AC. For the purpose of the present study, the takeaway from this inquiry is that AC contributes to the resilience of social-ecological systems.

Self-Organization Self-organization can be understood as a process of evolution where the effect of the environment is minimal, that is, where “the development of new, complex structures takes place primarily in and through the system itself” (Heyligen, 2009). Thus, such systems can organize and reorganize themselves. This property can be beneficial for resilience, as the capacity to organize and reorganize within the system posits the presence of internal feedback and responsiveness. Carpenter et al. (2001) view self-organization as a core property of a resilient system. Lebel et al. (2006) say that the capacity to self-organize increases a society’s ability to manage resilience. Moreover, self-organizing systems are relatively insensitive to perturbations or errors and have a strong capacity to restore themselves (Heylighen, 2001). Self-organization in the form of community-based management is instrumental in reducing vulnerability to hazards (Berkes & Folke, 1998). Selforganization also promotes the formation of social memory, which is important for linking past experiences with existing and proposed policies, as expressed by Folke, Hahn, Olsson, and Norberg (2005), who asserted that self-organization leads to the strengthening of institutional memory. Greater institutional memory

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nurtures learning, which promotes adaptive co-management (Olsson, Folke, & Berkes, 2004). This feeds, again, into the point that an increase in the range of knowledge for learning also increases the AC of social-ecological systems (Berkes, 2007) and thus their resilience.

Redundancy Self-organization also promotes redundancy. Heylighen (2001), while elaborating on the resilience of self-organized systems, mentions that one of the reasons for the tolerance of self-organized systems is the redundant, distributed organization. Redundancy is an established characteristic of ecological resilience (Peterson, Allen, & Holling, 1998). An ecosystem which has several species performing similar tasks is more resilient than one in which that is not the case. A reason for a decrease in redundancy in a system is the application of command-and-control measures which aims to increase the predictability and stability of systems (Holling & Meffe, 1996). Such approaches of flood risk management, referred to as flood control, have been found wanting, especially in light of climate change and urbanization. A flood risk management system with redundancy would represent a system with a wide range of measures for mitigation, preparedness, response, and reorganization (Liao, 2012). However, Folke et al. (2005) do warn that redundancy might give rise to inefficiency due to high transaction costs, confusion, and duplication of authority. Thus, it is not always desirable.

Robustness Robustness is defined as “the maintenance of some desired system characteristics despite fluctuations in the behavior of its component parts or its environment” (Carlson & Doyle, 2002, p. 2539). In this sense, it is similar to the concept of ecological resilience, although an ecologically resilient system has greater leeway and is considered resilient “as long as it does not transgress an (ecological) threshold beyond which it loses the ability to exhibit recovery” (Mumby, Chollett, Bozec, & Wolff, 2014, p. 25). Anderies et al. (2013) say that robustness is similar to the concept of specified resilience, in which system boundaries are well defined. Some researchers have used the term “robustness” directly in their work as a characteristic of resilience (Keating et al., 2014), while others have described characteristics of a resilient social-ecological system which can be described as robustness. For example, Tompkins and Adger (2004) affirm that the ability to buffer disturbance is a characteristic of resilience. Moreover, Berkes (2007) points to “learning to live with change and uncertainty” (p. 1) as a characteristic of resilience which echoes the concept of robustness. Similarly, Carpenter et al. (2001) state that the ability of a social-ecological system to stay in the domain of attraction is a characteristic of its resilience. Therefore, it can be observed that the concept of robustness is not as welldefined as, for instance, self-organization or redundancy; various researchers have

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their own takes on the similarities and differences between “robustness” and “resilience,” as well as in regard to which is a component of what. Consequently, its interpretation in other works might differ from the one used in this research. In this research, robustness is meant as the stability of a social-ecological system in face of change and uncertainty and is a characteristic of resilience (Table 1). A breakdown of resilience into its characteristics has enabled the formulation of tangible desired outcomes in the quest for the resilience of social-ecological systems. The case of the 2010 Ramnadi river flood has been studied to understand the causal linkages between public participation and the characteristics of resilience.

Analytic Generalization and the Case Study of the Ramnadi River Corridor The Ramnadi is a river in Pune, India. The 2010 flood of that river is the event around which this study is built. The responses to the flood, the changes in the governance structure, and the role of public participation have been studied to understand the dynamics of the governance structure. This is an instructive case study, owing to the presence of participatory institutions like the Bavdhan Area Sabha, a council of local citizens who have taken the initiative to become a part of the governance structure. The effects of activities organized by the Bavdhan Area Sabha (like hunger strikes, public awareness campaigns, litigations, and river clean-up) on the flood resilience of the Ramnadi corridor are what make this case instructive. To draw wider conclusions from this single case study, analytic generalization (Mills, Durepos, & Wiebe, 2009; Yin, 2009) was used, that is, generalization not done through statistical means but rather through analysis and interpretation of collected data in the light of the theories and concepts under consideration. This method of generalization addresses the problem of drawing generalized inferences from a single case. The generalizability of inferences depends on the extent to which the findings from the cases support existing theories, that is, the extent to which they enhance the generalizability of these theories. Thus, one can see that the generalization is based not just on the case study, but also on causal inferencing (usually expressed through a model), literature, and theory. Based on Yin (2009), the following steps were taken to analytically generalize findings from the presented case study: (1) A sound theoretical base was created by presenting a clear argument for flood resilience and governance attributes, especially with regard to public participation; (2) This theoretical base was founded on research literature and not on anecdotal cases; (3) The manner in which research findings support or contradict these theories was examined;

Table 1. Resilience Characteristics in Literature. Author Res. Characteristic

Berkes (2007)

Keating et al. (2014) Based on Cimellaro, Reinhorn, and Bruneau (2010)

Robustness

Learning to live with change and uncertainty

Robustness

Redundancy

Nurturing various types of ecological, social and political diversity for increasing options and reducing risks Increasing the range of knowledge for learning and problem-solving

Redundancy

Adaptive capacity

Resourcefulness

Source: Citation Got19\l 1031 (Gote, 2019).

The ability of an SES to stay in the domain of attraction

Tompkins and Adger (2004)

Buffer disturbance Redundancy

The AC of an SES is related to the existence of mechanisms for the evolution of novelty or learning. The ability of an SES to self-organize

Learn and adapt

Selforganize

13

Rapidity (the capacity to meet priorities and achieve goals in a timely manner in order to control losses, recover functionality, and avoid future disruptions.)

Low, Ostrom, Simon, and Wilson (2003)

Placemaking and Resilience

SelfCreating opportunities for organization self-organization

Carpenter et al. (2001)

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Fig. 1.

Causal Loop Diagram of the Governance of the Ramnadi Corridor in 2016. Source: Citation Got19\l 1031 (Gote, 2019).

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(4) Rival explanations and hypotheses were examined while forming the nodes and linkages of the causal loop diagram (see Fig. 1); (5) The last step was to look at other cases (mentioned as anecdotal cases in point 2 above), to see if they come to similar conclusions. If they do, it would further increase the generalizability of the conclusions. To study the governance structure in the Ramnadi river corridor and to understand the effect of the actions of various actors on resilience, a causal loop diagram of the governance structure was prepared (see Fig. 1). A causal loop diagram is a visual tool which helps represent the relevant nodes of a system and the causal linkages between them in one lucid diagram. Another advantage of causal loop diagrams is that they help visualize the archetypes in a system.3 The diagram contains nodes and linkages. The nodes shown as boxes are either parts or properties of the governance structure. The linkages, shown as curved lines with “1” or “2” sign at the end, are the causal lines indicating the type of relation between two nodes. In certain instances, a loop of nodes and linkages is also seen, which is called a feedback loop. In system dynamics, nodes are essentially the building blocks of a system. For example, in an ant colony every ant would be a node. However, simply information about all of the nodes that make up a system is insufficient to get a full understanding of it. As the popular Aristotelian phrase goes, the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Taleb (2018) affirms that “Studying individual ants will almost never give us an idea on how the ant colony operates” (p. 1). Thus, a thorough knowledge of the physiology of an ant does not help much when trying to understand how an ant colony works. For that, an understanding of the interactions of the ants is also required. In other words, interactions matter more than the nature of the units when it comes to studying systems. These interactions between various nodes are called linkages. Every linkage in the causal loop diagram has been assigned a letter to make its identification easier. Apart from solitary nodes and linkages, studying the feedback loops in a causal loop diagram helps one understand the system that is being represented. Studying feedback loops is important in systems analysis as it helps identify archetypes in the system and lays bare the counterintuitive effect that certain decisions can have. In other words, it helps decision-makers make informed decisions.

Some Feedback Loops Observed in the Governance Structure of the River Corridor Feedback loops consist of nodes and the linkages between nodes. In the feedback loops presented below, the linkages have been established by observing phenomenon in the case study and seeing if that phenomenon finds support or opposition in literature.

Loop R and B2 Exemplify the Archetype “Limits to Growth” According to the limits to growth archetype, almost all systems which (a) have a reinforcing feedback loop of growth, and (b) derive that growth out of a limited

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resource (stock) will face a balancing effect due to the countering force exerted by the limited resource. In the case of public-participation-driven governance, the total corpus of potential participants acts as the growth limiting factor. The Reinforcing feedback loop R (see Fig. 2) depicts the phenomenon of participation feeding itself on its own accord. With high participation, environmental degradation is reversed (link d). This has been observed in the Ramnadi corridor too, where activities of the public post the flood event, like bank maintenance exercises, tree plantation drives along the Ramnadi, educational tours for schoolchildren to inculcate values of environmental conservation in them, and activism against encroachments, have resulted in arresting and sometimes reversing the environmental degradation. Some of these activities have been carried out through institutions like the Bavdhan Area Sabha (BAS). The networking portal WhatsApp is primarily used for communication and coordination in the BAS. This results in lesser negligence of locals (link h) as they develop a sense of belonging and ownership of the environment. This effect, in turn, increases public participation (link b), and the continuation of the cycle. Loop B2, shows how potential participants reduce as participation increases, setting a limit to the number of participants. Thus, however low the negligence of locals, there is a ceiling to how high the participation can be, given the limited pool of participants. Thus, R and B2 together display the “limits to growth” archetype in which loop R drives participation and loop B2 dampens the effect of R. Understanding the phenomenon depicted through this archetype is important as it illustrates the need for designing effective schemes which can judiciously and efficiently utilize the participatory power of the people to increase resilience.

Fig. 2.

Limits to Growth Archetype in Feedback Loops R and B2. Source: Citation Got19\l 1031 (Gote, 2019).

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Loop B1 Exemplifies How Disasters Can Become Opportunities In the balancing feedback loop B1 (Fig. 3), the awareness of locals is a function of an actual flood. Thus, the disaster, in this case, is an opportunity for making positive changes in the governance structure by involving locals who otherwise would be removed from the management of the river corridor in any formal or informal capacity due to their lack of interest. It should be evident to the observant planner that disaster-driven participation (as seen through loop B2), albeit effective, is transient. For more sustained levels of participation, which can often prevent disasters from happening in the first place, the involvement of NGOs and environmental education also play an important role (see Fig. 1). Environmental education can be initiated, for instance, by NGOs or by proactive politicians through the organization of events and provision of funds for environment-building activities in educational institutions and localities.

Effect of Public Participation on Resilience Through the study of this causal loop diagram (Fig. 1), support has been found for public participation (alias inclusive urbanism) as a feature of adaptive governance (Gote, 2019, p. 130). This is something that has extensive supporting research (de Bruin et al., 2009; Holstein, 2010; Tanner, Mitchell, Polack, & Guenther, 2009; Wende, Nijhuis, Mensing-de Jong, & Humann, 2020). Through the effect of local citizens’ councils like the BAS, it has also been observed that some forms of participation are more effective at increasing AC than others, as they ensure greater and lasting learning. This learning aspect, which characterises public participation, ensures a higher AC in the face of a challenge. This increased range of knowledge for learning and problem-solving leads to resilience (Berkes, 2007). For such types of participation, the importance of institutions for promoting learning cannot be overstated. In this research, that institute has been represented by the BAS, denoted by the number “4” in the causal loop diagram (see Fig. 1). Without the presence of institutions, there is a greater likelihood that learning will not take place or that the lessons will be forgotten. Public participation aids in distributing control of a social-ecological system throughout the actor constellation by distributing control to the locals. This distribution of control is very typical of self-organizing systems (Heylighen, 2001). However, when the public participates simply owing to government regulation and not on its own volition, it does not lead to self-organization as a matter of course because the participation is being mandated from the outside, as opposed to motivated by self (which is the public in this case). Hence, the drawbacks of top-heavy systems (e.g., low efficiency, delayed, and weak feedbacks and vulnerability) would still ail such participation. For example, participation can result in the public submitting recommendations to the government officials; however, implementing them may get delayed since recommendations have to go through official channels. The creation of institutions, like the BAS in the Ramnadi corridor of Bavdhan and the integration of the Ramnadi in the seasonal

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Fig. 3.

Balancing Feedback Loop B1. Source: Citation Got19\l 1031 (Gote, 2019).

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festival calendar in the Bhukum village, ensured that the institutions bringing about participation are controlled by the public, hence resulting in selforganization. The addition of active locals and local institutions in the management of a social-ecological system increases the corpus of actors who are responsible for it, thus fostering redundancy.

Continuous Public Participation Versus Event-Based Public Participation Various classifications for public participation have been proposed, prominent among them being those by Arnstein (Arnstein, 1969) and by the International Association for Public Participation (IAP2), Canada. In both studies, the classification is based on the intensity of public participation in the governance of social-ecological systems. However, the study of the river corridor shows that mere intensity of participation is not a reliable indicator of resilience. Through this study it has emerged that the pool of potential participants is limited (see Fig. 2) and that care needs to be taken to ensure that participants do not get fatigued as this will reduce the pool further, thus placing greater limits on participation. Therefore, at times it can be prudent to de-escalate participation in order to maintain resilience, or an automatic de-escalation can occur without necessarily reducing the resilience. This de-escalation can occur in urban areas which face decline and depopulation, or it might occur as a matter of course as life settles down after a disturbance. As James L. Creighton (2005) puts it in his seminal work on public participation, “An experienced practitioner of public participation will answer the question, ‘What level of participation is right?’ with an authoritative, ‘It depends’” (p. 11). Chess and Purcell (1999) further discuss that the form of participation (which has been referred to as level of participation, above) – public meetings, workshops, or citizen advisory committees – does not determine process or outcome success. Thus, the public might even turn down its participation a notch whilst continuing the delivery of successful outcomes in terms of resilience. Hence, participation needs to be responsive, not ambitious. The idea of “turning down a notch” can be observed in the case of the Ramnadi which initially registered a high level of public participation after the 2010 flood. This included many angry letters from the public to officials, a court case and even a hunger strike (Dandekar, 2011). However, as things progressed toward flood resilience, the people who had invested time and money in these types of participation scaled down their involvement to a more observational role. Another example of dialling down of participation owing to a lower need for public engagement can be observed in the case of the Devnadi corridor, which is located close to the Ramnadi corridor. Here, the public participated by planting trees, cleaning the river channel, and building bunds. Once this was completed, their role changed to overseeing and ensuring the maintenance of the corridor. Thus, the type of public participation which might have been necessary earlier might not be necessary at a later time. However, an innate characteristic of

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complex systems is internal feedback mechanisms, nonlinearities, delays, and uncertainties (Sterman, 1994). Thus, in order to read, understand, and learn from a system’s feedback, capable institutions are needed which can factor in the nonlinear nature of complex systems as well as any delays that might occur due to uncertainties. These institutions should also be able to respond swiftly and effectively to disasters. Therefore, participatory approaches, as parts of this institutional structure, need to be designed keeping this complex reality in mind. While it is clear that public participation requirements change over space and time, what is needed in social-ecological systems like river corridors is an institutional structure which can deploy, in case of need, the necessary type of participation appropriate to a given situation in order to ensure resilience. Otherwise, if there is an insistence on a high level of participation, the public might lose interest due to burnout and a low effort-to-reward ratio. This might result in alienation and apathy. This effect can happen, for instance, when workshops/seminars arranged by the government turn out to be a waste of the participants’ time. Hence, for this discussion, it would be appropriate to typologize participation, not by its position on Arnstein’s ladder of participation (Arnstein, 1969) but as a binary between event-based participation and continuous participation. The typologizing of public participation into the categories of continuous and event-based has to do with the institutional structure which effectuates this participation. It is not based on the level of public engagement in the management of a given social-ecological system. However, it would be prudent to point out here that continuous participation should be adequate for possibly scaling up participation to the higher levels, as described by Arnstein (1969), when required (Table 2).

Table 2. A New Binary of Public Participation for Resilience. Event-Based Public Participation

1 Response to a disaster event. It is reactive. 2 Engagement only during and after the event. 3 Participation is not dependent on institutions of public participation. 4 Doesn’t lead to learning and building of adaptive capacity. 5 Can be used to usher in continuous public participation. Source: Own compilation.

Continuous Public Participation

Public is constantly engaged in some capacity. It is proactive. Engagement is continuous and independent of event. Participation takes place through institutions of public participation. Is characterized by learning, greater redundancy and self-organization. Leads to higher and better eventbased participation.

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Event-Based Public Participation Event-based public participation occurs in response to a disaster-event. This type of participation can be either an isolated occurrence or a part of continuous participation, thus is not necessarily occasioned by an institution. It is driven by the need to return to normalcy after a disaster and shows high willingness on the part of the public to participate. However, with time and as the situation normalizes, there is a high chance that the public will forget the event and become negligent. Negligence, which is an outcome as well as a cause of the lack of continuous participation, adversely affects event-based participation, especially preevent participation for prevention and preparedness. Postevent, negligence is usually displaced by awareness, and participation increases. Continuous participation can enable a faster and more effective event-based participation and greater flood resilience in general.

Continuous Public Participation Continuous public participation has been conceptualized as the type of participation in which the public is constantly engaged in the management of a given social-ecological system in one capacity or another. Moreover, in continuous public participation public knowledge of lessons learned from past events informs the decisions and strategies of the future owing to the presence of institutions which facilitate the same. The memory of lessons learned is the defining characteristic of continuous public participation. This kind of public participation is seen when institutions informing, motivating, and mobilizing the locals are in place. These institutions can be as varied as local citizens’ councils, social media groups, NGOs, and local government. They provide the support structure for sustaining participation at appropriate levels to aid prevention, preparedness, response, and recovery. The defining characteristic of such institutions which results in them promoting continuous public participation is the active involvement of individuals who personally carry the memory of the lessons learned during previous events. Public participation in the Ramnadi corridor has been continuous because of the presence of individuals like Smt. Indu Gupta, Dr Pragathi Kaushal, Shri Shailendra Patel, and the architect Sarang Yadwadkar who have been part or founding members of the BAS from the beginning. It is up to such individuals to pass on their wisdom to the next generation and to ensure that continuity is maintained. There are various ways to do this, such as workshops and periodic events (recurring festivals, drives) which serve to refresh the memory and to drive home the lessons. What these actors achieved through their public participatory institution is placemaking.

Continuous Public Participation and Placemaking The concept of placemaking is gaining popularity amongst policymakers as its role in securing environmental sustainability gets recognized (Tabb, 2013). According to the Project for Public Spaces, a place gets “made” not only with

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better urban design, but also when attention is given to physical, cultural, and social identities (Project for Public Spaces, 2007). Placemaking has also been defined as an approach and a set of tools that puts the community front and center in deciding how their place looks and how it functions (Courage, 2020). The involvement of the community is central in placemaking, not just as users but also as definers and creators of the desired outcomes. Along this line, the Project for Public Spaces identifies 11 principles for placemaking. First is the idea that the “Community is the expert” (Madden, 2000, p. 35). Given this centrality of public participation in placemaking, it is germane to investigate the implications that the “event-based versus continuous” binary of public participation discussed above has on placemaking. Placemaking is not a novel phenomenon. It has occurred throughout human history and across societies. Scholars have recognized this phenomenon and described it, or aspects of it, through different names. Actors, that is people and institutions who govern spaces, have oftentimes “made” places not because they were well versed in various theories of governance but because they had an understanding of the social-ecological system in which they operated and had the wisdom to know what would work. Researchers like Jane Jacobs and the architect and city planner Oscar Newman have discussed the fact that places have been “made” – in the sense of constructed, created – by communities throughout history in regard to the ideas of “citizen ownership” (Jacobs, 1961) and the “defensible space theory” (Newman, 1996) respectively: these theories underscore the role of the community in what essentially amounts to placemaking. Continuous public participation, as described in this study, is the kind of participation which truly puts the community front and center by fostering expertise, learning, and empowering it through institutions. This makes it an effective strategy for placemaking. Thus, practitioners interested in placemaking would do well to understand the “event-based versus continuous” binary of public participation put forth in this study, to explore avenues to make their public participation continuous for greater placemaking. Actors who want to promote placemaking in their social-ecological systems can work toward making their public participation continuous by promoting institutions which remember lessons learned from past experiences. Moreover, these institutions can bring that knowledge to the table when needed, and which maintain a minimum level of perpetual public participation. Placemaking will be weak when participation is only event-based. Event-based public participation is a quick fix at best and plain cosmetics at worst. The indicators of placemaking like citizen ownership (Jacobs, 1961) and the community becoming the expert (Project for Public Spaces, 2007) get manifested only through continuous public participation.

Conclusion The classification of public participation into the binary of event-based and continuous that has emerged from this research is grounded in systems thinking. This classification has directly developed from an inquiry into the characteristics

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of public participation which led to successful resilience outcomes. Therefore, this classification is a better indicator of resilience-increasing strategies than the prevalent classifications, like the hierarchical intensity-based spectrums of participation as conceptualized by Arnstein (1969) and by the International Association for Public Participation Canada (2015). Moreover, this classification of public participation lends itself toward planning for placemaking. Resilience leads to sustainability, while placemaking is a strategy for sustainability. Both resilience and placemaking benefit from continuous public participation. Thus, in social-ecological systems, resilience and placemaking go hand in hand. This observation opens up the opportunity to define placemaking in the context of resilience and continuous public participation in order to make it a more rigorous scientific term.

Notes 1. Parts of this chapter have been published in the book, Governing for Flood Resilience in Urban River Corridors: Lessons from public participation in the Ramnadi corridor (Gote, 2019). 2. The river corridor in Pune, India is the area along a river which falls under the green belt (which is a 7.5–30 meters wide belt along the center line of a river) and the area under the 100-year flood lines of the river. 3. Archetypes are patterns of interactions commonly observed in systems. Some archetypes have been formally named. Examples are fixes that fail, tragedy of the commons, limits to growth, escalation, etc. At this point, it is germane to state that while identifying archetypes in a system is an academic exercise which has significant real-world value, many actors are aware of the feedback loops and act with due recognition of them without knowing which archetypes these feedback loops represent. They might have no knowledge of archetypes and systems theory, but they have knowledge of their system and have experience. Thus, knowledge of systems theory and archetypes is not a prerequisite to understand a particular system, but it definitely helps in understanding all systems. An example which would help in understanding how theoretical knowledge does not represent a prerequisite for sound practice language. Native speakers of a language speak with perfect grammar without being actively aware of the rules. Similarly, experience and wise actors might act while factoring in feedback loops, even if they do not know systems theory.

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Gote, N. (2019). Governing for flood resilience in urban stream corridors: Lessons from public participation in the Ramnadi corridor. Dresden: Technische Universit¨at Dresden. Retrieved from https://nbn-resolving.org/urn:nbn:de:bsz:14-qucosa2356212 Heyligen, F. (2009). Self-organization. Retrieved from http://pespmc1.vub.ac.be/ SELFORG.html. Accessed on October 3, 2017. Heylighen, F. (2001). The science of self-organization and adaptivity. The Encyclopedia of Life Support Systems, 5(3), 253–280. Holling, C. S. (1973). Resilience and stability of ecological systems. Annual Review of Ecology and Systematics, 4(1), 1–23. doi:10.1146/annurev.es.04.110173.000245 Holling, C. (1996). Engineering resilience versus ecological resilience. In P. Schulze (Ed.), Engineering within ecological constraints (pp. 31–43). Washington, DC: National Academy Press. Holling, C. S., & Meffe, G. K. (1996). Command and control and the pathology of natural resource management. Conservation Biology, 10(2), 328–337. doi:10.1046/j. 1523-1739.1996.10020328.x Holstein, A. (2010). Participation in climate change adaptation. No. GRaBS expert paper 2. Retrieved from http://www.grabs-eu.org/downloads/Expert_Paper_ Climate_Participation_FULL_VERSION%28mk3%29.pdf Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. (2001). Working group II: Impacts, adaptation and vulnerability. In Climate change 2001–IPCC third assessment report. Retrieved from http://www.ipcc.ch/ipccreports/tar/wg2/index.php?idp560# 141. Accessed on January 07, 2017. International Association for Public Participation Canada. (2015). Retrieved from http://www.iap2canada.ca/page-1020549 Jacobs, J. (1961). The death and life of great American cities. New York, NY: Vintage Books. Keating, A., Campbell, K., Mechler, R., Michel-Kerjan, E., Mochizuki, J., Kunreuther, H., … Hochraine, S. (2014). Operationalizing resilience against natural disaster risk: Opportunities, barriers, and a way forward. White Paper. Zurich Flood Resilience Alliance. Retrieved from http://opim.wharton.upenn.edu/risk/ library/zurichfloodresiliencealliance_ResilienceWhitePaper_2014.pdf Lebel, L., Anderies, J. M., Campbell, B., Folke, C., Hatfield-Dodds, S., Hughes, T. P., & Wilson, J. (2006). Governance and the capacity to manage resilience in regional social-ecological systems. Ecology and Society, 11(1), 19. Retrieved from http:// www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol11/iss1/art19/ Liao, K.-H. (2012). A theory on urban resilience to floods—A basis for alternative planning practices. Ecology and Society, 17(4). Retrieved from http://www. ecologyandsociety.org/vol17/iss4/art48/ Low, B., Ostrom, E., Simon, C., & Wilson, J. (2003). Redundancy and diversity: Do they influence optimal management?. In: Navigating social–ecological systems: Building resilience for complexity and change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Madden, K. (2000). How to turn a place around: A handbook for creating successful public spaces. New York, NY: Project for Public Spaces. Mills, A., Durepos, G., & Wiebe, E. (2009). Encyclopedia of case study research (Vol. 2). Los Angeles, CA: Sage Publications.

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Mumby, P. J., Chollett, I., Bozec, Y.-M., & Wolff, N. H. (2014). Ecological resilience, robustness and vulnerability: How do these concepts benefit ecosystem management? Current Opinion in Environmental Sustainability, 7, 22–27. Newman, O. (1996). Creating defensible space. Rutgers: U.S. Department of housing and Urban Development Office of Policy Development and Research. Olsson, P., Folke, C., & Berkes, F. (2004, July 1). Adaptive comanagement for building resilience in social–Ecological systems. Environmental Management, 34(1), 75–90. doi:10.1007/s00267-003-0101-7 Pahl-Wostl, C. (2009). A conceptual framework for analysing adaptive capacity and multi-level learning processes in resource governance regimes. Global Environmental Change, 19(3), 354–365. Peterson, G., Allen, C. R., & Holling, C. S. (1998). Ecological resilience, biodiversity, and scale. Ecosystems, 1(1), 6–18. doi:10.1007/s100219900002 Project for Public Spaces. (2007). What is placemaking? Retrieved from https://www. pps.org/article/what-is-placemaking Sterman, J. (1994). Learning in and about complex systems. System Dynamics Review, 10(2–3), 291–330. doi:10.1002/sdr.4260100214 Tabb, P. (2013). Placemaking as a sustainable planning strategy: Serenbe community. In ARCC Conference Repository. Taleb, N. N. (2018). Skin in the game: Hidden asymmetries in daily life. London: Penguin Books Limited. Tanner, T., Mitchell, T., Polack, E., & Guenther, B. (2009). Urban governance for adaptation: Assessing climate change resilience in ten Asian cities. IDS Working Papers, 2009(315), 01–47. doi:10.1111/j.2040-0209.2009.00315_2.x Tompkins, E., & Adger, W. (2004). Does adaptive management of natural resources enhance resilience to climate change? Ecology and Society, 9(2). Retrieved from http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol9/iss2/art10/ Turner, B. L., Kasperson, R. E., Matson, P. A., McCarthy, J. J., Corell, R. W., Christensen, L., …, Schiller, A. (2003, July 8). A framework for vulnerability analysis in sustainability science. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 100(14), 8074–8079. doi:10.1073/pnas.1231335100 Walker, B., Holling, C. S., Carpenter, S. R., & Kinzig, A. (2004). Resilience, adaptability and transformability in social–Ecological systems. Ecology and Society, 9(2). Retrieved from http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol9/iss2/art5/ Wende, W., Nijhuis, S., Mensing-de Jong, A., & Humann, M. (2020). Inclusive Urbanism: Advances in research, education and practice (Vol. 6). TU Delft Open – Research in Urbanism Series. doi:10.7480/rius.6 Yin, R. (2009). Case study research: Design and methods (4 ed.). London: Sage Publications.

Chapter 2

Al-Tahrir Square, Cairo during 2011, from Undefined Space to Interactive Place Khaled I. Nabil

Abstract Al-Tahrir Square (Liberation Square, in Arabic) is one of the main public spaces in Cairo, Egypt, and was the focal point for the Egyptian Revolution of January 2011. Although Tahrir Square is traditionally a noisy disliked crowded traffic zone, people gathering and demonstrating during 2011 transformed the a space into a livable interactive civic place (Bricoleurbanism, 2019). The study integrates three main subjects affecting each other: first; Tahrir history and its architectural description, second; activities and events of 2011 revolution at Tahrir and thirdly; theories and concepts of place/space transformations. Many space and place transformation cycles of the Al-Tahrir square have been studied for over a century. It shows that transformation happens when a “meaning” is added and “memories” turn into “behavior” and belonging (Pallasmaa, 2014). This chapter discusses how both the functions and the mental image of Al-Tahrir Square changed with the events along with the behavior of its occupants during 2011. The square was analyzed to discover the mechanisms, motives, and reasons that caused such change. Furthermore, a comparison between Tahrir Square’s status before and after 2011 was offered, according to “New Urbanism’s successful places criteria” (PPS, 2009). Recently, physical and moral evacuation of the square deliberately enforced to replace its iconographic status as a place of revolution, with ancient Egyptian elements. This study elaborates on these results demonstrating how Cairo’s Tahrir Square is a remarkable example of the dynamic nature of public spaces turning into places, and then into spaces again, due to actions of authority or the will of people. Keywords: Public space; Al-Tahrir square, Cairo; Egyptian revolution 2011; place transformation; environmental psychology; personal experience

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 27–44 Copyright © 2022 Khaled I. Nabil Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221003

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Khaled I. Nabil Those who have not seen Tahrir now, didn’t see Egypt, and they are deprived. Shaikh Emad Effat (Islamist Movements, 2016)1

Introduction Tahrir Square is one of the main public spaces in Cairo, going back to the midnineteenth century when it was originally called “Ismailia Square” after Khedive Ismail, the ruler of Egypt from 1863 to 1879. Ismail dreamed of a modern city center for Cairo – rather than the medieval one – a like Paris’s wide boulevards that unite public squares with many intersections and landmarks (El-Husseinya & Kesseibab, 2012). However, Tahrir lacks the Haussmann-styled planning of much of central Cairo and never designed to be a square, which explains its irregular vast shape. The area was a swamp turned into a massive field before the Egyptian army barracks were constructed in the 1870s, and British army took over the barracks after invading Egypt in 1882, until 1946 (Howeidy, 2015). The square was renamed Horreya (Liberty) after army coup of 1952 and Al-Tahrir (Liberation) in 1953 (El Dorghamy, 2011). It is interesting to know that since the Egyptian revolution of 1919 against the British occupation,2 Tahrir was the favorite space for all massive socio-economic and political rallies, such as the cancelling of the 1936 treaty with Great Britain, 1952 coup, protesting against the 1967 war defeat, demonstrations of students in 1968, and the “Bread Intifada” of 1977. Therefore, it was natural for the call of 25th January 2011 to target Tahrir as a symbol for gathering protesters against the government, to pressure the regime for change (Ghoneim, 2012). Alsayyad thinks that the Egyptian people have rarely recognized Tahrir Square as the symbol of their liberation, until 25 January 2011, when Tahrir Square has finally earned its name (Alsayyad, 2013)3 Tahrir Square is traditionally a noisy, vast traffic area of many interconnected spaces and several entrances, which, therefore, does not appear to be an intimate public space from the urban point of view. Moreover, it can be regarded as a symbol of authoritarian control since many governmental institutions are close by, e.g., the ruling party headquarters, parliament and the Ministry of Interior. However, demonstrations and long-term camping through the year 2011 turned this unlimited – generally disliked – space into an interactive place. This considerable transformation inspired me to write the present chapter and to run an investigation combining two perspectives: a) my expertise as an architect and researcher; b) my perspective as a protester who witnessed the transformation of the square being freed, inspirational, becoming more secure and dignified after suffering from Mubarak’s dictatorship. I was surprised to find out that Tuan, a philosopher about space vs. place has discussed this, summarized as: “space is freedom, place is security” (Tuan, 1977, p. 3), which derived research to discuss space and place concepts, next.

Definitions of Space and Place, and their Relations Francis Ching (2007, p. 94) stated that “Space is a formless vapour with form, having its dimensions and scale, organised by the elements of mass: planes and vertical elements with various configurations that determine the space.” Space can

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be considered the raw material of an architectural place, with its main feature in opposition to environment typology, form, colour, material and texture. Moreover, Tuan (1977, p. 6) mentioned that the difference between ‘space’ and ‘place’ can be described in the extent to which human beings have given meaning to a specific area in two different ways, namely: in a direct and intimate way, through the senses such as vision, smell, sense and hearing, and in an indirect and conceptual way mediated by symbols, arts and concept. “Space” is described as a location that has no social connections for humans, but “place” consists of “space” filled with meanings and objectives by human experiences. Places are also centres where people satisfy their biological needs, such as food and drink (Tuan, 1977). Charlie Grantham (2017) elaborated that ‘space’ is the physical part, while “place” is metaphysical with social dimensions. Spaces are physical locations where interactions occur and things happen, value is exchanged, and people collaborate in forming shared purposes. Place adds a fourth social dimension of personal meaning from experiences and memories. These terms combine both Lefebvre and de Certeau’s concepts of spatial practices and space production upon theories and tales rather than maps. Whereas Lefebvre was interested in representations of space in knowledge and power structures, while de Certeau focuses on the practices within that structure, e.g., constitutive relationship, as of “Walking the City.”4

Goals and Objectives Considering the complexity of the transformation processes, which Tahrir Square has undergone, the present study aims to discern the mechanisms, motives, and unseen forces that transformed this noisy, uncomfortable space into a liveable interactive place. Attention will be also dedicated to discovering how the image and functions of the square changed along with the behavior of most of the protesters during 2011, which shifted from a careless, selfish attitude to attentive ethics. Furthermore, my study intends to understand the parallel processes and bilateral effects between the square and protesters according to many layers; architectural/ urban, cultural, social, and political. In this way, I wish to provide an investigation of space and place transformation cycles of Tahrir Square over the last century.

Methodology The study begins with a historical background of Tahrir Square, literature review of “space” and “place” definitions, and their relations. A descriptive and analytical case study of the square will be carried out from the architectural and urban perspectives, physically and ethically. Books, documentaries and related literature of the Egyptian revolution motives and reasons, along with live images of the square, were inspected to support the historical background of this research. Furthermore,

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place attachment theories and environmental psychology were studied, trying to discern both evident and latent mechanisms that changed Tahrir Square, through personal observations and experience.

Tahrir Architectural and Urban Description Tahrir Square is not geometrically defined since it combines several adjacent and interconnected squares. The construction of the Egyptian Museum in 1905 has set a northern limit to Tahrir (Howeidy, 2015), separating “Abdel Monem Riad” square at the north. A wide street: “Meret Pasha,” runs parallel to Nile, as main spine from north to the southern Tahrir main circle. The whole area covers about five hectares and approachable by eleven street entrances. The southern centre is a large traffic circle which leads to the historic Qasr al-Nil Bridge that crosses the Nile River. The southern limit is the “Al Mogamma” government building, the “Omar Makram” memorial mosque, and two five-star hotels. At the east there is; the original downtown campus of the American University in Cairo, along with residential Khedive-style residential buildings which has some offices and shops at ground level. At the western side there is; a large five-star hotel, underground parking, headquarters of the Arab League building, and a vacant area of the former headquarters of Mubarak’s ruling party, known as NDP (National Democratic Party).5 The length of the square is about 500 meters from north to south, while the width ranges from 200 to 300 meters from east to west. The height of surrounding buildings is not proportional to the width of the square, ranging between 1: 7–15 (Figs. 1 and 2). From architectural perspective, these proportions, dimensions of a space, scale and fragmented shape, are inappropriate to good public spaces.

Fig. 1. Tahrir Layout before 2011: (1) Ramses Hilton (2) Ramses street (3) 6 October bridge (4) Egyptian museum (5) NDP headquarters (6) Corniche Al-Nil (7) The Nile (8) Hotel (9) Arab League (10) Mogamma (11) Kasr Al-Nil bridge (12) Al-Tahrir street, and (13) Hotel. Cited in NY Times (The Battle for Tahrir Square, 2011). Source: Modified by the author. https:// archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/interactive/2011/02/03/world/ middleeast/20110203-tahrir-square-protest-diagram.html#panel/5.

Al-Tahrir Square, Cairo during 2011

Fig. 2.

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Sections of Tahrir Square Showing Space Proportions. Source: By Author.

Revolution of January 25, 2011 The Emergence of the Revolution Mubarak regime had ruled Egypt for 30 years; which was characterized by human rights abuses, decline of socio-economic life, economic and political corruption, all of which led to the January 2011 revolution (Bishara, 2011). Moreover, despite being a republic not a monarch, Mubarak was preparing his son as a successor to rule Egypt; thus, Amin (2012) described it period as: [one of the worst eras in Egyptian history] (Amin, 2012, p. 1). Bishara and many other scholars have analyzed in-depthreasons for the January revolution, which ironically had resumed after an “anti revolution” on July 3, 2013 (Bishara, 2014). The main slogan of the revolution sums up the reasons behind it: bread, freedom, justice, and human dignity. Many earlier revolutionists had sought lost identity and a restoration of pioneered Egypt. Tahrir Square played a key role in this sense, presenting a strong revolutionary voice since, it is a large space that could host tens of thousands of protesters, gathering to pressure the regime for change (Ghoneim, 2012). Two months before the revolution, calls were made using new social media tools, mainly Facebook and Twitter, for a mass demonstration on 25 January, Police National Day, to protest police activities and torture. Simultaneous protests were held in Alexandria, Suez, and many other cities in Egypt. In the following days, demonstrations became wider, and police began firing rubber bullets, water cannons, and tear gas to repel protesters. In addition, the police forces killed many with live ammunition and car squashing, as seen in viral online video footage and reported by Human Rights Watch.6 A curfew was enforced

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while army was deployed, and internet service was shut down by the government. On the 28 January, it was reported that between 13 and 17 million people were demonstrating in many cities, especially in Tahrir Square which became the host and the main symbol of the revolution. Fig. 3 is the timeline of revolution from January 25 till February 11 (Hanno, 2012).

Fig. 3.

Egyptian Revolution, and Tahrir Timeline; From 25 January Till 11 February 2011 (Hanno, 2012).

Once the protesters had occupied the square, they secured entrances and set up shelter camps while using the traffic circle for demonstrations, including large rallies and marching. They set up two platforms and assigned a shop as their headquarters. Tahrir activities ranged from: demonstrations, guarding access points, camping, discussions, preparing food, praying, drawing, singing, and playing music, offering medical treatment, removing trash (Fig. 4), and later, re-laying pavement and painting curbstones. Events and confrontations continued between protesters and police forces until President Mubarak stepped down on February 11, 2011, leaving authority to the High Military Council, not revolution coalition formed at the square!

Al Tahrir during 2011 The High Military Council (HMC) ruled Egypt throughout 2011; their rule was characterized by several bloody events. The military attempted to evacuate Tahrir many times by force to end the state of revolution. However, revolutionists refused to leave Tahrir before applying their demands, mainly handing power to elected government and persecution of Mubarak's regime. Revolutionists managed to keep the 11 entrances of the square closed all of 2011, by traffic barracks and pavement stones, despite regular attacks by regime’s hired thugs, police tear gas, and live ammunition which caused many casualties among them. Finally, they forced the HMC to hand over power after the presidential election of July 2012. Many accounts via literature, films, and social media documented the major events of the Egyptian revolution starting from January 2011 until 2014, are well documented in

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Arabic studies, including Wael Ghoneim’s The Revolution (2012), Mohamed Almahdy’s Brilliance of the Egyptian Revolution (2011), and Azmy Bishara’s The Great Egyptian Revolution (2011 and 2014). Moreover, some foreign researchers have also dedicated attention to the 2011 revolution as seen in the following publications: Altahrir Egypt (2015) by Guibal, C. and Salaun, T., and The Fall of Pharaoh; Living image of the Square (2013) by Solet, R.

Fig. 4. Tahrir Activities and Locations: (1) Campsite (2) Flag sellers (3) Rubbish (4) Kindergarten (5) Bloggers (6) Food stalls (7) Toilets (8) Water point (9) The wall of martyrs (10) Pharmacy (11) Main stage (12) Clinic (13) Army tanks (14) Newspaper wall (15) KFC clinic, and (15) Artwork, Annotated BBC image of Tahrir (over Reuters photo). Source: Modified by the author. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-12434787.

Turning a Public Space into an Interactive Place This section is dedicated to discovering the mechanisms and unseen forces that created links and place attachment, which transformed Tahrir Square from an undefined space into an interactive place.

Place Generation and Sense of Place Pallasmaa (2014) connects place generation to the human senses, as these senses encourage engagement between people, allowing them to have exciting experiences which then turns the space into place. This can be formulated as: space 1 stimulation of human senses 1 encouragement 1 engagement 1 exciting experience 5 place. Lentini and Decortis (2010) indicate five dimensions that

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encompass the different ways of apprehending our environment, as well as the emotional relationships with space; such dimensions are: (1) Geometrical and geographical aspects of the spatial qualities of the environment. (2) Sensorial experience for the apprehension of qualities of environment, such as colors and smell. (3) Cultural experience, understanding of behaviors and the corollary of the activities. (4) Personal meaningful experiences-in-place that are mainly experienced at the individual level, introspection, self-understanding, and personal growth. (5) Relational experience that represents the opportunities for interpersonal relationships. All five elements were evident during the protests at Tahrir Square in 2011, from apprehension to emotional connection, to the extent that one of my acquaintances said recently that he misses the smell of tear gas! proving Pallasmaa’s concept, of senses. Some protesters noted that they had personal reasons to join the demonstrations, while the majority were discontent with the regime practices. Fleming (2007) combines both previous theories, connecting the sense of place to physical (tangible) elements (landscapes, buildings, objects) and nonphysical, intangible elements (memories, narratives, rituals, values, sensory perceptions). He thinks the sense of place is a fluid concept, continuously reconstructed and reconfigured, articulated through shared experiences and dialogue with others. Caring, sharing, and organizing are the links in between. Revolutionists, human rights activists, and angry youth had a common vision and a determination to use Tahrir for protesting. Shared goals and experiences reconfigured both humans and space, which, in turn, created a huge revolution in a dynamic process. Obviously, all the above theories apply to Al Tahrir Square at different levels, in conjunction with the events and activities that took place during the revolution.

Place Attachment Theories Place attachment refers to emotional and functional bonds between place and people which interpreted in different scales in Environmental psychology. Scannell and Gifford (2010) think that place attachment is a complicated phenomenon that goes through several disciplines, depending on person, place, and process. They have illustrated place attachment phenomenon at a “Tripartite Organizing Framework,” combining different aspects of place; physical/social, process; cognition/affect/ behaviour, and person; individual/cultural groups (Fig. 5). In fact, they have tried to combine Urban dimensions, psychology, anthropology, values, and sociology. Moreover, Grantham (2017) focused on place conditions, i.e., good, or bad, to promote good or bad memories which inspire different modes that develop behavior. Three interrelated issues enable turning space into place: First, the physical, practical interaction with other people to encourage and support

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purposeful engagement; second, places give individuals meaning and ground them in time and space; finally, places are essential in a symbolic sense, as we can recognize our interconnectedness, our mutuality, and our shared values. This means that people sometimes do or say certain things, like create graffiti, dance, or shout to add personal meaning to a place. In this sense, Grantham proposed many activities to achieve place attachment, among which are conversations with others in a public space and political rally (Grantham, 2017) which all were evident at Tahrir, creating “attachment.”

Fig. 5. Scannell and Gifford (2010) Defining Place Attachment: A Tripartite Organizing Framework. Journal of Environmental Psychology, 30, 1–10. Source: Reproduced by author.

I, myself have felt attached emotionally to Tahrir; traveled to Cairo many times, same as other millions of Egyptians who went to Tahrir Square, from far away cities, as if going to Makah for pilgrimage. These visits enhance the liberation spirit that is evoked by the square. Similarly, revolutionists in 2011 created their own “free oasis” to express themselves in ways they could not do before, through songs, drawings, and statements which allowed them to immortalize their existence. Thus, occupiers of Tahrir Square felt a taste of freedom and empowerment while protesting, which was never felt before or after 2011. This explains why many did not want to leave the square even with the killings and injuries, they felt a sense of a growing moral relation between themselves and the square. Gallagher calls this attachment “The Power of Place,” referring to how our

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surroundings could shape our thoughts, emotions, and actions (Gallagher, 2007). Naturally, if one regards Tahrir Square only as a transportation centre, it is difficult to feel belonging or a sense of attachment to it. In fact, it was not until the burst of the revolution, that is when relations and experience developed through daily events such as attacks and threats, news broadcasts, speakers’ platforms and common discussions about Egypt’s future, that it became a place people could attach to. Additionally, personal observation during 2011 showed that many people came to Tahrir out of curiosity, to see what was happening or because they were jobless, or to seek life entertainment, but many were changed later by the “power of place” through mutual interrelation (Ali, 2019).

Tahrir Transformation Cycle, from Space to Place As noted earlier, Tahrir Square has been witness to many events in Egypt’s past. All these events are hardly counted as mechanisms for transforming the square into a place, since they were temporary, lasting only a few hours. One might ask why Tahrir Square does not remain a “place” but, instead, it always returns to a “space?” The answer can be found using PPS theory. PPS have analyzed places around the world, showing that successful cities are characterized by main elements: sociality, activities, accessibility, comfort, and mental image (PPS, 2009). PPS concluded that cities succeed or fail at enhancing quality of life, suggesting a concept called “The Power of 101.” The idea behind this concept is that places thrive when users have a range of reasons (101) to be there, which might include having a place to sit, playgrounds to enjoy, art to touch, music to hear, food to eat, history to experience, and people to meet (PPS, 2009). Most of these activities were generated on Tahrir Square during 2011, which explains its vitality during that year. Moreover, the mass demonstrations and authority’s challenge, along with free speech which had been denied for decades by Mubarak’s regime, had added a unique character to the square. A comparison of Tahrir against these factors before and after the 25 January revolution is demonstrated in Table 1. The table shows the validity of PPS and the explanatory potential of concept of “The Power of 101,” answering why the square reverted to a space again, once the revolution state was over, hence majority of activities and events were stopped. Although the square was developed – as explained later – but sociality and accessibility are denied, by law of banning demonstrations.

The Role of Information Technology Enhancing Interactivity Events or happenings which, in the past, could take many years to come to fruition, can be developed in mere days using info media today. Research

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Table 1. Comparison of Tahrir before 25th January Revolution and during 2011, Using PPS Factors. Time Factors

Tahrir before 25th January Revolution

Accessibility High due to its centrality and and linkage many transportations means that intersect at the square: Underground metro, buses and private vehicles.

Sociality

Very low sociality, except in front of the Egyptian museum by tourists and visitors. Some people meet at Mogamma BLD, waiting for their governmental services.

Uses and activities

Limited to museum visit and Mogamma government BLD, AUC, Mosque and passing by as a transportation center.

Comfort and Very low due to noise, image pollution and inadequate seating or public WC, while the image is poor. It could fairly be judged as negative with the ruling party building DNP and Mogama BLD as symbols of corruption and government bureaucracy. Many famous movies have demonstrated such a bad image; “Terrorism & Kebab” (Ibrahim, 2018). However, many residents felt eased by residing at the Cairo center, near services and traffic connections.

Tahrir during 2011

Moderate-low because of the closure of Tahrir underground station and bus stop. People came walking from entrance streets and across the Nile bridge or from previous stations. Sociality at the most, with the closure of the square against traffic, people number ranging between hundreds of thousands on Fridays to several thousand at night who were camping. Demonstrating, camping, singing and music, political forums. Protecting the square, sometimes fighting against attacks and medication at the field hospital. Closure of the square against traffic led to a better environment without noise or pollution, except when thugs or security forces attacked the square many times, as an unsafe and dangerous area. Square has poor physical images of temporary shelters and tents in addition to banners and graffiti of the revolution. As for the conceptual image, it signals “liberation”, pride for revolutionists and defiance for security forces. However, the government wanted to end square closure and a “revolution” state.

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on “place making” has emphasized the role of technology “that enabled a people to be networked together and thus collectively transport themselves to a different place and mental space because of an idea” (Stephenson, 2011, p. 1). Young Egyptians have used Facebook and Twitter, and later GPS, to share their ideas and events in Tahrir Square. Thus, IT was used for producing knowledge regarding the protests and for determining their protestants’ positions both physically and politically – as many parties and movements were there (Stephenson, 2011). Ghoneim, who was one of the leaders of the 25 January call, underlined how the call was spread by IT and that this phenomenon changed Tahrir Square into a huge “action” place (Ghoneim, 2012). After Mubarak’s regime discovered the effectiveness of this tool for fostering political protests, they cut all mobile phone communications for five days (Almahdy, 2011). Recently, info-media technology has allowed architects to enhance people’s experience of space. Some studies have showed that advancement of digital technology in architecture can create interactive public spaces that allow people to experience places without physical existence (Morshedi, 2012). This was proved at Tahrir Square during 2011 by large screens, laser shows, and live broadcasts from some TV stations, which were crucial since internet coverage and telecommunications were cut off by authorities to detach remote viewers from the square’s events and the feelings. Stephenson also highlights the global role of information technology, – launching the Arab Spring – which replicated what happened in Tahrir Square around the world (Stephenson, 2011). For example, the Occupy Wall Street7 movement (Tompkins Square Park in New York City, NY, USA) that formed at the end of 2011 was inspired by Al Tahrir’s experience, popular uprisings in Egypt and Tunisia, and nonviolent tactics for protesting against major banks and multinational corporations which exploit the democratic process and cause economic collapse. Fig. 6 illustrates all previous concepts and my personal experience of space/ place transformation, summing up the process graphically. It is divided into three main phases: context of space, cognition of space/place and interaction between place and people, creating place attachment. It shows a new shortcut of place formation, -on the middle right side-, when place identity can be achieved without physical presence, but with social media and spatial visualization. In that case, remote attachment could be happening without total awareness, which was noticed by people how heard about Tahir, but their comprehension changed after visiting it. Last main phase tackles Environmental Psychology of human and place identity – where a person or group can establish an emotional bond with specific environments (Bahi, Pol, & Navaro, 2017). Memories, narratives, and rituals causes different behaviors among individuals and groups, according to their personality.

Space/Place Transformation, Attachment Process and Interaction. Source: By author.

Al-Tahrir Square, Cairo during 2011

Fig. 6.

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Tahrir Behavior Interrelation between People and Place Several studies noted a dramatic change in the behavior of protesters in Tahrir Square, as well as the process of intercognition of place. My personal experience verified this change which, in essence, illustrates a kind of soul rebirth and a sense of national belonging which were rarely felt before the revolution (Ali, 2019). Almahdy (2011), a prominent psychiatric doctor, expressed that “selfishness, opportunists, submission and all slaves’ values have disappeared, while ‘square values’ have emerged, showing dignity, courage, unselfishness and innovation” And, for the first time in any revolution, protesters cleaned after themselves, painted curb stones and relayed pavement with smiles and pride (Ahmed & El-Khateeb, 2012). Robert Solet (2013), thinks that square has shown the real ethics of Egyptians, while revolution’s consequences have brought the worst out of them also, referring to chaos and taking advantage of absence of law (Solet, 2013). Moreover, Claude Jibal states that a new Egypt was born in Tahrir, admiring early success of the revolution, communal spirit, and the distinct feeling in Tahrir Square that all people were melting together; rich, poor, liberals, and Islamists (Guibal & Salaun, 2015). However, bloody events during 2011 have engraved bad memories to some, considering that situations became worse after military coup at July 2013 (Bishara, 2014). Many people would like to remember this experience like me, while others would like to forget it -even though attached to it-, like my adult son who have seen deadly events at Tahrir, which caused symptoms of deep psychcological truma.

Identity, Art, and Graffiti Fieldwork conducted in Jordan, Zaatari Syrian refugee camp, showed that decorating both heir public and private places, to provide a sense of escape from the camp and a way for compensating the loss of identity, home, and leisure (Nabil et al., 2018). This explains the artworks, sculptures of revolution and freedom, painting on the streets, and the impressive graffiti that revolutionists created at Tahrir Square. These works functioned to give the protesters a sense of belonging and documented daily events. The most popular works of graffiti were visible on the walls of Mohamed Mahmoud Street that connects the Interior Ministry with Tahrir Square, which witnessed the bloodiest clashes between military and protesters, where more than 40 protesters were killed, and 500 were injured (Martinez, 2013). The government attempted to erase and whitewash some of the street art between 2011 and 2013. Although artists have gone back and repainted them, the military and police forces eventually took over and omitted all public footprints. Massive graffiti production as a way of political and social expression is considered a positive and peaceful form of communication, reflecting the real pulse of the Egyptian streets, and it appeared throughout all of

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Cairo’s districts to express sorrow, joy, disappointment, and solidarity; it also functioned as a message to the ruler and created a bond between the population and the place (Elrahman & Mahmoud, 2015).

Development Projects and Perspective of Tahrir During the Moslem Brotherhood regime of 2012, people called for developing Tahrir Square to record the revolution as a memorandum of struggle and of the martyrs who sacrificed their lives against tyranny and injustice. An international urban competition with 95 entries was held. Most projects kept a space for demonstrations and free expression, created a memory wall for events and martyrs, and turned the whole square into a cultural center of a living landmark. However, such a redevelopment of the square was halted after military coup of July 2013, and subsequently a systematic physical and moral evacuation of Tahrir Square was carried out, claiming to revive its Khedival identity! Although demonstrations were banned by law 107 at November 2013, to end protests at Tahrir, but it has failed to cut bond between the square and people who – along with the authorities-are obsessed with Tahrir (Howeidy, 2015). Abd Alraouf (2017) records three steps for “spacing” Tahrir: (1) the demolition of NDP building, which was burned and left to signal injustice; (2) the repainting of the revolution’s wall; and (3) preventing people from gathering. He concludes that Tahrir Square no longer has value as a public space and that it has been deliberately turned from a revolution arena back into a city transportation node (Abd Alraouf, 2017). The voiding of Tahrir Square (that is, its spacing) could be understood to be in accordance with Grantham, who believes that the built environment and physical artifacts send signals about embedded cultural values (Grantham, 2017). In 2020, authority “restyled” the traffic circle with an ancient Egyptian obelisk and added costly decorative lighting to change the square’s revolution-related image and distort Tahrir’s past events. The new image implies authoritarian picturesque space, rather than a place for people.

Conclusion Tahrir Square is a large undefined urban space at Cairo centre, which was the favorite space for massive temporary socio-economic and political rallies for over a century. It was natural for the call of 25th January to target Tahrir as a symbol and appropriate space for gathering to pressure the corrupt Mubarak regime for change. Although large, undefined squares do not typically offer a feeling of intimacy and comfort, events of 2011 revolution proved that public spaces could change to places, and vice versa. The case of Tahrir Square confirmed that place and space are fluid concept, continuously reconstructed through shared experiences, socialization, and generated functions. Many theories of different prominent scholars, which were evident by Al Tahir case, have explained how and why transformation happened. Personal experience has observed place attachment; blend identity of people and place; creating “square liberation values” of dignity,

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courage, and freedom. It could be concluded that: space, urban functions, gathering, and stimulation of human sense, causes exciting experience, would create belonging and memories – which adds meaning to space –, will finally generate a place. These processes explain songs, artworks, and graffiti in Tahrir area as a way to express and offer a sense of belonging, to document events, and to immortalize the struggle of protesters. Space/place transformation mechanisms was illustrated at three phases, demonstrating that place identity can be enhanced by spatial visualization without physical presence. After 2014, as we have discussed, Tahrir was turned back into mere space by the authorities who prefers to envision the square with a different mental image, rather than as a public place related to the revolution. The identity conflict and its role in opposing narratives of January 2011 events, is still going on. Therefore, Tahrir Square in Cairo serves as a living example of the dynamic nature of public spaces that shift from places into spaces, according to their use and the power of the state and/or people. As such, Tahrir Square can serve as both warning and as a beacon of hope for the future.

Acknowledgments To those who died and got injured in all Tahrir squares of Egypt, who dreamed of freedom, justice, dignity, and a democratic Egypt.

Notes 1. Shaikh Emad Effat is an Al Azhar prominent scholar who martyred at Tahrir 16/ 12/2011. http://www.islamist-movements.com/13320. 2. The British occupation of Egypt lasted from 1882 until the end of the Suez Crisis in 1956. 3. For more, see: A History of Tahrir Square by Al Sayyad, Nezar at: https://harvardpress.typepad.com/hup_publicity/2011/04/a-history-of-tahrir-square.html. 4. De Certeau j There’s no space like home (retrieved 1/3/2021) at: https://2113humtheresnospacelikehome.wordpress.com/de-certeau/. 5. NDP building set ablaze by protesters during 28 January 2011, known as “Friday of Anger” and demolished later. https://harvardpress.typepad.com/hup_publicity/ 2011/04/a-history-of-tahrir-square.html. 6. Human Rights Watch documented the death toll from protests of whom at least 302 were killed in Egypt from 28th January till 8th February 2011. For a further discussion regarding this topic, visit https://hrw.org/news/2011/02/08/egyptdocumented-death-toll-protests-tops-300. 7. http://occupywallst.org/about.

References Abd Alraouf, A. (2017, March 3). Physical and moral evacuation of Tahrir. blogs.Aljazeera.net Retrieved from http://blogs.Aljazeera.net/blogs/2017/3/3/–

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Ahmed, A., & El-Khateeb, S. (2012). Change of local culture after the 25th revolution and its impact on environmental awareness. In ASIA pacific international conference on environment-behavior studies, Bangkok, Thailand (pp. 997–1017). Ali, N. (2019). The road to Al Tahrir; diaries of 25 January. Al Sweedi: UAE. Almahdy, M. (2011). Brilliance of the Egyptian revolution. Egypt: Dar Alshrouk. Alsayyad, N. (2013). Cairo: Histories of a city. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Amin, J. (2012). What happened to the Egyptian revolution? (p. 1). Egypt: Dar Alshourk. Bahi, G., Pol, E., & Navaro, O. (2017). Handbook of environmental psychology and quality of life research. New York, NY: Springer International Publishing. Bishara, A. (2011). The great Egyptian revolution V1. Beirut: Arab Centre for Research & Policy Studies. Bishara, A. (2014). The great Egyptian revolution V2. Beirut: Arab Centre for Research & Policy Studies. Bricoleurbanism. (2019). Tahrir square, Cairo: From traffic circle to civic square. Retrieved from http://www.bricoleurbanism.org. Accessed on January 25, 2019. Ching, F. (2007). Architecture; form, space, and order (p. 94). Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. De Certeau, M. (1984/1989). The practice of everyday life. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. El Dorghamy, Y. (2011). Tahrir square; evolution & revolution; a walk through the history of a square that made history. Rawi Magazine. Retrieved from https://rawimagazine.com/articles/tahrirhistory/ El-Husseinya, M., & Kesseibab, K. (2012). Challenges of social sustainability in neoliberal Cairo: Requisitioning the role of public space. Procedia-Social and Behavioural Sciences, 68, 790–803. Elsevier. Retrieved from www.sciencedirect.com Elrahman, A., & Mahmoud, R. (2015). The post-revolutionary effect on the urban harmony of Cairo’s built environment in relation to the collective memory of the population: Urban context of the ‘after revolution’ between contravention and elaboration. Ain Shams Engineering Journal, 7, 1099–1106. Fleming, J. (2007). Defining, creating, and sharing a sense of place. In The art of place making. Waterville, ME: Science, Technology, and Society Program Colby College. Retrieved from https://centerbrook.com/about/other_publications Gallagher, W. (2007). The power of place: How our surroundings shape our thoughts, emotions, and actions. New York, NY: Harper Perennial. Ghoneim, W. (2012). The revolution 2.0. Cairo: Dar Elshorouk. Grantham, C. (2017, November 19). How culture can turn your space into a place. Work Design Magazine. Retrieved from https://workdesign.com/2017/05/culturecan-turn-space-place/ ´ Guibal, C., & Salaun, T. (2015). Al Tahrir Egypt. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Hanno, M. (2012, May 21). Timeline of the 2011 Egyptian revolution. In Awakening of Egypt. Retrieved from https://awakeningofegypt.wordpress.com/2011/03/05/270/ Howeidy, A. (2015, December 16). The battle for Tahrir. Ahram. Retrieved from http://english.ahram.org.eg/News/173646.aspx. Accessed on January 10, 2019. Ibrahim, M. (2018, January 22). Victims & heroes of Egyptian cinema (4): Sherif Arafa’s terrorism & Kebab (1992). Retrieved from https://dailynewsegypt.com/

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2018/01/22/victims-heroes-egyptian-cinema-4-sherif-arafas-terrorismkebab-1992/. Accessed on June 18, 2021. Islamist Movements. (2016, December 16). Emad Effat, the Shiekh of the protestors. Islamist Movements. Retrieved from http://islamist-movements.com/13320. Accessed on January 10, 2018. Lentini, L., & Decortis, F. (2010). Space and places: When interacting with and in physical space becomes a meaningful experience. Personal and Ubiquitous Computing, 14, 407–415. Springer-Verlag. Martinez, L. (2013). Graffiti: The art of revolution in Egypt continues. Middle East Online. Retrieved from https://middle-east-online.com/. Accessed on January 17, 2019. Morshedi, S. (2012). Rethinking engagement: Transforming space into place via sensing technology; master of architecture. Toronto, ON: Ryerson University. Nabil, S., Talhouk, R., Trueman, J., Kirk, D. S., Bowen, S., & Wright, P. (2018). Decorating public and private spaces: Identity and pride in a refugee camp. In Proceedings of the CHI conference on human factors in computing systems, Montr´eal, QC (pp. 1–6). OccupyWallWtreet. (2018). Retreived from http://occupywallst.org/. Accessed on August 4, 2021. Pallasmaa, J. (2014, July 7). Space, place and atmosphere; emotion and peripheral perception in architectural experience. doi:10.13130/2240-9599/4202 PPS. (2009, January 1). The power of 101. Project of Public Spaces. Retrieved from https://pps.org/article/the-power-of-10?fbclid5IwAR3ijWeSyDkd0l-zhUF9HeQZT Jl-gCLuTm9CC4CkN0f9GFV06UpJs05nTQA. Accessed on February 10, 2018. Scannell, L., & Gifford, R. (2010). Defining place attachment: A tripartite organizing Framework. Journal of Environmental Psychology, 30(1), 1–10. Solet, R. (2013). The Fall of Pharaoh; living image of the square. Cairo: EAB. Stephenson, K. (2011). From Tiananmen to Tahrir; knowing one’s place in the twenty-first century. Organizational Dynamics, 40, 281–291. Tuan, Y. (1977). Space and place: The perspective of experience (p. 6). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota.

Chapter 3

Imprisonment of Public Space Esra Akbalık

Abstract Public space is a multilayered phenomenon associated with accessibility, comprehensiveness, equal citizenship, and as representing/building democracy. Founded on Henri Lefebvre’s (1974/1991) definition, space is both a product and a precondition of the social processes. Moreover, public space comes to the fore as a multilayered spatial scene. This scene enables us to examine various manifestations of intervention, negotiation, freedom, struggle, or oppression through daily life routines, mass demonstrations, or preclusions. The inherent specificity of public space also represents the struggle for/on space clearly. By exploring the rooted meaning and function of public space, this study focuses on the imprisonment of space as a manifestation of power. This chapter approaches the notion of imprisonment of space in two main ways. Firstly, the word “imprisonment” is used metaphorically to define the urban or architectural practices of the government, which have the power to transform the daily use and the symbolic meaning of public spaces. For instance, establishing or destroying symbolic or representative buildings adjacent to a public space creates empty and uncomfortable spaces where people only pass by. Secondly, the notion of “imprisonment” is used literally to define the way access to public spaces is blocked by building temporary or permanent barriers, as is done by the police for crime scene investigations. This study aims to exemplify the imprisonment of public space through two current urban practices from Istanbul, Turkey. The first case regards two much-debated buildings: the construction of a mosque and the reconstruction of a cultural center, facing each other. The space between them remains a void where, in the past, many public demonstrations occurred which has attributed to this area a symbolic meaning in the collective memory of the city. The second case regards an urban square that is well known due to sit-in protests of the Saturday Mothers movement since 1995. To prevent sit-in protests from continuing, this square has been surrounded by temporary security barriers, vehicles, and military forces Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 45–59 Copyright © 2022 Esra Akbalık Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221004

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Esra Akbalık since 2018, making this location a literal example of an imprisoned public space. By discussing these two cases, this chapter illustrates how spatial interventions such as blocking or emptying of public spaces are not just conducted to prevent a claim of civic demands, but also to erase the collective memory connected to these areas. For this reason, these interventions should be discussed on their short- and long-term effects in order to build a powerful public reclaiming of space. Keywords: Spatial intervention; power; public space; daily life; Istanbul; democracy There are only two occasions when people claim the streets, to protest against an oppressive state or to celebrate. –John Friedmann (1992)

Introduction Public space is a multilayered phenomenon associated with accessibility, comprehensiveness, equal citizenship, and the representation and building of democracy. Founded on Henri Lefebvre’s definition of space and its relation with social processes, “(Social) space is a (social) product … the space thus produced also serves as a tool of thought and of action … in addition to being a means of production it is also a means of control, and hence of domination, of power” (Lefebvre, 1991, p. 26), public space comes to the fore as a multilayered spatial scene. Since concepts of “public” and “democracy” carry changeable meanings and transformations through time, geography, global and local conditions, the aim of this paper is to examine public space as a site for power, surveillance, and resistance within a spatial and temporal context. The theoretical structure of the paper starts with a general overview of public space and its conceptual relation to democracy. This overview follows social and political aspects of public space as a ¨ setting for power, surveillance, and resistance (Akbalık, Canturk, & Turgut, 2014). The chapter focuses on two different public spaces in Istanbul, where the interventions of authoritarian governments determine short- and long-term effects on the city. The temporal context of the paper is the last decade since the recent history of Istanbul has manifested, and is still manifesting, various struggles for/ on public space.

Public Space as a Tool of/for Democracy The impact of public space on society and on daily life has been a concern of scholars from different fields, at least since the nineteenth century. Public space physically involves roads, squares, parks, and streets that are owned and used by all citizens without exception. Public space has its semantic roots in the defining of society, democracy, and participation discussed and theorized with the rise of

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urbanization. Beyond its spatial/physical content, the symbolic meaning of public space is also described and discussed through the concept of the “public sphere” ¨ by German philosopher Jurgen Habermas (1979), who defines the public sphere as a negotiation of space and states that: By “the public sphere” we mean first of all a realm of our social life in which something approaching public opinion can be formed. Access is guaranteed to all citizens. A portion of the public sphere comes into being in every conversation in which private individuals assemble to form a public body. (…) Citizens behave as a public body when they confer in an unrestricted fashion – that is, with the guarantee of freedom of assembly and association and the freedom to express and publish their opinions – about matters of general interest. (…) Today newspapers and magazines, radio and television are the media of the public sphere. (p. 198) Sennett (1977/2002) reflects on public space as a material location, like a square or avenue, and describes these places as tools for transforming and reforming the city spatially, socially, and symbolically. According to Sennett, the dullness, the monotony, and the tactile sterility of the contemporary built environment led to a contemporary problem which he names “sensory deprivation,” the drifting apart from the sensations of the body and the freedom of physical life (pp. 15–16). In Hannah Arendt’s works, public spaces are defined as the places where people gather and act together in harmony within a conceptualization of the “public realm.” Arendt (1958/1998) traces the term “public” back to Greek polis and highlights its relation to democracy. According to Arendt, the polis constitutes a “space of appearance,” in which being-in-public, or “publicity” is synonymous with politics. As she states, …“public” signifies two interrelated but not altogether identical phenomena: the first is that “everything that appears in public can be seen and heard by everybody.” The public realm is a “space of appearance”, a focus of universal attention which confers dignity and importance on the things and people that appear. (…) Second, the term “public” signifies the world itself (…) to live together in the world means essentially that a world of things is between those who have it in common, as a table located between those who sit around it; the world, like every in-between, relates and separates men at the same time. (pp. 50–52) Widening the conceptualizations of public space and its direct relation to emancipation, participation, democracy, and citizenship, French sociologist

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Henri Lefebvre focused on the production of space. As Lefebvre (1974/1991) states: A revolution that does not produce a new space has not realized its full potential; indeed, it has failed in that it has not changed life itself, but has merely changed ideological superstructures, institutions or political apparatuses. A social transformation, to be truly revolutionary in character, must manifest a creative capacity in its effects on daily life, on language and on space – though its impact need not occur at the same rate, or with equal force, in each of these areas. (p. 54) Therefore, according to Lefebvre, public space must be considered through the productive activities of a society, its people, and institutions. Another important contribution Lefebvre (1996) made to urban studies and urban movements is his concept of “right to the city” which was a call for citizens to take an active role in urban daily life to overcome the crisis of the homogenized, consumption-based cities of the 1960s. Lefebvre explains this concept as follows: These rights which are not well recognized, progressively become customary before being inscribed into formalized codes. They would change reality if they entered into social practice: right to work, to training and education, to health, housing, leisure, to life. Among these rights in the making features the right to the city, not to the ancient city, but to urban life, to renewed centrality, to places of encounter and exchange, to life rhythms and time uses, enabling the full and complete usage of these moments and places, etc. (1996, p. 179) Finally, Don Mitchell (2010) recalls Lefebvre’s distinction between “representational space” and “representations of space” by focusing on the significance of public space as a requisite for democracy.1–2 According to Mitchell, public space’s status as “public” is created and maintained through the ongoing opposition of visions that have been held, on the one hand, by those who seek order and control and, on the other, by those who seek places for oppositional political activity and unmediated interaction (2010, p. 88). It is the dynamic conflict between powers, whether a state authority or a minority group, which, for Mitchell, determines a representational space or a representation of it. This conflict also identifies the level of publicness associated with democracy and within a temporal context; a public space, therefore, can become a representation of space when once it was a representational one, or vice versa. This consideration will guide the understanding of the concept in the following paragraphs.

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Public Space in the Twenty-First Century: From Occupation to Rising of the Walls Space as both a product and a producer of social relations has potential for social transformation and offers fertile perspectives to understand current conflicts and debates. In this focus point, concepts such as building, acting, and demolishing can help to conceptualize and develop an understanding of public space within its multilayered meanings. Throughout history, the rise and fall of walls, the presence of international boundaries, the occupation of public spaces, and the building of powerful symbols of institutions, nations, and corporations can be described as examples of these concepts, reflecting the conflict between powers and the struggle for/through space. Starting symbolically since the fall of the Berlin Wall, a rapidly growing and expanding concept of globalization has become one of the main features of the contemporary era. Globalization has also been used as an umbrella term to include the advent of the information age, the rising power of transnational corporations, international flows of people, and the blurring of national boundaries which evoked a feeling of freedom, mostly enunciated by the representatives of neoliberalism. The freedom of flow promoted by these processes usually refers to the flow of capital, transnational business, and images of wealth; however, at the same time, it also refers to the globalization of inequality, poverty, and the spread of the search for alternative solutions through the developed information technologies. Due to a growing global dissatisfaction with inequality, starting from the 2010s, cities around the world have witnessed various street movements that visibly influenced each other. Following the citizen uprising in Tunisia in 2011, hundreds of thousands of protesters gathered at Tahrir Square in Cairo to express their opposition against current economic conditions and antidemocratic governance. These events, together with protests in other countries in the region, are known as the Arab Spring (Britannica, 2021). The spread of global dissatisfaction with inequality, neoliberal economy-politics, and antidemocratic governance have created a common atmosphere and led to the birth of world-wide social movements that are generally referred to as the movement of the squares or squares in movement, including, among others, Syntagma Square in Athens, Puerta del Sol in Madrid, Gezi Park in Istanbul, and Zuccotti Park in New York (Gerbaudo, 2016; Petrou, 2011; Stavrides, 2012). Besides the mostly common democracy- and economy-based demands, what made all these transnational movements possible and visible around the world was the interactive transformation between the space and societies of these countries, which created instructive ways and models of politics through the use of public space. These spaces were appropriated and transformed through the occupation of space, and new modes of public life developed including tactics to avoid official attacks and creating spaces of daily life in the occupied environment. Social media networks, through which the flow of information of all these occupation movements could spread around the world, expanded the limits of the public sphere; social media became one of the most important tools in the

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creation and maintenance of these occupations. During the last decade, these social movements have resulted in different outcomes, including political and economic gains or brutal evictions by the riot police or military forces. Undoubtedly these movements also acted, and built, on public space, while enabling a rich experience and offering information for people around the world about the potentials of civil power against neoliberal economy-politics and authoritarian regimes. While the 2010s was the decade of the movement of squares, it also witnessed the rise of interest in issues of national security, in reaction to these and other uprisings, emphasizing the discourses of fear, terrorism, and the continuity of national power. Wars or transnational security operations have created new forms of authoritarian governance, global economic conflicts, and flows of migrations. It can be said that the present-day world has been witnessing the rise of walls, both literally and metaphorically, for 30 years since the fall of the Berlin Wall. According to the Center Del`as Report 46 titled “Walled World: Toward Global Apartheid” (2020), today we find ourselves in a world with more walls, predominantly built by governments, than ever; in fact, 4.679 billion people in the world (60.98%) are living in a country that has built one of these walls along its borders. Immigration and terrorism are the main reasons given by states for the construction of these walls: these two justifications rationalize 50% of those walls around the world (Benedicto, Akkerman, & Brunet, 2020). For instance, the construction of a nearly 6,500 km concrete wall along the entire border between the USA and Mexico was announced by Donald Trump as an important part of his 2016 election promise (Rodgers & Bailey, 2020). In actual fact, not only did Trump not reach his goal, but also newly elected US President Joe Biden stated that he would not extend the project further, although he would not tear down what has already been built. In addition, one can consider the 911 km-long wall between Turkey and Syria, the 10 km-long wall along the border of Turkey and Greece, the 30 km-long wall dividing Turkey and Bulgaria, the 175 km-long wall between Hungary and Serbia, and the walls surrounding Israel; all of these are legitimized as security measures against terrorist attacks and migration flows. Claiming civil rights – through movements of squares – expresses the power of space through social appropriation and transforms public space into a representational space. Accordingly, a square becomes a public space through the actions taken on it even though nothing concrete is being built. The rise of borderline walls expresses the opposite since they create an enclosure that prevents transitions and movements and represents the power of security measures. Following the global tendency on the rising security measure; an analogy can be built between these borderline walls and the blocking of access to public spaces through temporary or permanent barriers. This analogy helps us to understand the multilayered and dynamic nature of space. In the following section, the struggle between public opposition and governmental control mechanisms will be discussed by investigating two public spaces in Istanbul.

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Imprisonment of Public Space: Two Cases from Turkey Two cases of current spatial transformation in Istanbul represent good examples for discussing how public space and its transformation relate to political dynamics, especially because of authoritarian governments. The first case is Taksim Square, one of the most popular public spaces of the city, which also stands as a symbol of the republic. The square, including Gezi Park on the northeast, is surrounded by cultural, religious, entertainment, and commercial attraction points. Taksim Gezi Park, located on the edge, acts as one of the borders that form Taksim Square. Taksim Gezi Park can be described as the first public urban park in Istanbul. It was opened in 1943 and designed by Henri Proust who was commissioned for the planning of the city between 1935 and 1950. It can also be considered as the face of the modern Turkish Republic, represented by men and women appearing together in an urban open space. The construction of new public buildings and public spaces such as Gezi Park and Taksim Square were taken as an important way of building the national identity of the modern Turkish Republic established in 1923. However, this was accomplished not only by constructing new buildings and open spaces, but also by erasing the past from the collective memory of the city. Some of the stones used during the construction of Gezi Park were remnants of an Armenian cemetery, which had been the property of Armenian society since the sixteenth century. The proprietary rights were taken from them starting in 1912, and eventually the whole area was expropriated in 1939 (Greenhouse, 2013). Another new building project connected to the modernization of the country was the construction of the Ataturk Cultural Center (AKM) – also known as the Istanbul Palace of Culture. It was built at the border between Taksim Square and Gezi Park. The design of the building started at the end of the 1940s and it was completed in 1969. AKM, as one of the cultural symbols of the Turkish Republic, stood as the most important meeting point of the city until its destruction in 2018, 10 years after debates regarding its weak structural condition. The most significant public demand on space was witnessed at Taksim Square concurrently with the rise of a social and political movement internationally known as the Gezi Uprising. Within this movement, citizens advocated for the use of parks by everyone, and they contested the Municipality’s construction plans which intended to build a mosque in the square and to reconstruct the military barracks that had stood in the area of Gezi Park between 1806 and 1940. Thousands of people occupied the park between 28 May and 15 June 2013 and used that space actively with temporary forums and eating, by establishing tents and first aid points, and by creating an autonomous daily life in the park. As noted above, AKM was not in use in 2013 due to its weak structural condition and protestors quickly covered the façade of the building by hanging different kinds of posters and flags, symbolically recreating the building as an extension of the movement (Fig. 1). All the manifestations of space discussed above, such as functional, collective, creative, and transformative, were experienced in this

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Fig. 1. Taksim Ataturk Cultural Center, during May–June 2013 Gezi Uprising ©Tolga Adanalı, Depo Photos. Source: https://www.bbc.com/ turkce/haberler/2015/03/150326_akm_tarih/

occupation movement which, therefore, overlaps with Lefebvre’s concept of “right to the city.” The movement also spread around the country. Eight years after the Gezi Uprising and the struggle between urban protestors and the government, Taksim Square had gone through some important government-led spatial transformations. The bus stops at the entrance of Gezi Park were moved to the underground due to a pedestrianization project which resulted in a huge, concrete void space in front of the park. Police vehicles and mobile security barriers have been placed around the park, conflicting with the nature of public space. A new AKM building has also started rising with a new digital screen façade and commercial units added to its architectural program. The new mosque Taksim Mosque, is rising across the new AKM as a new symbol of the conservative authoritarian power of the government, while erasing the memory of public opposition. The nondescript emptiness of the square between the new AKM and Taksim Mosque is now mostly hosting passersby. Space is once more in use directly as part of a project of building a new, oppressive identity. It can be said that building, voiding, and erasing are the spatial and symbolic strategies adopted by the government in the process of realizing exclusionist politics. The case of Taksim Gezi Park and the square manifests a two-layered method of imprisonment. The first layer is the tangible temporary security barriers and the longterm existence of police vehicles that threaten the free use of the park. Although the entrance or access is not fully blocked, these symbols of state power and surveillance disable the park’s public character and raise the question of who is imprisoned, actually? Is it the park itself as a symbol of freedom and public demands, or the

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people who are outside the park? The second layer manifests an intangible and metaphoric imprisonment that is achieved through new symbolic buildings to cover the collective memory of the citizens. The buildings and the concrete voids of the square veil the recent memory of public uprisings at the same place. With the veiling of the past with new construction – erasing the traces that may evoke the social and spatial background of the area – combined with the semifenced Gezi Park, the square stands like a muted and imprisoned space (Fig. 2). The response of the government to the Gezi Uprising did not only manifest in spatial changes, but also on the juridical levels such as suing the protestors or announcing new legal regulations on the ownership status of Gezi Park. After six years, in 2019, the government charged 16 people including artists, human rights defenders, architects, urban planners, and journalists, with organizing the movement and attempting to overthrow the government. One of the two arrested defendants was released at the first hearing of the trial that was held on 24–25 June 2019. On January 18, 2020, at the final hearing of the trial, nine defendants were acquitted of the charges. The cases of seven defendants who did not attend the hearings were separated and their trial continues. After one year, on January 22, 2021, the third Penal Chamber of Istanbul Regional Appeals Court unanimously overturned the acquittals of the nine human rights defenders in the Gezi Park Trial. The case will be sent back to Istanbul 30th Heavy Penal Court for retrial (Front Line Defenders, 2021). The second case of the “imprisoning” of public space in Turkey is illustrated by Galatasaray Square, a smaller, secondary square located at one of the crossroads of Istiklal Street, which is one of the most important cultural and touristic streets of Istanbul. The square is surrounded by Galatasaray High School, established in 1481 Yapı Kredi Cultural Center; and the Galatasaray Statue

Fig. 2.

Taksim Mosque across Taksim Ataturk Cultural Center, 2021 (©Esra Akbalık).

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designed by Turkish sculptor Sadi Çalık for the 50th anniversary of the Republic, in 1973. The fact that the square is surrounded by these historic, contemporary, and significant elements and that it stands at the heart of Istiklal Street, one of the most important streets in the city, makes Galatasaray Square an important meeting point as well as a popular space for the manifestations of public claims. Among these are the events called “Saturday Mothers.” “Saturday Mothers” is a civil society initiative attended by human rights defenders and by the families of victims of enforced disappearances that occurred in Turkey in the 1990s, which organizes weekly vigils and silent sit-in protests at Galatasaray Square since 1995, demanding information and justice for their relatives (Hafıza Merkezi, 2020) (Fig. 3). The 700th sit-in protest of “Saturday Mothers” on August 25, 2018 was the last public demonstration at Galatasaray Square. Since then the square has been physically enclosed by police vehicles and safety barriers, and has been transformed into an inaccessible space. The day of the 700th vigil was blocked by the police who accused the Saturday Mothers of “being exploited by terrorist organizations” and “using the concept of motherhood to create victimization, masking terrorism and polarizing society”. According to the government, blocking these vigils was a response to terrorist groups openly taking advantage of this space. The demands of the public, including the voices of Saturday Mothers, are no longer on the public stage. Following Arendt’s conceptualization, Galatasaray Square has lost its public character, and is no more a “space of appearance” (Fig. 4). Furthermore, 46 protestors, including Saturday Mothers and human rights defenders, are charged with “unarmed participation in an unauthorized assembly and refusal to disperse despite warnings” in connection with their participation in the 700th vigil (International Federation for Human Rights, 2021).

Fig. 3. Galatasaray Square, 600. Week Sit-In Protest of “Saturday Mothers.” September 24, 2016. Source: http://www.diken.com.tr/cumartesiannelerine-yogun-destek-600uncu-haftada-binler-galatasaraydaydi/

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Galatasaray Square, 2021 (©Esra Akbalık).

Emancipating Space: Politics through Design Competitions The increasing conflicts occurring in Turkish public spaces since 2013 hardened the response of the government to society’s democratic, political, and economic demands in different forms. These responses led to more oppressive governance. The construction-based economy policies and related discourses are representatives of this oppression. Besides blocking daily life in public spaces and constructing symbolic buildings such as Taksim Mosque, space-based representation of governmental power has also manifested itself through large-scale urban projects defined as megaprojects, which include bridges, canals, and airports (Adanalı, 2017). The atmosphere of the 2019 mayoral elections in Istanbul was one of the indicators of the growing political polarization in the country. Ekrem Imamoglu, the candidate of the opposition party, won the election but this result was canceled due to the ruling party’s objection. After three months, the winner of the reelection was again Ekrem Imamoglu with an increasing number of votes. This result can be described as an important shift in the mayoralty of Istanbul after 25 years of the ruling party’s city governance (Lowen, 2019). In the first few months of 2020, Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality (IMM) started a participatory project titled “Istanbul is Yours.” It announced a series of competitions that called for planners and designers to redesign some important squares in the city, including Taksim. The call regarding Taksim square was

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announced as an international, two-stage urban design competition where 20 projects were selected from among 146 projects at the first stage, three equivalent prizes and five equivalent mentions selected from among those initial 20 at the second stage, with the three design proposals winning equivalent prizes opened to public voting for determining the official winner. Although it was widely criticized for not being inclusive in all stages, to a greater extent the voting stage represented a participatory identity of the competition (Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality, 2020). This example of a participatory selection method, which had not been experienced before on an urban scale, had a positive impact on citizens by starting an urban debate, bringing design and city planning disciplines to the agenda and involving citizens in the process. Putting users as main actors in the center may help to change the oppressive atmosphere and give courage to the public to reappear and give voice to its demands, thereby making public space again an inseparable part of urban daily life. Reminding of the overtaking of Armenian property rights on cemetery grounds, the government has lately announced the transfer of Gezi Park’s ownership out of the municipality’s possession to an early twentieth-century foundation that is no longer active. The municipality declares that this ownership transfer is a governmental tactic to prevent the application of the design project which has been selected by the public (Tekin, 2021).

Conclusion/Discussion By taking public space as a multilayered phenomenon, this study elaborated on the outcomes of various struggles on space between democratic society’s demands and authoritarian government policies occurring during the last decade in the city of Istanbul. Two cases in Istanbul were examined through theories on public space that have emphasized social aspects related to democracy and how they become both the object and the subject of emancipation and oppression processes. The spatial restrictions with barriers are interpreted metaphorically as the imprisonment of space itself, referring to the arrest and trials experienced by protestors. The first decade of the twenty-first century has witnessed both the movement of the squares through spatial occupation of space practices, and the imprisonment of space through different methods. The increase in the rise of border walls, banning public demonstrations, and restricting public space accessibility through temporary barriers or police vehicles can be interpreted as similar practices of authoritarian and neoliberal policies on different scales. Representing the power of state through walls and barriers also enlarges its extent and ability to create its own identity through constructing new symbolic buildings or covering the past by transforming the use and collective memory of space. Globalization, as an umbrella theme of this decade, indicated its relevance by fostering discourses of neoliberal politics, transnational capitalism, and the transnational experience of social movements. These movements can be described as an opposition to the flows of finance, commodities, and services of neoliberal

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politics. Occupation of spaces can be evaluated as an act of interrupting the regular flow of daily life while building new dynamics as an opposition to mainstream neoliberal politics. As French theorist Jacques Ranciere (2010) emphasizes, the continuous circulation of people, goods, and services is the priority of neoliberalism with its “Move along! There is nothing to see here” slogan (p. 37). In order to protect this continuous circulation, the common response of police to occupation movements is to curtail all kinds of gatherings through brutality or by reproducing/restricting the space through strategies of building or emptying spaces. Although the “moving on” slogan and the flow of capital, people, goods and services are priorities of the neoliberal politics of the current era, new threats, risks, and new undesirables emerge: refugee crises as a result of transnational security policies, the risk of new population movements due to the results of climate change, and economic problems related to these issues are the most outstanding examples of these threats. Strategies like the construction of border walls or restricting the daily use of public spaces to prevent people claiming their rights and expressing demands become visible as different ways of imprisoning space and people, 30 years after the fall of the Berlin Wall. These conflicts and policies of authoritarian powers at different scales, with similar tactics, lead us to rethink the potentials of public space for emancipatory practices. Besides common global effects, it is certain that each region, country, city, or society has its own dynamics and background. This leads to specific problems and different struggles regarding space and other basic democratic rights as exemplified in this chapter. Nevertheless, the experience and knowledge gained from local and global social movements of the last decade have enriched the discussions about building cooperation in search of sustainable and democratic achievements. Putting design, public debate, and participatory tools at the center reminds us of these emancipatory potentials of the production of space. Hence, building international bonds, avoiding exclusions, insisting on democratic demands, and taking active roles in the decision-making processes will force governments to build sustainable and inclusive policies on/for space, and sharing the experiences gained from different spatial conflicts and debates may help augment public response to the crises of the present and near future.

Notes 1. Representational space: “…space as directly lived through its associated images and symbols (…)” It overlays physical space, making “symbolic use of its objects.” (Lefebvre, 1991, p. 39). 2. Representations of space: “conceptualized space, the space of scientists, planners, urbanists, technocratic sub-dividers and social engineers, (…) This is the dominant space in any society (or mode of production)” (Lefebvre, 1991, pp. 38–39).

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References Adanalı, Y. A. (2017, July 19). Can megaprojects solve Istanbul’s urban woes? emerge85. Retrieved from https://emerge85.io/Insights/can-megaprojects-solveistanbuls-urban-woes/ ¨ Akbalık, E., Canturk, E. & Turgut, H. (2014). Rethinking the role of the public space in the production of urban life: The case of ‘occupy Gezi park’. 26. International building & life fair and congress, chamber of architects Bursa section, Bursa, 3–5 April 2014, (pp. 271–278). Arendt, H. (1998). The human condition. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Benedicto, A. R., Akkerman, M., Brunet, P. (2020). A walled world: Towards a global apartheid. Centre Del`as d’Estudis per la Pau, Transnational Institute, Palestinian Grassroots Anti-Apartheid Wall Campaign, Stop Wapenhandel. Retrieved from https://www.tni.org/en/walledworld Friedmann, J. (1992). The right to the city. Society and Nature: The International Journal of Political Ecology, 1(1), 71–84, Athens, London, Society and Nature Press. Gerbaudo, P. (2016, April 29). 5 years on: Why the occupations of 2011 changed the world. Occupy. Retrieved from https://www.occupy.com/article/5-years-whyoccupations-2011-changed-world Greenhouse, E. (2013, June 28). The Armenian past of Taksim square. The New Yorker. Retrieved from https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/thearmenian-past-of-taksim-square Habermas, J. (1979). The public sphere. In S. Siegelaub & A. Mattelart (Eds.), Communication and class struggle (Vol. 1, pp. 198–200). Bagnolet: IG/IMMRC. Lefebvre, H. (1991). The production of space. Oxford: Blackwell. Lefebvre, H. (1996). Writings on cities. Oxford: Blackwell. Lowen, M. (2019, June 24). Istanbul mayoral vote: Is ‘disastrous’ loss beginning of Erdogan’s end? BBC News. Retrieved from https://www.bbc.com/news/worldeurope-48744733 Mitchell, D. (2010). The end of public space? People’s park, definitions of the public, and democracy. In Common ground? Readings and reflections on public space (pp. 83–99). New York, NY: Routledge. Petrou, P. (2011, June 22). The struggle in The squares. In Occupy. Socialistworker. Retrieved from https://socialistworker.org/2011/06/22/struggle-of-the-squares Ranciere, J. (2010). Dissensuss: On politics and aesthetics. London: Continuum. Rodgers, L., & Bailey, D. (2020, October 31). Trump wall: How much has he actually built? BBC. Retrieved from https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-46824649 Sennett, R. (2002). Flesh and stone: The body and the city in western civilization. London: Penguin. Stavrides, S. (2012). Squares in movement. South Atlantic Quarterly, 111, 585–596. doi:10.1215/00382876-1596308 Tekin, A. (2021, March 22). AKP’s claim over Gezi park is extortion of public property. Duvar. Retrieved from https://www.duvarenglish.com/akps-claim-overgezi-park-is-extortion-of-public-property-news-56729

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Web Resources Britannica, T. Editors of Encyclopedia. (2021, January 27). Arab spring. In Encyclopedia Britannica. Retrieved from https://www.britannica.com/event/ArabSpring Front Line Defenders. (2021, January 26). Status: Acquittal overturned. Retrieved from https://www.frontlinedefenders.org/en/case/gezi-park-trial#case-update-id11075 Hafıza Merkezi. (2020, August 13). Galatasaray square: A recognized memory space. Retrieved from https://hakikatadalethafiza.org/en/galatasaray-square-a-recogniz ed-memory-space/ International Federation for Human Rights. (2021, February 25). Turkey: Judicial harassment of the Saturday mothers/people movement. Retrieved from https:// www.fidh.org/en/issues/human-rights-defenders/turkey-judicial-harassment-of-thesaturday-mothers-people-movement Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality. (2020, November 13). Istanbulites decide new design for Taksim square. Retrieved from https://www.ibb.istanbul/en/News/ Detail/1574

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Chapter 4

Kuwait National Assembly Building: The Holy Assembly Anas Alomaim and Dana Alhasan

Abstract The integration of religion and democracy in the Kuwait National Assembly (KNA) produced definitions of democracy distinct from others in the region as well as from Kuwait’s own national history. The uniqueness of Kuwait’s democracy in the Arabian Peninsula is primarily due to the establishment of its parliament and constitution, which make it a constitutional rather than an absolute monarchy. The development of Kuwait’s democracy relied heavily on the construction of its monumental national assembly building, designed to mix symbols of democracy as understood in Western discourse (see, for instance, the columniation inspired by the Greek Pantheon) with images inspired by local elements (like the tent): this combination allows the building to produce an image of democracy and independence that resonates with local as well as international populations. The initial plan for the development of a national assembly building in Kuwait included a mosque that would have become part of the assembly complex. The mosque building was later replaced by a prayer hall inside the KNA building, and at the same time a decision to build a state mosque in a different location within the old city of Kuwait was confirmed. The separation of the two structures can be read, at first glance, as an important symbolic action expressing the separation of the church and state; yet an indepth analysis of the KNA’s design suggests different conclusions. This chapter explores how the design of the KNA building is apparently rooted in universal laws of spirituality and religion; on a related note, the tent-inspired building reveals a reliance on ancient religious traditions and proportions. Keywords: Kuwait National Assembly; Jørn Utzon; Kuwait; nation building; postcolonialism; critical regionalism

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 61–77 Copyright © 2022 Anas Alomaim and Dana Alhasan Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221005

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Introduction Kuwait established itself as a constitutional monarchy in 1961, around the same time it declared independence. This form of government helped Kuwait construct its image as a democratic country, which represents a unique case in the region. Moreover, the development of its democracy relied heavily on the establishment of its National Assembly in 1963 and later on the construction of its monumental building starting in 1968 (Komonen, 1988 as cited in Vale, 1992, p. 267). The political inclusion of nationals at the mass level through the National Assembly helped to reinforce the sense of Kuwaiti identity, conflating nationalism and national identity in the years to follow (Crystal, 1995). Soon after Kuwait gained its independence from the British mandate in 1961, the Kuwait National Assembly (KNA) building was designed to be a monument legitimizing Kuwait as a modern, independent, and democratic state. Although traces of democracy existed long before Kuwait’s independence, the decision to design and build a new edifice for the National Assembly of Kuwait was intended to demonstrate the government’s democratic foundation to its residents and to the region at large. Being a result of a closed architectural competition, the process of designing the KNA building itself exhibited inklings of democracy in the young nation. This chapter sheds light on the events that led to the development of the architectural competition during this pivotal moment in Kuwait’s architectural history, including a formal analysis of Jørn Utzon’s winning design, and a critical examination of its role in establishing Kuwait’s reputation as one of the leading democratic countries in the Arabian Peninsula. The chapter also surveys the history of democracy in Kuwait and critically analyzes the history of the design process and construction of KNA building. In this way, it demonstrates how religion and spirituality, which are not usually associated with the civic nature of modern democracy and nationalism, were integrated in the process of its design in various ways. The study concludes with an assessment of the National Assembly’s history, its formal and symbolic manifestations, and the meanings evoked by its existence.

Historical Background on Democracy and Its Reflection in Kuwait’s History Amongst other Arab Gulf states, Kuwait has a leading history of the public’s political participation in internal affairs. It was around 1752 that a council of the most prominent families of Kuwait chose Al-Sabah to be the ruling family. Decisions of the government, for the most part, were the result of a cooperative effort, consultations, and consensus among families belonging to the merchant class and the ruling family. This practice, known as Shura, set the stage for a longstanding pattern of politics, a democracy intricately woven in with Islamic law and adhering to cultural customs. The relative ease of succession of Al-Sabah rulers prior to the twentieth century, albeit constrained by the pressures of the merchant class, was based on

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Kuwait’s “foreign policy of calculated neutrality… [And on] keeping channels of communication open with all parties” (Crystal, 1995, p. 21). Crystal attributes this very characteristic to Kuwait’s bold realignment in 1899, as the country signed a treaty to become a protectorate of the British Empire, which granted it protection and separation from Ottoman rule. The first official step of Kuwait’s democratization can be attributed to the first Shura Council of 1921, when 12 people were appointed to act as consultants to the Emir of Kuwait. The Shura Council lasted only two months due to various disputes among its members. The first democratic election took place in Kuwait in 1930. Moreover, the establishment of the Municipal Council allowed Kuwaitis to be more involved in their own political affairs. The election of its 11 members, one permanent president, and a director of the Municipal Council took place every two years. The council discussed matters of security, health, education, and construction in their weekly meetings. The first Legislative Council was established in 1938 and was comprised of 14 elected members from the leading merchant families in Kuwait, headed by Abdullah Al-Salim of the Al-Sabah family. The Council established administrative reforms regarding political socioeconomic matters through a more participatory and democratic process. The Council became “Kuwait’s first political party, the National Bloc […whose goals] were to support the Legislative Assembly, spread cultural consciousness, and kindle the spirit of nationalism (qawmiyya) among Kuwaitis” (Crystal, 1995, p. 48). Though construction of the nation is often connected to the establishment of the oil extraction industry, Crystal (1986) suggests that the nation-building period actually started earlier: in 1922 Kuwait’s unsettled borders were reduced and demarked by the larger Saudi and British powers. However, the arrival of oil did redirect Kuwait’s national development trajectory, toward lucrative revenues reinvigorating Kuwait’s political and economic landscape. The rapid urban development that took place thereafter prompted a reexamination of nationbuilding to fit the new needs of the state. One of the earliest buildings to be constructed had to reflect the democratic spirit of the country: the KNA building was not only a symbol of this new identity, but also the place where the voice of the population could (potentially) be heard.1

Competition and Analysis of the Submitted Proposals In the early 1960s, and right after Kuwait’s independence, the Kuwait government established an Advisory Planning Committee (APC) constituted of a group of foreign architects to advise on modernist building projects and to extend invitations to international offices and architects to submit project proposals. This committee consisted of Leslie Martin, Franco Albini, Dr. Omar Azzam, and Hamed Shuaib. They organized an architectural competition to design KNA building. The competition was open only to the following selected local and international architects: Balkrishna Vithaldas Doshi from India; Spence, Bonnington and Collins from the United Kingdom; Mohamed Ramzy Omar from Egypt; Pier Luigi Nervi

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from Italy; Rifat Chadirji, Abdulla Ihsan Kamil, and Ihsan Sherzad (under their firm which was called IQC) from Iraq; Jørn Utzon from Denmark; and a joint local Kuwaiti consortium comprising Kuwaiti Engineers’ Office, National Engineering Bureau, Kuwait Architectural Consulting, and Gulf Engineering Office (Hamdan, 1971). The APC studied each submitted proposal and selected two projects as the finalists: IQC’s and Jørn Utzon’s proposals. The IQC proposal presented a horizontal expansion with a plan similar to that of a town (Fig. 1). A main road extended from the seafront to the backstreet; smaller perpendicular routes formed the overall grid system. The smaller parts constituted smaller units, each with its own central courtyard. The building was a shallow one that did not exceed two levels. Utzon’s proposal was similar to IQC’s scheme, and both were initially elected as potential winners.2 Eventually the APC awarded the commission to Utzon and commended his design for the way “it continues (without imitation) certain Arabic traditions: for instance, the covered street, the succession of structural arches, the mat forms with its courts and the walled enclosure” (Reports on the Design, 1972, March 27, p. 6). On April 2, 1972, the Planning Board issued a letter informing the two architects that they were selected as finalists, asked each of them to revise certain elements of their proposal, and requested that they meet a member of the APC (Chadirji to meet Omar Azzam in Beirut and Utzon to meet Sir Leslie Martin in London) to elaborate on their submissions. However, Utzon received both letters: the one directed to him, and the one addressed to Chadirji. Therefore, it is not clear whether Chadirji received his letter on time or even at all. In any case, whether intentionally or not, Utzon had the upper hand since he had access to both letters.3 In an article titled “The Myth of the Local,” Mark Wigley (2011) discusses another project that Utzon was selected to design and build. Wigley explains that the jury panel’s decision that Utzon would design and build the Sydney Opera House was tendentious: it was filled with stops and delays, and unusual design interventions by members of the jury panel.4 Sir John Leslie Martin, who was a member of the judging panel of the Sydney Opera House competition, was also on the panel for the KNA competition. Correspondence between the two heavily suggests that Utzon was privy to the jury’s discussions and meetings and was supported to win both projects.5 Moreover, in an email conversation, Mr. Chadirji explained: “The representatives were instrumented into awarding the design to Utzon, and generally speaking they could not be convinced that an Iraqi architect is better than Danish” (R. Chadirji, personal communication, April 28, 2015).6 With this comment, Chadirji also highlighted another attitude that still exists to this day: a favorable view of European or Western architects in the nation-making process.

Form: Symbols between Architectural Shapes, Democracy and Control The following is an expansive analysis of Utzon’s winning design focusing on the main elements, the plan, the symbolism used in the building, and the design of the

Kuwait National Assembly Building

Fig. 1.

Horizontal Expansion.

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Fig. 2.

KNA Canopy and Colonnades.

KNA mosque. All aspects are discussed on their relation to issues such as democracy and nationalism in Kuwait. The most recognizable elements of the KNA are the canopy and its colonnades that covers the entrance of the building (Fig. 2). In his discussion of the building, David Langdon (2014) in a piece for ArchDaily explains: [The] most astounding aspect of the plaza is its innovative and somewhat deceptive material deployment. Much has been made of Utzon’s ability to make the concrete roof appear to “billow” in the wind, conveying the delicacy of fabric despite its inert rigidity. Its texture is enriched by a dual-parabolic geometry, in which individual sections curve upward perpendicularly to the curve of the whole. (para. 4) The white monumental “billowing” roof can be seen in several of Utzon’s projects, such as the famous Sydney Opera House and Bagsværd Church. One may find the root of these forms connected to Jørn Utzon’s father, who was a naval architect. Yet, looking at them through the history of art and architecture, one can also see clouds as blurs covering some sort of holy power, or signs of invisible authority.7 The canopy is supported by tubal columns, which are cut to allow light to enter the building in a dramatic and grandiose way (Utzon, 2008, p. 122). The columns possess the majestic feeling of ancient Egyptian temples, but

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more acutely, were modeled after the Parthenon (Utzon, 2008, p. 128). Celebrated as the origins of Western civilization, ancient Greece is known for the advancement of philosophy, Athenian democracy, and artistic mastery. The Parthenon is considered the symbol of this progress. The geometry of the KNA’s roof allows for light to enter under the canopy in certain areas of the building, and to cast shade in other spots, creating a magnetic feeling that draws the flow of the public in and out under the grandiose entrance. The columns of light and a pier of clouds, along with the sweeping tent canopy, parallel religious imagery which can be found in the Old Testament and closely relate to the architecture of temples of early civilizations. In his design of the KNA, Utzon used intricate ratios based on ancient mathematical knowledge. The mathematical precision is particularly architectural and less structural, considering how those ratios are aesthetic measurements able to produce a particular psychological effect. His team was to recreate these inspirational forms in precast concrete, involving structural design features that had not been implemented in Kuwait or the region prior to this project (Pollitt, 2015, pp. 56–59). These forms produce and nurture a sense of loyalty in their vernacular and familiarity, national assimilation in its cultural reference, security, and ultimately control. In his earlier plans, Utzon presented the front plaza of the KNA as an Islamic garden open to the public.8 The same plaza would later be replaced by a highly secured drop-off and reception area for the members of parliament. This area is covered with a tent-like awning to symbolize Arab hospitality. The same structure included advanced security systems prohibiting anyone from entering or even photographing the building without a permit (Al-Rushaid, 1986, p. 4).9 The plaza became merely a symbol of democracy without having any applicable function as physical space to facilitate democracy.

Plan: Additive Architecture between Flexibility and Security Utzon explains that the plan was organized in a way reminiscent of old bazaars, such as the ones he once visited in Isfahan.10 This effect was created by Utzon’s “additive architecture,” which is the use of repeated units organized by a larger structure. Offices, meeting rooms, reception rooms, library, the assembly hall, and other functional spaces all consist of modules of various sizes, built and repeated around small patios or courtyards, and connected to the central corridor (that represents the Arab bazaar) via a smaller alley to create a controlled grid on various scales (Utzon & Ferrer, 2008). Moreover, having the Members of Parliament’s (MP) offices arranged around a planted courtyard with glazed windows provides another function: the windows of each office allow visual access to the other MPs seated on the other three sides of the courtyard, which all refer to the traditional layout of the bazaar. Furthermore, the branching system in Utzon’s design provides the building with advanced organization, control, and accessibility in relation to circulation, structural units, and mechanical layout. The visual exposure acts as a monitoring

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Fig. 3. Photograph of Kuwait National Assembly Hall and Seating Arrangement. Source: Published with permission by National Assembly of Kuwait.

apparatus, where each MP overlooks the others.11 It seems that the courtyard, which looks like an organized grid, is more similar to international methods of security than to Kuwaiti or Islamic architecture. Another aspect of the controlled plan is represented by the advisory committee’s special attention to the seating arrangement of parliamentary members in the assembly hall (Fig. 3). Chadirji points out that one of the reasons the committee voted for his design was that his suggestion for the seating arrangement did not follow a hemicycle; a seating arrangement in concentric circles was meant to encourage agreement rather than critical opposition.12

Symbolism: The Bedouin Tent and Its Merging of Culture and Religion One of the main symbolic elements Utzon integrated in his design for the National Assembly building is similar to a building structure that is considered a key element in Kuwait’s history: The Bedouin tent, or “Beit Alsha’ar” (the nomad’s shelter). This building structure is an envelope made of rectangular pieces of woven goat hair. It is easily dismantled so that Bedouins can travel from

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one spot to another. Utzon’s “additive architecture” used basic prefabricated units to create a more complex form. Frampton describes Utzon’s approach as “[t]he combination of prefabricated components in a structural assembly in such a way as to achieve a unified form that, while incremental, is at once flexible, economic and organic” (Vale, 1992, p. 221). In this sense, Utzon sewed his prefabricated concrete pieces, just as rectangular cloth pieces are sewn together into a tent. In mimicking a Beduin tent, the KNA, as a national symbol, reflects a unique form of Kuwaiti culture. Lawrence Vale asserts that these “post-colonial Parliament buildings [were] intended as visual evidence of the rightful existence of a new state” (AlSayyad, 1992, pp. 315–316). As a symbolic form for a new democratic nation, the draped canopy designed by Utzon disconnects Kuwait from its colonizer and other colonies. Nonetheless Vale criticizes the tent as a form relevant only to Kuwaitis of Bedouin background (Vale, 1992). Other critics connected Utzon’s form to that of a sail, which is an inclusive symbol shared by all Kuwaitis. However, to a certain extent, even tents can be seen as a universal symbol of all cultures; tents, in fact, can be found in both nomadic and settled ancient cultures. Woven fabrics are part of ancient Egyptian, Greek, Roman, and monotheist religions’ architecture and culture, but they also represent demonstration camps, celebratory tented-affairs, and military conquests.13 Although not mentioned by any of the authors who wrote about Utzon’s design, his choice of depicting a tent in his project, presented as white cloth stretched on piers and draped to create the canopy, is connected with the history of nomadic societies around the globe. However, critics primarily relate the tent to Kuwaiti national history. While Vale focuses on the connection between Utzon’s design and the Bedouin tent, as discussed above, Michael Asgaard Andersen (2005) suggests Utzon’s Bagsværd Church project possesses similarities in the ratios of a tabernacle, relating the units of the church and its proportions to the Old Testament building guidelines: Social, cultural, and architectural impulses have been mediated and interpreted during the design process, which make the building appear with its own consummate expression. In formal terms basic Euclidian shapes are used throughout, for example in the triangulated altarpiece screening, the circular ceiling, and the squared plan. The forms are known from most ancient civilizations and take on different connotations in each one of them. (p. 101) Utzon similarly designed the KNA with the most intricate ratios based on ancient knowledge that he acquired during his many travels around the world to study indigenous cultures. Pythagoras’ theorem, Al-Khwarizmi’s algorithms, Euclidean geometries, and other scientific theories found in ancient indigenous civilizations and cultures are implemented in the KNA building, as well as in many other architectural structures found in Kuwait. The mathematical precision

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is particularly architectural and less structural.14 Thus, mathematics is used to create landmarks, monumental character, and recognizable sociocultural symbols that existed in various times in history, connecting it to specific religions.15

The KNA Mosque: Democracy and Religion Mosques have always been a way to recreate nations and assimilate them into a religious unity bound by spirituality; this is clear in the various architectural buildings constructed throughout the development of Islam which acted to recreate individuals in an Islamic mold. Many authors ascribe the construction of those mosques to the assimilation of power (Avcioglu, 2007). But this is not an argument exclusive to Islam; since the beginning of civilization, spirituality and religious buildings have acted as mechanisms of control, discipline, and power. In the West, modernity led to nation-building projects whereas nationalist architecture maintained the public’s pride and loyalty through religious structures in the East. Modern nationalist architecture was meant to liberate the public from some form of oppression and democratize life, and in other places nationalism was introduced to neutralize power between the state and religion. Utzon’s initial plan was to place the KNA’s mosque in a bold position at the front of the complex as an important aspect of Kuwait’s modernization and nation building. In later stages around the early 1970s, the government of Kuwait, represented by the APC, decided to replace the mosque with a prayer hall inside the main building. This alteration coincided with a decision to construct a grand (State) mosque for Kuwait that sits in one corner of a (power) triangle that connects it to the KNA and the Seif Palace with its clock (watch) tower. The separation of the mosque from parliament and other authoritarian buildings is not only symbolic of Kuwait modern nationalism, but also reflects the power of religion to take on a presence of its own. This aspect was particularly relevant to the recent Islamic revolution, which counter-attacked the secular pan-Arabic power that was about to create allegiances with socialist powers during the Cold War. Solidifying the local nationalism of Kuwait and its embrace of Islamic sentiments during the 1970s prevented the nation from being assimilated into the increasing power of unification in Iran or the residual power of pan-Arabism. There are two ways to look at the KNA mosque: the first is through a discussion of the historical development of, and relationship between, pan-Arabism and local nationalism in Kuwait during the Cold War era; the second is to focus on Utzon’s approach in designing a religious structure as part of the KNA complex. It is the second approach that will be taken in the following section. The mosque was meant to be a separate, yet connected, structure to demonstrate that religion was still part of Kuwait’s nationalism. The mosque would have been placed under the canopy just beside the public square in front of the KNA building and was meant to be symbolic of the presence and protection of Allah over the Kuwaiti national gathering. The proposal to include a mosque beside the entrance of the KNA has layered meanings and various explanations. It is important to note here that constructing

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a religious structure connected to a national assembly contradicts the foundation of the secular nationalist concepts that developed in the eighteenth century. For this reason, the history of the development of the KNA mosque as separate from, but connected to, a nationalist structure illustrates the importance of Islam as a unifying element for the Kuwaiti population. At the same time, its separation avoids the domination of corrupted Islamists that may try to steer the nation toward their private gains. Empowering religion in Kuwait has yet another function: it helped avoid potential unifications with secular ideologies during the Cold War era, namely pan-Arabism. It may also have suited the world’s greatest powers during this time to have Kuwait and other oil-rich nations stay independent of the secular and socialist unification power of which pan-Arabism was argued to be an extension.16 However, the KNA mosque was soon replaced by a prayer hall inside the KNA for reasons of security. In the Islamic tradition, the entrance of a mosque is open to all, so maintaining absolute control over the KNA would have been challenging. Vale explained that the elimination of the mosque is related to another political component, that “though Kuwait had always been an officially Islamic state, the rising tide of fundamentalism had made the degree of government involvement with Islam a volatile subject” (Vale, 1992, p. 233). That is to say, since nationalism in its modern Western definition is secular, KNA would naturally produce tension with any religious structure. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, developments in Europe, such as the Enlightenment and the French Revolution, weakened the role of religion within national agendas. In Kuwait, on the contrary, religion has always been part of its national identity; Kuwait’s national motto is Allah… al-Wattan… al-Amir, which translates to “God… homeland (nation)… the Prince (sheikh).” It seems that Kuwait’s nationalism could not escape a spiritual dimension, in the sense that the national motto promotes a belief in a threefold doctrine. Religion, national figures, and security of the homeland are all agents of assimilation; therefore, the motto reflects the triple power of Kuwaiti nationalism.

Critical Regionalism of Utzon’s KNA Building and Mosque In an interview with the Finnish magazine Arkkitehti, in 1988, Utzon muses over the ideas of feeling completely at home and cultural identity. In reference to the KNA building, he relates the organization of the building complex to traditional Arabian bazaars whose system “is so simple and clear, [with undefined] outer boundaries that will change as time goes by” (Komonen, 1988 as cited in Vale, 1992, p. 267). His reduction of the vernacular elements of the bazaar while romanticizing the forms of regional architecture calls attention to its regionalist roots. Looking at the analysis of Utzon’s Bagsværd Church in Frampton’s “Toward Critical Regionalism,” one immediately realizes its similarity to sections of Utzon’s mosque, namely the formal expressions through the ceiling and the sequence of overlapping circles to create the volumetric form. For this reason, it is important to analyze Utzon’s initial design for the mosque in

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comparison with his church in light of critical regionalism. Kenneth Frampton explains: [T]he scope for achieving a self-conscious synthesis between universal civilization and world culture may be specifically illustrated by Jørn Utzon’s Bagsværd Church, built near Copenhagen in 1976. A work whose complex meaning stems directly from a revealed conjunction between, on the one hand, the rationality of normative technique and, on the other, the arationality of idiosyncratic form. (p. 22) Expanding on critical regionalism, coined by Alex Tzonis and Liliane Lefaivre (1981) in “The Grid and the Pathway,” Frampton (1983) explains that it is important: To distinguish between Critical Regionalism and simple-minded attempts to revive the hypothetical forms of a lost vernacular. In contradistinction to Critical Regionalism, the primary vehicle of Populism is the communicative or instrumental sign. Such a sign seeks to evoke not a critical perception of reality, but rather the sublimation of a desire for direct experience through the provision of information. (p. 21) KNA took a tent shape for the local public to easily accept it as a sign that references and satisfies their nostalgic emotion for a lost vernacular. Regionalism was a trendy style to follow during the postwar era for more than one reason: a popular desire at that time was to return home after years of violence; a number of nations wanted to highlight their postcolonial independence; and world powers were acting actively to restructure nations to benefit future allegiances. Lefaivre explains that regionalism was once a local resistance to an outside power wishing to internationalize locality, but the postwar period witnessed a shift and the birth of the global architect who started to design structures in postcolonial nations with the utilization of local surface-images (Lefaivre & Tzonis, 2012). Another approach to critical regionalism, which is to create architecture in constant negotiation between the local and the global and explains that: The drama of human development centers in part on this tension between the regional and the universal. As with a human being, every culture must both be itself and transcend itself: it must make the most of its limitations and must pass beyond them: it must be open to fresh experience and yet it must maintain its integrity. In no other art is that process more sharply defined than in architecture. (Mumford, 1947 as cited in Canizaro, 2007, p.101)

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The disconnection between the interior and exterior in both Utzon’s church and in his schematic proposal for the KNA’s mosque reflects a similar intention; a negotiation between two opposites within a single structure, rather than architecture that parades its purity. Utzon’s proposals, for the church as well as the mosque, suggest a negotiation between the inside and outside, reconciled in the oneness of the entire structure. In his article “Revisiting Utzon’s Bagsværd Church,” (2005) Michael Asgaard Andersen, after inspecting earlier drawings of Utzon’s design, suggests that the church’s “floor has an autonomous character that frees itself from the surrounding terrain, achieved predominantly by the expansive grid and prefabricated expression” (p. 98). The mosque of Kuwait celebrates interiority as a separate form than its exterior shape in the same way that the Bagsværd Church forces a celebration between inside and outside. However, the Kuwaiti mosque within the KNA would have had a third layer, the canopy of the main structure that encompassed the totality of the complex’s elements. As a symbol of faith, the mosque of the KNA was meant to have a soft curvilinear interior, in contrast to the exterior’s predominantly cubic form. This contrast was to highlight the interiority of belief (spirituality) contained in a physical exteriority. The angles and finishing materials of the KNA’s public plaza under the canopy were designed with intricate details, and the manipulation of light and shade over the mosque would have created an ethereal quality.17 The layered physicality of the KNA building and its mosque have symbolic as well as physical qualities. In fact, the design further reinforces the sacred feeling as well as connections to surrounding centers of powers (the Grand Mosque and Ministries Complex).18

Conclusion On February 23, 1986, 15 years after Utzon’s monumental design won the endorsement of the competition’s jury, the KNA was inaugurated, in an event that coincided with the 25th anniversary of Kuwait’s independence (Amir AlBelad Yaftateh, 1986). The event was attended by 16 Arab leaders and past Kuwaiti parliament leaders. Messages of congratulations covered the pages of the daily newspapers from individuals and corporations alike. It signified the concretization of the democratic process, a monumental building fit for the political influence of the masses. The process of selecting the winner of the KNA competition demonstrated tendentious decisions; Jørn Utzon seems to have enjoyed various privileges when postcolonial Kuwait was looking West for the design of its national buildings. In his proposal for the KNA, Utzon tried to create a modern design inspired by Kuwaiti vernacular elements yet some of them, such as the Bedouin tent, were criticized for being specific to only those with nomadic, tribal roots. Other elements, including the courtyard and the main cross-axis were inspired by ancient civilizations, and various modern concepts of climate and public control. Unlike his Bagsværd Church in Copenhagen, Denmark, Utzon’s critical regionalism as explained by Kenneth Frampton failed in Kuwait as the Danish

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architect did not fully succeed in acknowledging the complexity of the vernacular makeup of the preoil Kuwaiti population. If the aim of the APC was to create a modern structure or complex inspired by Kuwaiti, Arab, or Muslim vernacular architecture, wouldn’t a team of Kuwaiti, or at least regional, architects have been a more logical choice? Although some authors, such as Mark Wigley, argue that a foreigner is able to recognize the essence of a locality better than a local (Wigley, 2011), critical regionalism’s main aim, as explained by Lilane Lefaivre and Alexander Tzonis (2003), is to undo elements of the colonial era when a foreign power imposed architectural modernity on a local urban fabric. As the analysis presented in this chapter has shown, the design of the KNA building has roots that are not local but universal, in the sense that it includes laws found in various religious philosophies. Such philosophies may not contradict the initial aim to construct a unified, even a progressive, nation. On the contrary, this could lead to a new conclusion and therefore another research. Perhaps spirituality, a concept often confused with religion, could be a source of modern democracy and nation-building. In essence, then, the design and history of KNA embodies the dichotomy between the laws of the sacred and the liberating concepts of spirituality.

Notes 1. Prior to independence by a few years, the first national census was carried out in 1957, and had the population of this small nation estimated at 206,473 people, and of those were 92,851 foreigners (Kuwait Government Online, 2021). Kuwait’s population increased between the mid-eighteenth and mid-twentieth centuries by immigration growth and nation growth equally, due to its economic industry (Al-Nakib, 2016). While families from around the Arabian Peninsula made up the majority of the Kuwaiti nationals, the general population soon included Jordanians, Palestinians, Lebanese, Syrian, Egyptians, Indians, Pakistanis, and Westerners that were involved with the Kuwait Oil Company. 2. Both Utzon and Chadirji received a letter explaining that they were the two finalists; the letters asked each architect to revise certain elements and included a request to meet a member of the APC (Chadirji to meet Omar Azzam in Beirut and Utzon to meet Sir Leslie Martin in London). 3. Both letters were found in the Utzon Archives (maintained by Aalborg University and Utzon Center, Aalborg, Denmark). 4. Eero Saarinen, a jury member, identified Utzon’s design entry as a winner of the competition and even produced detailed perspectives of the scheme that ended up being presented in the newspapers on the day of the announcement. Wigley also explains how Utzon was instrumented in hiring Arup as the engineering and construction company. 5. The Utzon Archives at Aalborg University holds several letters between Utzon and Martin demonstrating their close relationship (Duaij, 1972). 6. Meeting Minutes between Utzon’s Firm and Kuwait Government Members clarifies that there was indeed a general understanding that Utzon’s firm was preferred despite the higher fees (1973, April).

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7. One usually finds saints carried over clouds in Italian Renaissance painting. Furthermore, clouds symbolize the Holy Spirit in the Bible and the Old Testament. 8. For more information about the concepts and formal design of Islamic gardens and paradise see Hoag (1977, p. 9) and Moore, Mitchell, and Turnbull (1988) especially pp. 148–149. 9. Furthermore, on a visit to photograph the KNA, I was immediately interrupted by one of the security guards who explained that photography, even of the exterior, is forbidden without a special permit. 10. Utzon’s relationship with Isfahan started in 1951 through the “Bank Melli” project. For more information see Utzon (2008), especially pp. 18–31. 11. The configuration follows Michel Foucault’s Panopticon. For more information, see Foucault (1995). 12. The circular form of the pantheon represents the idea of agreement and wholeness; Pan-, all, and theios, holy from theos “god.” Generally speaking, circular forms are understood to be a symbol of unity. 13. For more information on the tent’s “colonial image,” and its mobility and light structure, see Drew (2008). 14. In this regard I mean that those ratios are “esthetical” measurements able to produce a particular psychological effect of authority and therefore belong to arguments about architecture of power and nation-building. See, for example, Sudjic (2011). 15. Ancient structures, specifically the ones with a religious or a holy aspect, all have mathematical precision as part of their structure. This includes, to name a few, the Ziggurats of ancient Mesopotamia, the Pyramids of ancient Egypt, the Parthenon of ancient Greece, and the Pantheon of ancient Rome. Many following civilizations and religions constructed their monuments following the same mathematical rigor. 16. See, for example, Nazih Ayubi, Over-stating the Arab state: Politics and society in the Middle East (London: I.B. Tauris, 1995). 17. The phrase is used by Michael Asgaard Andersen in his article “Revisiting Utzon’s Bagsværd Church” Andersen (2005, p. 97). “Ethereal” comes from the Greek aither “upper air; bright, purer air; the sky” (as opposed to aer “the lower air”), from aithein “to burn, shine.” The word is also related to ancient mythologies and the word “edifice.” 18. The KNA is part of a network of buildings that was established by the Planning Board of Kuwait.

References Al-Nakib, F. (2016). Kuwait transformed: A history of oil and urban life. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Al-Rushaid, A. (1986, June 2). Al-amn fi Majlis al-Ummah [National Assembly Security]. Al-Qabas, 4. AlSayyad, N. (1992). Forms of dominance on the architecture and urbanism of the colonial enterprise. Aldershot: Avebury.

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Amir Al-Belad Yaftateh al-Yawm Mabna Majlis Al-Umma Al-Jadeed [The Emir of Kuwait Inaugurates the New Kuwait National Assembly Building] (1986). AlQabas, 15(No. 4952). Andersen, M. A. (2005). Revisiting Utzon’s Bagsværd Church. Arkitektur & Politik, 18(2), 95–102. Avicoglu, N. (2007). Identity-as-form: The mosque in the West. Cultural Analysis, 6, 91–112. Canizaro, V. B. (2007). Architectural regionalism: Collected writings on place, identity, modernity, and tradition. New York, NY: Princeton Architectural Press. Crystal, J. (1986). Patterns of state-building in the Arabian Gulf: Kuwait and Qatar. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Crystal, J. (1995). Oil and politics in the Gulf: Rulers and merchants in Kuwait and Qatar. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Drew, P. (2008). New tent architecture. London: Thames & Hudson. Duaij, A. (1972, April 2). The national assembly buildings correspondences [letters between the planning board and invited architects]. In The Utzon Archives maintained by Aalborg University and Utzon Center, Aalborg, Denmark. Foucault, M. (1995). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. New York, NY: Vintage Books. Frampton, K. (1983). Towards a critical regionalism: Six points for an architecture of resistance. [Essay]. Retrieved from https://modernindenver.com/wp-content/ uploads/2015/08/Frampton.pdf Hamdan, H. (1971, June 28). The national assembly complex. [Letter from the planning board to Studio Nervi]. In Pier Luigi Nervi Archive in the Museo Nazionale Delle Arti Del XXI Secolo (MAXXI), Rome, Italy. Hoag, J. D. (1977). Islamic architecture (1st ed.). New York, NY: Harry N Abrams Inc. Kuwait Government Online Population of Kuwait. (2021). Retrieved from https://e. gov.kw/sites/kgoenglish/Pages/Visitors/AboutKuwait/KuwaitAtaGlanePopulation. aspx. Accessed on June 3, 2021. Langdon, D. (2014). AD classics: Kuwait national assembly building/Jørn Utzon. ArchDaily. Retrieved from http://www.archdaily.com/?p5568821. Accessed on June 16, 2015. Lefaivre, L., & Tzonis, A. (1981). The grid and the pathway: An introduction to the work of Dimitris and Suzana Antonakakis. Architecture in Greece, 15, 164–178. Lefaivre, L., & Tzonis, A. (2003). Critical regionalism: Architecture and identity in a globalized world. Munich: Prestel. Lefaivre, L., & Tzonis, A. (2012). Architecture of regionalism in the age of globalization: Peaks and valleys in the flat world. Abingdon: Routledge. Meeting Minutes between Utzon’s Firm and Kuwait Government Members. (1973, April). The Utzon Archives maintained by Aalborg University and Utzon center, Aalborg, Denmark. Moore, C. W., Mitchell, W. J., & Turnbull, W. (1988). The poetics of gardens. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Pollitt, G. (2015, Winter). In my own words. The Correspondent, 56–59. Report on the Designs Submitted for the National Assembly Building. (1972, March 27). The Utzon Archives maintained by Aalborg University and Utzon center, Aalborg, Denmark.

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Sudjic, D. (2011). The edifice complex: How the rich and powerful shape the world. London: Penguin Books. Utzon, J. (2008). Jørn Utzon Logbook: Kuwait National Assembly. Paris: Edition Bloendal. Utzon, J., & Ferrer, F. J. J. (2008). Jørn Utzon: Obras y proyectos 5 works and projects. Barcelona: Gustavo Gili. Vale, L. (1992). Designing national identity: Post-colonial capitols as intercultural dilemmas. In N. Alsayyad (Ed.), Forms of dominance: On the architecture and urbanism of the colonial enterprise (pp. 315–316). Aldershot: Avebury. Vale, L. J. (1992). Architecture, power, and national identity. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Wigley, M. (2011). The myth of the local. In C. Buckley & P. Rhee (Eds.), Architects’ journeys: Building, traveling, thinking (pp. 208–253). New York, NY: GSAPP Books.

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Chapter 5

Place before Form, People before Profit: Reclaiming Venues of Art and Culture in the Midst of Tourism-Centred Reimaging of Cities Sami Chohan

Abstract Since the beginning of the 1980s, a growing number of cities around the world have been looking to invest in extensive city-reimaging and placemarketing initiatives in efforts to announce themselves or to raise their profiles on the tourism market. In either case, the objective is to facilitate economic growth in times of rising importance of the service sector, of which tourism is widely seen as one of the most lucrative areas since it helps attract new investors, generate more revenue, and create additional jobs. It is in pursuit of such economic benefits that government officials, policy-makers, urban-planning agencies, land developers, and other private stakeholders have been coming together to identify potential urban precincts within cities, before transforming these precincts into art and cultural districts, often home to at least one visually striking art museum or a performing arts center – almost always designed by an elite band of celebrity architects. Fully or partially funded by taxpayer money, these signature art museums and performing arts centers are conceptualized and built as icons of the city, and as objects of the tourist gaze, with little or no interest in the physical and environmental peculiarities of place and with little or no regard for local residents including local artists and cultural producers. Traveling from Bilbao in Spain to Bhopal in India, this chapter expands on some of the events that led to an outburst of formally overstated and spatially exclusive venues of art and culture in the last two decades, before sharing some thoughts and restarting conversations on reclaiming and reimagining these venues as open, inclusive, and pulsating public spaces embedded in the actual fabrics of cities, at once accessible to locals and tourists.

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 79–90 Copyright © 2022 Sami Chohan Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221006

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Sami Chohan Keywords: Tourism; city reimaging; place-marketing; Guggenheim Museum Bilbao; Bharat Bhavan; reclaiming art and cultural venues

Introduction The processes of globalization, deindustrialization, and economic restructuring are encouraging a growing number of cities around the world to focus on tourism as a means to facilitate economic growth. As a result, public and private interests are merging to initiate comprehensive city-reimaging projects and persistent place-marketing campaigns in efforts to sell cities as notable tourist destinations (Stevenson, 2003). This forms a complex transaction in which government agencies and business communities come together to identify potential urban precincts within the city, before reimaging and marketing these precincts as places of culture – often home to at least one easily identifiable and instagrammable work of architecture, preferably containing an art museum or a center for performing arts. Designed by an exclusive band of world-renowned architects, these museums and centers are meant to serve as icons of the city, capable of drawing international media attention, as well as international tourists. Art, architecture, and culture are, after all, intrinsically related and serve to promote tourism, which is expected to bring new investors, more revenue, and additional jobs as well. Since the turn of the twenty-first century, investing in iconic containers of art and culture appears to have become a central strategy in the process of tourismoriented reimaging of cities. Over the last two decades a number of cities have built, or aspired to build, eye-catching and awe-inspiring art museums, centers for performing arts, and cultural venues alike in efforts to announce themselves on the tourism market. The inspiration behind such investments might be thought to be credited to the success of the Sydney Opera House, a performing arts center added to the Sydney Harbor in 1973. Designed by Danish architect Jørn Utzon, the center became an instant icon of Sydney, as well as one of the most visited tourist attractions in the world due to its striking, sails-like appearance. Many other cities have built, or aspired to build, such icons in efforts to raise their profiles on the tourism market. In this case, one may recall the inauguration of the Center Pompidou in the Marais district of Paris in 1977. Designed by British architect Richard Rogers and Italian architect Renzo Piano, the center, housing a large museum of modern art and an equally large public library, soon became yet another icon of Paris and yet another major tourist attraction in the city due to its highly distinctive, inside-out exterior. However, the twenty-first century trend of constructing iconic containers of art and culture is neither linked to the accomplishments of the Sydney Opera House, nor associated with the achievements of the Center Pompidou in Paris. Instead, it is widely credited to the success of a museum of modern and contemporary art inaugurated in the late 1990s in the port city of Bilbao (del Cerro Santamar´ıa, 2020). This was the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, designed by American architect Frank Gehry.

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Bilbao and the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao is the largest city in the Basque region of Spain. The city has a population of around 350,000, whereas the Bilbao Metropolitan Area is home to just over a million residents. Blessed with vast mineral resources and a seaport, Bilbao prospered as a proud regional industrial hub during the latter half of the twentieth century with manufacturing and trade activities focused on iron and steel (Zulaika, 2003). Between 1955 and 1973, it led the Basque economy and managed to create a staggering 250,000 new jobs, the majority of which were in the industrial sector (Zulaika, 2003). However, the city began to lose its industrial glory due to the international oil and energy crises of 1973 and 1979. These crises, coupled with the emergence of newly industrialized countries, not only caused a major recession in the global steel market, but also led to a significant drop in steel prices, leaving steel mills across the industrial cities of Europe and the United States to suffer significant losses (Tarr, 1988). Such developments soon steered these regions toward deindustrialization and economic restructuring, pushing them to shift focus from sustaining manufacturing industries to investing in those dedicated to services. As an industrial city in decline, Bilbao also embarked on the journey of deindustrialization and economic restructuring in the 1980s. In the following decade, the Basque Government initiated an ambitious urban regeneration process in an effort to reinvent Bilbao as a service-oriented and an open-to-tourism city (Zulaika, 2003). A series of projects were launched as part of this process, which included the construction of a rapid transit system, completed in 1995; a footbridge across the ´ completed in 1997; a museum of modern and contemporary art, River Nervion, also completed in 1997; and a new airport terminal, completed in 2000. These projects had to be capable of securing international recognition, and it is therefore no accident that each of them was commissioned to an architect with either an established or a growing celebrity status. While the airport terminal and the footbridge were designed by Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava, the metro system was designed by British architect Norman Foster (Michael, 2015). Both were able to deliver what was sought of them: extraordinary works of architecture for a city seeking attention, tourists, investors, revenue, and jobs. But it was the museum of modern and contemporary art that stole the show, the story of which began when the Basque Government reached out to the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, informing the New York–based organization of its willingness to fund a Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, in 1991. The government offered to cover the cost of construction, to create an acquisitions fund, to pay a one-time fee to the foundation, and to subsidize the annual budget of the museum (Riding, 1997). In return, the Foundation, under the directorship of Thomas Krens, agreed to manage the museum, rotate its permanent collection, and organize temporary exhibits (Riding, 1997). In the same year, an exclusive design competition was announced with just three architecture firms invited to submit proposals for the new museum (Slessor, 1997). These included the Tokyobased Arata Isozaki & Associates, the Vienna-based Coop Himmelb(l)au, and the Los Angeles–based Frank Gehry & Associates. Each firm was given three weeks to produce a proposal on a large and prominent site chosen by Krens himself on

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´ in the city center (Slessor, 1997). The competition the edge of the River Nervion was brief, and it was the distinctiveness of the proposal by Frank Gehry that earned him and his firm the commission (Slessor, 1997). The selection of his proposal signaled the intentions of Krens and the foundation to build a museum that could match the radical and original qualities of the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York, designed by the renowned American architect Frank Lloyd Wright and completed in 1959 (Slessor, 1997). Construction began in October 1993, and the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao finally opened to the public four years later, in October 1997 (Riding, 1997). Similar to the Guggenheim in New York, the Guggenheim in Bilbao was not only a space dedicated to art, but it was to be considered as a work of art itself. But unlike the former, the latter was characterized by an incomparable arbitrariness of titanium-clad forms and facades, imagined and assembled by an architect who grew up making models of buildings, bridges, and even entire cities out of scrap wood from a hardware store owned by his grandfather (Goldberger, 2015). Compared to a dream ship by some and a giant cathedral by others, the museum was immediately hailed as one of the most significant works of twentieth century architecture (Iovine, 1999). Influential American architects, artists, and critics, in particular, led the praise. Where Philip Johnson described it as the greatest building of our time (Tyrnauer, 2010), Richard Serra welcomed it as a revolutionary project that would compel others to reconsider the potential of architecture (Tomkins, 1997). Herbert Muschamp (1997) in The New York Times Magazine applauded it for invoking the mercurial brilliance of Marilyn Monroe (Iovine, 1999). Within three years of its opening, the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao managed to draw millions of visitors, both domestic and international; to generate millions of euros through visitor spending; and to support thousands of jobs in transport, hotels, eateries, and retail outlets. Today, the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao stands as an icon of the city and serves as one of the most visited attractions in Spain. It draws more than a million tourists annually, the majority of whom are international, and continues to yield positive economic benefits. It is widely acknowledged as a ground-breaking project that single-handedly placed Bilbao on the world map and turned the economic fortunes of the city around (Vicario, 2017). It is also widely acknowledged as an unprecedented occurrence that inspired many other cities around the world to invest, similarly, in attention-grabbing and breath-taking containers of art and culture.

A Global Trend The immediate success of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao soon became an extraordinary journalistic story, one that swiftly traveled around the world, highlighting how a spectacular museum of modern and contemporary art made visible a city unknown to most and rescued an urban economy in crisis (del Cerro Santamar´ıa, 2020). This gave birth to a supposed cause-and-effect relationship known as the Bilbao Effect, which underscores the attempts made by a number of urban officials and elites around the world to build iconic containers of art and

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culture in their cities, essentially based on the belief that such icons could reverse the fortunes of a city facing an economic crisis (del Cerro Santamar´ıa, 2020). In fact, many cities, including Rio de Janeiro, Vilnius, Salzburg, Guadalajara, and Tianjin, even reached out to the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation with firm plans to host and fund a Guggenheim museum – albeit with little success (del Cerro Santamar´ıa, 2020). Nevertheless, the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao became a model for a number of declining industrial cities looking to announce themselves on the tourism market in search of investors, tourists, revenue, and jobs. At the same time, it also became a model for a number of cities looking to raise their profiles on the same market in search of new investors, more tourists, greater revenue, and additional jobs. Moreover, it is also said to have initiated a new era in which art and cultural institutions began to appear as sculptural monuments (del Cerro Santamar´ıa, 2020). In just over two decades since the Guggenheim Museum opened in Bilbao, a host of distinctive and often odd-looking art museums, centers for performing arts, and cultural venues alike have popped up in cities around the world, designed by architects with celebrity status. One can, for instance, consider the ´ Graz Art Museum, by Peter Cook and Colin Fournier; the Casa da Musica in Porto, by Rem Koolhaas; the extension to the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto, by Daniel Libeskind; the New Museum in New York, by SANAA; the Oslo Opera House, by Snøhetta; the Museum of Islamic Art in Doha, by I. M. Pei; the MAXXI in Rome, by Zaha Hadid; the Center Pompidou in Metz, by Shigeru Ban; the Heyder Aliyev Center in Baku, also by Zaha Hadid; the Grand Theater in Harbin, by MAD architects; the V&A in Dundee, by Kengo Kuma; the Shed in New York, by Diller Scofidio 1 Renfro; the Odunpazari Modern Museum in Eskisehir, also by Kengo Kuma; and the most recently completed He Art Museum in Shunde, by Tadao Ando. Following his contribution in Bilbao, Frank Gehry himself went on to complete a few more, including the Museum of Pop Culture in Seattle, the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles, the Fisher Center for the Performing Arts at Bard in Hudson Valley, the Marta in Herford, and the Louis Vuitton Foundation in Paris. But it was the city of Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates that pushed the trend of investing in spectacular containers of art and culture to another level altogether when the Tourism Development & Investment Company of the Abu Dhabi Tourism Authority unveiled plans to transform an entire island into a tourism project, in 2006. Located 500 meters off the coast of Abu Dhabi and as of this writing still under development, the island consists of seven districts, one of which is entirely dedicated to cultural activities with a cluster of built and yet-to-be-built signature buildings including a performing arts center by Zaha Hadid, a new Louvre Museum by Jean Nouvel, and yet another Guggenheim Museum by, yes, Frank Gehry (Dumortier, 2014). Referring to such trends, Toronto-based journalist Nicholas Hune-Brown (2017) wrote: To tour the museums and art galleries of the last two decades is to take in a whimsical menagerie of iconic creations: curls of Frank Gehry-built metal rippling through Cleveland and Seattle; neo-

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´ Bilbao With its shimmering monolith of titanium along the River Nervion, unknowingly instigated a global trend of building spectacular venues of art and culture as prominent tourist attractions, one that neither the Sydney Opera House nor the Center Pompidou in Paris could activate following completion in the 1970s. This trend even took Juan Ignacio Vidarte, Director of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, by surprise, leaving him both flattered and concerned (Moore, 2017). Vidarte has in fact expressed his nervousness around cities trying to replicate the more apparent aspects of the museum, starting from its unusual, sculptural presence, by explaining that its success should only be viewed in context with a much larger urban regeneration process that in his view involved sustainable investments in urban infrastructure (Moore, 2017). His views are echoed by architecture and design critic Edwin Heathcote (2017) who compares the Guggenheim Museum to an olive and the larger urban regeneration of Bilbao to a martini, citing the former as highly visible, but not the main event. At the same time, Maria Fernandez Sabau, a cultural consultant who specializes in managing cultural institutions, terms the success of Bilbao’s celebrated centerpiece an exception that resulted from a confluence of unique scenarios, an occurrence that cities cannot simply copy, plug, and play for identical results (Michael, 2015). Meanwhile, Lorenzo Vicario (2017) from the Department of Sociology at the University of Basque Country believes that while the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao was successful in making the city visible on the world stage and yielding highly satisfactory economic benefits, its contributions should be examined more broadly and far more critically. Keeping these perspectives in mind, one can consider how, in many cities around the world, it is evident that public and private unions have oversimplified the success of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, replicating it without making efforts to identify its shortcomings, some of which are discussed in the following section.

Guggenheim Museum Bilbao: An Alternative Reading There is no denying that the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao succeeded as an icon of the city. It brought attention, tourists, investors, revenue, and jobs to Bilbao. However, it missed the opportunity to acknowledge the life that pulsates throughout the city, as well as the opportunity to celebrate local art and culture (Kent, 2005). These oversights are unfortunate because museums, irrespective of type, are meant to serve as “public” institutions, especially when they are funded by local, regional, or central governments using taxpayer money. While they may exist as major tourist destinations, they are also meant to function as recreational and educational settings for local residents. Art museums, in particular, have additional

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responsibilities. Besides serving as sites for leisure and learning, they are also meant to promote local art and culture, and provide local artists and cultural producers with platforms to display their practical and intellectual talents. In the context of both publicness and inclusivity, it seems that the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao failed rather miserably. Local residents, including artists and cultural producers, have little to do with it. Instead of embedding itself in the social fabric of Bilbao, the museum with its surrounding open spaces appears as an island reserved for tourists and removed from the city (Kent, 2005). In times of low tourist ´ with a handful of tourists staring inflows, it creates a void along the River Nervion at its endless blank surfaces from its largely vacant and highly sterile riverside plaza (Kent, 2005). To the locals, it neither presents itself as a site for recreation, nor promotes itself as a source of education. Worst of all, it does not claim to be in the business of nurturing local art and cultural landscapes (Michael, 2015). For local organizations such as the Zorrozaurre Art Work In Progress and the Karraskan Bilbao, two of many decentralized collectives of young artists and performers from and for the city, the museum remains out of reach. It is, after all, a franchise of an international corporation, funded by the regional government but managed by a foundation based in New York (Vicario, 2017), a city widely recognized as the global headquarters of an exclusive art market. Speaking to Michael (2015), Igor de Quadra from the Karraskan Bilbao reveals that while the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao receives a great deal of attention from visitors, it is inconsequential to his organization and the work it ´ ´ produces. Here, Manu GomezAlvarez from the Zorrozaurre Art Work In Progress questions the priorities of the regional government. While he acknowledges that the Guggenheim placed Bilbao on the world map, he expresses disappointment at local art and cultural organizations not receiving the patronage that the international museum received, and continues to receive (Michael, 2015). As actual producers of art and culture in the city, both Zorrozaurre Art Work In Progress and Karraskan Bilbao remain invisible to the museum administration and insignificant to the regional government. Yet, despite such shortcomings, the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao became a model for many other cities to follow. While its limitations as a venue of art and culture escaped scrutiny, its economic success as an iconic tourist attraction became an inspiration. Still, even in terms of economic impact, there are doubts about its actual contributions to Bilbao (Vicario, 2017). The type of investment it promotes, as the face of the tourism-oriented reimaging of the city, is inherently unstable. This is because tourism itself is inherently unstable due to its dependency on political, social, economic, and environmental conditions of place and its vulnerability to changes in these conditions in local, regional, national, and international contexts. It is also vulnerable to epidemics – and particularly vulnerable to pandemics as we know all too well by now (de Bellaigue, 2020). In a complete absence of tourists, the Guggenheim Museum is bound to appear as a dead zone in the center of Bilbao. It will stop generating those millions of euros through visitor spending and it will stop supporting those thousands of jobs in transport, hotels, eateries, and retail outlets, not that it creates just and equitable income opportunities in times of steady tourist inflows to begin with. Such

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tourism-oriented projects have a tendency to create highly polarized patterns of employment in cities, characterized by only a handful of high-paying managerial careers in the service sector and far more low-paid unskilled jobs with little prospects of growth and progress (Vicario, 2017). As such, the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao ignores the very place to which it draws attention. It sets out to represent Bilbao but fails to represent the people of the city. For this reason, it stands as an alien object, paid for by the very residents, artists, and cultural producers whom it leaves out. Let alone the social and cultural fabrics of Bilbao, it does not even reflect the uniqueness of the physical, historical, and climatic conditions of the city, or those of the Basque region. But what we do know is that it reflects the signature of an architect, an aesthetic shaped by his arbitrary reinterpretations of everyday structures in his adopted home of Los Angeles (Moore, 2017). What we also know is that it reflects an aesthetic that he has repeated in many other cities, one that he is currently repeating on an island off the coast of Abu Dhabi. Although Gehry claims to have drawn influences from the historical imagery of Bilbao and that of the river along which the Guggenheim is located, all he could manage was a giant, haphazard assembly of titanium-clad forms and facades that in his mind resembles a boat (Riding, 1997). Others see in it a whale, a mermaid, a waterfall, a flower, a chopped-up paper dragon, an artichoke, and even, as noted above, Marilyn Monroe (Zulaika, 2003). Regardless, the limited success of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao continues to be replicated in this age of tourism-oriented reimaging of cities. Where public and private sectors are prepared to invest in institutions of art and culture as icons of the city, celebrity architects are ready and willing to deliver the iconic without due consideration of the responsibilities that such institutions have to place and people. Perhaps it is time to look away from the rapidly multiplying, formally overstated, and spatially sterile art museums, centers for performing arts, and cultural venues alike by an exclusive band of celebrity architects, and instead draw lessons and inspirations from those rare sites of artistic and cultural value that demonstrate strong notions of publicness and inclusivity. One such exception is located or, better yet, rooted in the city of Bhopal, both literally and figuratively.

Bhopal and the Bharat Bhavan Bhopal is the capital city of the state of Madhya Pradesh in India. It has a population of nearly 1.8 million, making it the 16th largest city in the country. It is home to a number of natural and artificial lakes, for which reason it is called the City of Lakes. It is also valued as one of the greenest cities in India. Moreover, it builds a strong link to its past due to its historic city core and rich architectural heritage from the eras of the Mughal Empire and the British Raj in the Indian subcontinent. At the same time, it is gifted with two important public buildings designed by Charles Correa, an Indian architect and urban planner known for his adaptation of modernist values to the diverse physical, human, and climatic

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realities of India. One of these public buildings is known as Bharat Bhavan, or India House, the story of which can be traced back to the 1970s when the Government of India launched an initiative to build in every state capital an institution to celebrate the artistic and cultural output of the nation (Bryant-Mole, 2016). Although this initiative was largely unsuccessful, Bharat Bhavan emerged from it as a pulsating multiarts center, embedded in the heart of Bhopal. Bharat Bhavan first opened its doors to the public in 1982. Built into a gently sloping hill overlooking the popular upper lake of Bhopal, it comprises galleries for contemporary art, a museum of tribal art, a library of Indian poetry, workshops for lithography and sculpture, a studio for an artist-in-residence, and facilities for the performing arts including an indoor auditorium and an open-air amphitheater (Khan, 1987). It uses the natural contours of the site to create a series of terraced gardens and sunken courtyards, underneath and around which, respectively, the majority of its indoor facilities are organized (Frampton, 1996). Upon entering, the center therefore appears as a landscape, or a non-buildingstructure as Correa would call it (Khopkar, 2008), inviting visitors to either follow the path of the terraced gardens down to the lake, or descend into the sunken courtyards that provide access to the interior spaces. From the sunken courtyards, visitors are welcomed inside through a number of generously wide openings, each consisting of two sets of shutters. The inner shutters consist of a combination of fixed glass and operable panels for light and ventilation, whereas the outer shutters consist of large wooden doors that can be closed at night for security (Khan, 1987). Light and ventilation also pour into the interior spaces through the circular openings of three large concrete shells placed atop. From the outside, these shells appear to reinterpret an important feature of the architectural vocabulary of India, that is the ornamental chattris, or umbrellas, that sat atop the palaces of Rajasthan (Bryant-Mole, 2016). At the same time, the path of the terraced gardens stepping down to the lake recalls an important sacred journey in India. The flights of stairs along this path are reminiscent of ghats, or steps leading down to a body of holy water in Indian cities such as the ones on the bank of River Ganges in Varanasi (Bryant-Mole, 2016). Moreover, the sunken courtyards, along with the terraced gardens, recall the courtyards and terraces of the Red Fort in Agra (Bryant-Mole, 2016). While the sunken courtyards provide shade from the scorching midday sun, the terrace gardens above provide refreshing spaces in the mornings and the evenings. Correa deemed such open-to-sky spaces essential in the warm climate of India, citing them as important climate-control devices typical of the region (Correa, 1996). Besides, the sky was of spiritual and mythical importance to Correa, which he not only recognized as a habitat of the gods, but also acknowledged as a source of light, an element that he cited as the most primordial of stimuli to act on the senses (Correa, 1996). Through the sunken courtyards, the terraced gardens, and the concrete shells of Bharat Bhavan, Correa sought to harness the power of the sky (Bryant-Mole, 2016). The design of the center resulted from Correa’s mission to establish a modern architectural language specific to India (Bryant-Mole, 2016). At Bharat Bhavan, he achieved this by combining lessons and inspirations from both global and

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regional architectural contexts and produced a building that belongs in the modern era yet remains firmly rooted in the physical, human, and climatic realities of place. However, the enduring success of Bharat Bhavan is largely credited to its popularity among the local residents (Bryant-Mole, 2016). The sunken courtyards not only create personal spaces for individuals to contemplate, but also provide room for groups of people to assemble and socialize. On the other hand, the terraced gardens serve as popular destinations for entire families to gather and entertain under the evening sky, or to promenade down to the edge of the water (Correa & Frampton, 1996). Many visitors even stay on to enjoy an open-air performance in the amphitheater that sits at the end of the center with the lake forming a natural background (Correa & Frampton, 1996). Moreover, the center remains committed to fostering local art and cultural landscapes in the city, state, and country by lending itself to artists and cultural producers from the city, state, and country, providing them with a platform to contribute new and meaningful forms of knowledge. Since its inauguration, it has organized hundreds of local- and national-level art events and cultural programs, along with international festivals, biennales, seminars, and symposiums. Finally, it also serves as an important destination for both domestic and international tourists in Bhopal, allowing them to engage with both contemporary and traditional practices of creative expression while intermingling with the locals. Although it was neither envisioned as an icon of the capital of Madhya Pradesh, nor meant to bring tourists, investors, revenue, or jobs to the city, Bharat Bhavan, as a venue of art and culture, serves as one of the most significant landmarks of Bhopal today. Owing to its emphasis on publicness and inclusivity, it neither missed the opportunity to acknowledge the life that pulsates throughout the city, nor the opportunity to celebrate local art and culture. Instead of appearing as an overstated form and a sterile space on the edge of the city’s most cherished lake, it appears as an active landscape in the heart of Bhopal, accessible to all and woven intricately into the physical, historical, and climatic fabrics of the city, the country, and the region at large.

Some Concluding Thoughts Art museums, centers for performing arts, and cultural institutions alike can serve as important recreational and educational destinations for residents of a city. They can make significant contributions to local art and cultural landscapes by including, supporting, and promoting local artists and cultural producers. At the same time, they can serve as important destinations for both domestic and international visitors, allowing tourists to experience them as microcosms of the city. Yet, venues of art and culture continue to appear as engines of tourismcentered reimaging of cities, focused purely on drawing attention, inviting investors, attracting tourists, generating revenues, and creating jobs. Notions of publicness and inclusivity are simply not a priority. Perhaps, it is time to reclaim these venues as genuinely public and all-inclusive destinations, and to reimagine them as diverse and pluralistic sites of gathering, sharing, reflecting, and

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producing new forms of knowledge toward a more just and equitable society. This transformation, however, may only take place if we as citizens and tax-payers can stand up to challenge the priorities of urban officials and urban elites, and demand recognition, representation, and accountability. We may also have to challenge the exclusivity of the art world, which in the case of art museums remains a property of influential art collectors, private donors, and board members. Here, important lessons and inspirations can be drawn from Helsinki where civic opposition resulted in the cancellation of the Guggenheim Helsinki project in 2016 due to its monumental costs, failure to recognize local culture and context, and lack of focus on sustainability and creativity (del Cerro Santamar´ıa, 2020). Finally, for this transformation to unfold, we must no longer be deceived by celebrity architects who, according to Brooklyn-based artist and educator Hakan Topal (2019): … fluidly transform from capitalist developers to critical theorists, from social engineers to romantic writers, although ultimately selling forms of bourgeois utopias to their privileged clients. With their sterile spaces, starchitects such as Diller Scofidio 1 Renfro, Renzo Piano, Rem Koolhas [sic], or Frank Gehry, and their alternatives have betrayed us over and over again. Museums are like universities: They play a vital [sic] in our democratic life, and they are sites for true social and cultural hybridization. It is time to radically rethink their design programs and architecture to make them truly public. (para. 20) It is indeed time to recognize and celebrate the works of architects who demonstrate strong notions of publicness and inclusivity; challenge architecture’s ties to dominant power structures and entrenched economic interests; and remain invested in keeping place before form, and people before profit.

References de Bellaigue, C. (2020, June 18). The end of tourism? The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/international Bryant-Mole, B. (2016, August 1). AD classics: Bharat Bhavan/Charles Correa. ArchDaily. Retrieved from https://www.archdaily.com del Cerro Santamar´ıa, G. (2019). The fading away of Bilbao effect: Bilbao, Denver, Helsinki, Abu Dhabi. Athens Journal of Architecture, 6(1), 25–52. doi:10.30958/aja. 6-1-2 Correa, C. (1996). The blessings of the sky. In C. Correa & K. Frampton (Eds.), Charles Correa (pp. 17–28). Bombay: The Perennial Press. Correa, C., & Frampton, K. (Eds.). (1996). Charles Correa. Bombay: The Perennial Press.

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Dumortier, B. (2014). The cultural imperative: Saadiyat cultural district in Abu Dhabi between public policy and architectural gesture. In S. Wippel, K. Bromber, C. Steiner, & B. Krawietz (Eds.), Under construction: Logics of urbanism in the Gulf region (pp. 171–190). Surrey: Ashgate Publishing. Frampton, K. (1996). The work of Charles Correa. In C. Correa & K. Frampton (Eds.), Charles Correa (pp. 8–16). Bombay: The Perennial Press. Goldberger, P. (2015, September 28). Frank Gehry’s first playground of the imagination. Toronto Star. Retrieved from https://www.thestar.com/ Heathcote, E. (2017, February 27). Is the Bilbao effect over? Apollo. Retrieved from https://www.apollo-magazine.com/ Hune-Brown, N. (2017, August 27). Is this the end of starchitecture? Azure. Retrieved from https://www.azuremagazine.com/ Iovine, J. V. (1999). Guggenheim New York/Guggenheim Bilbao. New York, NY: Princeton Architectural Press. Kent, E. (2005, May 20). Guggenheim museum Bilbao: Why it doesn’t work? Project for Public Spaces. Retrieved from https://www.pps.org/ Khan, H. (1987). Charles Correa. Singapore: Concept Media Ltd. Khopkar, A. (Director & Producer). (2008). Volume zero: The work of Charles Correa. [Documentary]. Mumbai: Arun Khopkar Productions. Michael, C. (2015, April 30). The Bilbao effect: Is ‘starchitecture’ all it’s cracked up to be? A history of cities in 50 buildings, day 27. The Guardian. Retrieved from https:// www.theguardian.com/international Moore, R. (2017, October 1). The Bilbao effect: How Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim started a global craze. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian. com/international Muschamp, H. (1997, September 7). The Miracle in Bilbao. New York Times Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/section/magazine Riding, A. (1997, June 24). A gleaming new Guggenheim for Grimy Bilbao. New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/ Slessor, C. (1997, December 12). Guggenheim museum in Bilbao, Spain by Frank O. Gehry & Associates. The Architecture Review, 1210, 30–42. Stevenson, D. (2003). The city as spectacle: Culture and the reimaging of cities. In Cities and urban cultures (pp. 93–112). Berkshire: Open University Press. Tarr, D. G. (1988). The steel crisis in the United States and the European community: Causes and adjustments. In R. E. Baldwin, C. B. Hamilton, & A. Sapir (Eds.), Issues in US-EC trade relations (pp. 173–200). Chicago, IL & London: University of Chicago Press. Tomkins, C. (1997, June 29). The Maverick: Why is Frank Gehry a genius everywhere but in his own home town? The New Yorker. Retrieved from https://www. newyorker.com/ Topal, H. (2019, December 18). Reimagining museum design, with education at the forefront. Hyperallergic. Retrieved from https://hyperallergic.com/ Tyrnauer, M. (2010, June 30). Architecture in the age of Gehry. Vanity Fair. Retrieved from https://www.vanityfair.com/ Vicario, L. (2017, February 27). Is the Bilbao effect over? Apollo. Retrieved from https://www.apollo-magazine.com/ Zulaika, J. (2003). Guggenheim Bilbao Museoa: Museum, architecture, and city renewal. Reno, NV: Center for Basque Studies Press.

Chapter 6

Power, Cosmopolitanism, and Socio-Spatial Division in the Commercial Arena in Victorian and Edwardian London Elisabete Mendes Silva

Abstract The developments that occurred as a result of the Industrial Revolution and during the British Empire hastened commerce and transformed Britain’s social and cultural status quo. By the eighteenth century, there was already in London a vast number of retail shops that would inaugurate an urban world of commerce and consumerism. Magnificent and wide-ranging stores served householders with commodities that mesmerized consumers, giving way to new trends in the commercial and social fabric of London. Therefore, going shopping during the Victorian Age became mandatory for the well-off, especially for the emergent moneyed middle class. Harrods department store opened in 1864, adding new elements to the retail industry by providing a single space with various commodities. In 1909, Selfridges would transform the concept of urban commerce by imposing a more cosmopolitan outlook in the commercial arena. We shall draw attention to these two department stores, Harrods and Selfridges, analyzing how they were perceived when they first opened to the public and the effects they had on Victorian society. We shall then discuss how these department stores rendered space for social inclusion and exclusion and gender under the spell of the Victorian ethos, national conservatism, and imperialism and how they transformed social, cultural, and power dynamics. Lastly, this chapter provides insight into the social history of the late Victorian period and the early decades of the twentieth century. Keywords: Cultural identity; social inclusion; cosmopolitanism; power; gender; commercial arena

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 91–104 Copyright © 2022 Elisabete Mendes Silva Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221007

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Introduction The Great Exhibition of 1851 showcased British imperial prowess and pride, industrial power, technological advances, and design in a period which embraced the triumph of free trade over protectionism (Heffer, 2014) after the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846.1 The importance given to empiricism, science, technological advances, and imperialism would frame the Victorian ethos, which valued first and foremost the progressive mind of the period fostered by a dynamic industrial society, urban growth, and an austere and renewed puritanism.2 The Victorian ethos dictated a discrete, submissive, and compliant behavior code to a flourishing middle class and related values, myths, and tendencies. Social deference and respect for institutions and hierarchies was one intrinsic rule of thumb for the middle class. This wealthy and increasingly more influential class was also trying to make its way through society, conveniently replicating the aristocratic way of life. Steinbach (2012) claims that it was “in part through consumption and display” that this class “forged and performed their identities” (p. 7). The retail sector and the new mass market enacted social and cultural changes in a country where social deference to the highest ranks was inextricably linked to a highly stratified society. In fact, the retail revolution redefined the commercial sphere and created new public spaces that would transform the understanding of the concepts of class, gender, and power in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. Industrialization, capitalism, and transportation advances fueled urban growth, creating new manufacturing centers, such as Sheffield, Manchester, Birmingham, and Liverpool. However, London remained the most populated city in Britain (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 137) as well as the center of politics, finance, and the economy. According to Tanya Agathocleous (2013), London was the big metropolis, the “heart of empire” (p. xv) and the symbol of the nation. And as the century progressed, it also became undoubtedly connected with the world. Transport improvements, combined with the influence and affluence of the middle class, epitomized the conditions necessary to set up retail chains. New entrepreneurial retailers took their chances in London, more specifically in the West End or in trendy inner suburbs where land was cheaper and easy to buy, such as Bayswater, Kensington, Brompton Road, and Knightsbridge (Ball & Sunderland, 2001). The expansion of shopping throughout the nineteenth century developed hand in hand with economic change within a more liberal approach to the economy. Consequently, it endorsed the expansion of multiple chains, cooperative societies, and department stores. Apart from the obvious mention of other commercial spaces of the Victorian and Edwardian retail industry, we shall focus on the role that both Harrods and Selfridges played in late Victorian and Edwardian society and how they helped to construct, reconfigure, and mold dynamics of power, gender issues, and class relations. We shall thus sustain the idea that these new spaces became highly influential in both the commercial culture and public sphere in metropolitan London.

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This chapter is divided into two parts. In the first part, we shall gather insight into the evolution of shopping and its main changes from the early Victorian age until the Edwardian era.3 We intend to focus on the empowerment of new London spaces, specifically department stores, gained in the commercial culture arena. Next, we shall shed light on the importance of Harrods and Selfridges in the reconfiguration of new commercial, more inclusive/exclusive, and cosmopolitan spaces, understanding how they helped to dilute social difference by making society elusively and dynamically utopian and homogeneous.

Metropolitan London and Retail Industry: The Commercial Culture The emergence of the mass market and of the retail revolution in nineteenth century England generated new patterns of consumption which helped to reconfigure social identities within a renewed commercial sphere. As aforementioned, the revolution in manufacturing and transports also made possible a revolution in commerce which witnessed the spread of chains of retailers and the rise of the multiples, or chain stores, cooperative societies and, finally, the department stores, mainly after the 1860s. This gradual, though groundbreaking, change imposed a transformation of people’s consumer habits; a consumer revolution was therefore on its way, encompassing paradigmatic changes in commerce and in society, as regards behavior and social habits. According to Kelley Graham (2008), …better organized production and lines of supply and distribution [aided by other technologies like the railways] lowered prices for some goods and so put them within the reach of a greater range of English people. (p. 2) This higher volume of goods meant the reduction of retail prices. That is why “societies for the retail sale of goods began to be formed in the 1820s and particularly grew up in numbers in the 1840s” (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 137). Consequently, the expansion of shopping accounted for “one of the most visible signs of economic change” throughout the nineteenth century (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 121). The small artisanal shops, established in early industrial Britain, sold food and drinks, and the retailers sold dress accessories and sewing items, drapery, and luxury goods. In the wake of these new trading conditions, there was also a wide range of business opportunities for the small traders. Chains of retailers were hence either acquired or established. The mass market reshaped a new retail industry in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras selling foodstuff, essential household goods, and clothing (Ball & Sunderland, 2001). Besides small shops and retailers, there were also specialist shops which catered to the wealthy in the early nineteenth century. The well-off valued their land, possessions, and life in the exclusive suburbs as part of the conventionalized

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modus vivendi of upper-class people. Moreover, immersion in metropolitan habits, offering a wide array of goods in addition to luxurious leisure time, became another compulsory trend. Thus, getting new clothes at the tailors or dressmakers, for example, “was an excuse to go up to town” (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 121). The cooperative societies and multiples were set up in the 1820s. Boots, Sainsbury, Lipton, and Singer Manufacturing Co, a US multinational company, to name only a few, opened multiple branches all over Britain, serving the customer with reliable and competitive price products which met the consumers’ needs and suitability. The multiples relied on a few basic principles: “prepackaged and priced products, the prohibition of credit, and heavy advertising” (Searle, 2005, p. 108). Similar to today’s convenience stores, the multiples “were found in suburban shopping centers and at transport termini” (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 134). From the 1850s onwards, Britain witnessed the expansion of chain stores and cooperative societies – a peripheral, northern working-class movement also adopted by middle-class people in London – and department stores, as will be discussed in the following paragraphs.

Department Stores and Their Role in the Arena of Commercial Culture The development of the merchant-bankers sector in London went hand in hand with the growth of many other supportive structures, such as retail stores “set up in London to cater to the upper classes” as Rodriguez and Feagin (2006, p. 37) argue. Cities like London and other industrial locations, such as Manchester, achieved financial notoriety, being “markets for major primary commodities” (Rodriguez & Feagin, 2006, p. 36). This reputation was built at the cost of working-class labor, immigration, and railroad investment that boosted a complex urban network. Nonetheless, London was the big metropolis where many contrasting social and cultural spaces and forms of life cohabited. Victorian society was in fact rather dichotomic. On the one hand, there was devotion to family, marriage, and a strict moral code, but, on the other, there were high prostitution rates. Though education was seen as an important leitmotif for progress of the individual and of the mind, and, consequently, of society, child labor was still a reality. Employers lived an opulent lifestyle, whereas the working class struggled to survive. In London, these contrasts were highly present, but often hidden. Keeping up appearance and behaving in such a way as not to be judged by society was paramount. Therefore, people were expected to be seen and live in housing areas suited to their social rank. It was unthinkable to see upperclass or middle-class people promenading in slums, or working-class areas, for example. London, where fancy neighborhoods like Belgravia, Chelsea, or Knightsbridge, or slum areas like Southwark or Peckham coexisted, was also the center of fashion, of commerce, and of finance. As such, it contained the germ for the development of a cosmopolitan city, where different cultures were promoted through commerce. The craving for experiencing exotic cultures and goods from

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far away and unknown places, such as the British colonies, made this imaginative cultural replication part of the consumer culture, substantiated by the discourse of orientalism (Said, 2003), based on an imaginary, constructed idea of the East. Orientalism supplied the Orientals with “a mentality and a genealogy,” and regular characteristics substantially different from Westerners, promoting the difference between the West and the East, as Said emphasized: “If the essence of Orientalism is the ineradicable distinction between Western superiority and Oriental inferiority, (…) in its development and subsequent history Orientalism deepened and even hardened the distinction” (Said, 2003, p. 42). Despite this longing for cultural difference by the upper and middle classes, a great part of the population, i.e., the working class, remained oblivious to the existence of the Empire (Porter, 2004). As we will expand further, bearing in mind this context, Selfridge, the founder of Selfridges, was somehow far ahead of his time, as racial prejudice still endured in a time when the British justified their presence in the Empire based on the discourse of social Darwinism and Lamarckian notions of cultural superiority. White man’s supremacy and the mission spirit of the Empire became two of the most promoted arguments for the empirical project. By displaying exotic goods and people, Selfridges was colluding with the discourse of Orientalism, or, as Nava (2007) argues, Selfridge’s cosmopolitanism was still framed by a rather utopian and innocent perception of the world. Throughout the nineteenth century, the local scene was already starting to be a spectacle where everybody was “a participant observer” (Hannerz, 2006, p. 314). According to White (2016), “the introduction of gas and plate glass revolutionised London shopping from John Trotter’s first years onwards” (p. 190) and increased the craving for display and ornaments. This trend might have begun “in the gin palaces and spread to the linen drapers, bakers, chemists and grocers” in the 1820s (White, 2016, p. 190). [1]. By the end of the century, the widespread use of gas-lit street lamps and plate glass, “supplemented (…) by electric lighting,” increased the popularity of window shopping and merchandise display (White, 2016, p. 60). London shops were spectacularly decorated, and shopping streets became part of a consumer culture that was available to everyone. Conversely, despite the delusive homogeneity conveyed by the streets, some spaces were still hierarchically distinct and contributed greatly to the social division of the extremely deferential Victorian London society. Eventually, during the 1850s, the City of London, the oldest part of the metropolis, lost its once solid status of the most fashionable shopping space. With the mass market phenomenon, it was in fact soon replaced by other, trendier locations like the West End (White, 2016). The birth of the department store was indeed a “West End phenomenon” (Ball & Sunderland, 2001; White, 2016, p. 191). Displaying a myriad of department stores, multiples, and specialist shops competing against each other, the West End became the best space in the country to shop, also imposing retail hierarchical differences (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 122).4 Operating in large buildings, the department stores, comprising halls, galleries, and stalls, easily appealed to the middle class. Shopping in these

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glamorous and enticing stores became a hobby and a “social event” (Searle, 2005, p. 109) for the people belonging to this social layer. The West End, by becoming a leisure area, also extended its access, once exclusive to the monarchy and the aristocracy, to the middle-class people. This new pleasure zone involved, in Rappaport’s perception, “new notions of bourgeois femininity, public space, and conceptions of modernity” (p. 5). The West End female shopper was associated with the bourgeois women, who became more visible in the public sphere despite the controversy around issues of public versus private space belongingness regarding women (Rappaport, 2000, pp. 29–31). Shopping provided moments of pleasure and was a catharsis for middle-class women who were imposing manifest gender and social changes in Victorian society. White (2016) contends that since the early nineteenth century “respectable middle-class women” had been “vital to the London experience” (p. 190), not only because they were encouraged to run bazaars but because they conveyed social status to the shopping areas where the bazaars were located, for instance, Oxford Street and Soho Square. This new feminine shopper opened up new forms of urban space, and social and gender heterogeneity. The mass market unlocked social segregation, and the department store would eventually validate this need for a more diluted class system, though not so evident at times. Apart from glamorous shops, which catered to the upper and middle classes, other entertainment places, such as music halls (e.g., Alhambra, Empire) and restaurants, enriched and completed the leisure scene provided by the West End which had been associated with less acceptable moral behavior fostered by prostitution (White, 2016). Thus, the visible city (Agathocleous, 2013) hid the invisible world of prostitution, vice, and crime. Department stores and luxurious specialist shops coexisted with women’s clubs, music halls, and restaurants. The West End and trendy inner suburbs became the center of shopping and leisure par excellence which conferred upon them power and influence as, by creating luxurious spaces, spatial social barriers were built and reconfigured. Improved urban transport systems and the expansion of an increasingly wealthier middle class continued to boost the growth of the department stores (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 139; Searle, 2005). Paddle steamers, popular in London in the 1840s, omnibus and hansom cabs, common in the 1860s, were replaced with overland and underground railways (Picard, 2006), which encouraged people not only to visit the West End but also suburban shopping centers which were established in trendy areas, such as Bayswater or Knightsbridge, as already mentioned.5 These last two areas were cheaper locations where entrepreneurs and merchants could easily buy more land or add adjacent buildings, attracting thus “a migration of ‘gentry’ to Knightsbridge” (Harrod, 2017, p. 113). In the early twentieth century, the opening of the main Harrods building in Brompton Road (an upper-class area), in 1905, and Selfridges in Oxford Street, in 1909, represented the icing on the cake: these department stores achieved commercial and social status, endowing the spaces where they were built with invaluable cultural and commercial worth and power. Department stores offered very competitive prices, provided a wide variety of products and a range of free services such as toilets and art galleries, apart from

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being richly ornamented (Ball & Sunderland, 2001). Moreover, the invention of the electric lift (1880) and the escalator (1892) made possible the addition of new floors as access to the latter was faster. The department stores also thrived because they managed to capture the “price-conscious, middle-class market” (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 139). Middle-class people wanted to compete with the sophistication level of the upper class. However, afraid of making fools of themselves, because they were ignorant of high-fashion, they did not go to the specialist shops (Searle, 2005, p. 109). Therefore, going shopping to the big department stores became of the utmost importance for them in the sense they could demonstrate that they were able to acquire goods that then conferred upon them the prosperity and social status they longed for, as Searle (2005) so well describes, when referring to Selfridges: (…) its supply of an array of very different goods under one roof formed the main attraction, allied with the eye-catching displays which encouraged impulse buying. But again, the department stores had a strict policy of no credit and fixed-price labelling – the latter serving the purpose of allowing upwardly mobile but unsophisticated customers to look at household goods of which they had had no previous experience to find out whether they could afford them – without having to ask and risk making fools of themselves. (p. 109) Department stores, thus, created spaces where everyone could mingle but still keep their anonymity intact, though this space reconfiguration was still subject to social, cultural, political, and economic conditions in a period where imperialism was at its peak.

Harrods and Selfridges: Power, Cosmopolitanism, Social and Cultural Dynamics Three of the largest department stores in London were Whiteleys, founded in 1863 and known as the “Universal Provider” (Rappaport, 2000, p. 17), Harrods, opened in 1864, and Selfridges, inaugurated in 1909. Harrods became an overwhelming emporium due to the initial investment of Charles Henry Harrod who owned a grocery store in Stepney (in 1833) and since 1849 one in Brompton Road. These stores soon began selling patent medicines, perfumes, and stationery when Charles Henry Harrod’s son, Charles Digby Harrod, envisioning a more solid and expanding project, started to manage them. In 1864, the Harrods department store opened (Graham, 2008). Attempting to counter the exorbitant prices charged by the old established businesses in the West End, he adopted the method of cooperative retailing, i.e., no credit allowed, price reduction, advertising via circulars to better-class houses, all delivered “goods were free of charge” (Harrod, 2017, p. 127). By 1880, Harrods employed 100 staff,

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and, by 1913, it had nine floors and a turnover of four million pounds per year (Ball & Sunderland, 2001). After a fire destroyed Harrods’ store, in 1883, it was reconstructed with “great exuberance and scale” (Sheppard, 1983).6 The opening of the Piccadilly tube railway in 1906 elevated the importance of this area, with two stations, Knightsbridge and Brompton Road, being set up. This transport improvement made the street and, consequently, Harrods quick to reach. Harrods also aimed at luring upper and high-middle class shoppers. Going to Harrods in late Victorian England represented a social event. Apart from doing some shopping, people wanted to be seen and see others. In addition to that, according to Robin Harrod (2017), “Charles Digby attracted ‘celebrity’ clients of the era, and Lily Langtry, Ellen Terry and Oscar Wilde were amongst those that were allowed the first weekly accounts” (p. 153). Selfridges was the second largest purpose-built department store in London. Other department stores had been constructed by building extensions like Harrods. Opening its doors to the world in the Edwardian era, Selfridges intended to deviate customers from Harrods and Whiteleys by introducing window dressings displaying a wide array of products, always at the lowest prices. “Merchandise of the world” was then promised to be sold at Selfridges.7 Announcing a cosmopolitan essence, the 100 departments would “supply nearly every requirement of daily life” for everyone, as the invitation to the opening of Selfridges so effusively advertised.8 Selfridges provided customers with new services, “including a silence room, a library, an information bureau, and an American barber’s shop and soda fountain” (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 140). A roof garden would be added in the 1920s (Selfridges, 2012).9 A supporter of women’s rights and a cosmopolitan modernizer, Gordon Selfridge employed many women, representing the majority of his staff, and promoted cultural mixing and a cosmopolitan outlook in the way he ran his business (Nava, 2007). In 1914, to celebrate Selfridges’ fifth anniversary, Selfridge wrote in The Spirit of Modern Commerce: Selfridge’s Fifth Anniversary Souvenir Book the following: It is our belief that no commercial Institution in the world is more truly entitled to the inscription “Cosmopolitan” than in ours. Here meet and mingle representations of many of the world’s races, differing in customs, looks, and tongues. Here East meets West and North the South, and here displayed in almost inconceivable variety merchandise from every source of supply and from every important manufacturing centre under heaven. (apud Nava, 2007, p. 23) This cosmopolitan position was seen as somewhat daring by those who defended English patriarchy and social class and who were opposed to the big department stores; in fact, these were tantamount to the destruction of the traditional, old-fashioned retail industry composed of small shops and retailers which substantiated that longed-for national character.

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The most skeptical people, and the supporters of enduring English cultural traditions, were suspicious of these modern trends as they would mean the destruction of Englishness based on tradition and patriotism. For example, G.K. Chesterton’s bigoted writings about department stores caused much stir in the commercial space of Selfridges. Others, like Harry Selfridge, adopted a cosmopolitan approach sustained on the progressive and modern spirit of the age, by promoting gender equality. This forward-looking attitude was made visible via his female staff doing all sorts of jobs (e.g., shop assistants, window cleaners, lift attendants) and by displaying merchandise coming from the British Empire. Mica Nava (2007) exposes in a very clarifying way the conflict between G.K. Chesterton and Selfridge, in what the author called “The Big Shop controversy” (41). Chesterton published “The Big Shop” in 1912 in the Daily News heavily criticizing Selfridges and the women working there: … artistically and socially [the large modern shop] is exactly like hell. The ladies who minister to the shoppers are made exactly like the dress-models that stand beside them. (…)The models [are] dressed so well and the women trained so ill, you can hardly tell the difference but for some outstanding detail – such as the absence of a head …. (Nava, p. 50) The women felt outrageously attacked, accusing Chesterton of ignorance, and replied to him by means of emphatic protests, defending their working conditions at Selfridges, “one of the new feminised spaces of the social – during the early years of the century” (Nava, 53): We are proud to say that we feel as women workers we have in our ranks some of the brightest intelligences associated with commerce, or that part which is handled equally by women and men. (…) We look upon ourselves as members of a “Business Republic,” for each department is represented on a Staff Parliament or Council where free speech, free thought and general initiative is expected to be shown on all occasions. (p. 53) Nava defines this controversy as a dispute between “Cultural imaginaries of an idealised static past” and “a dynamic utopian future in the arena of commercial culture” (p. 42). During the first half of the nineteenth century, jobs in the commercial area were not allowed to lower-class women. Many worked in the “slop trade, producing cheap mass clothing and uniforms,” others sold “newspapers in the streets,” and a few were “crossing sweepers” (Picard, p. 305), being underpaid and coming to grips with bad working conditions. However, after 1850, women started to slowly, but somehow rather daringly, take their first steps to the public sphere. As Liza Picard states, “The Society for Promoting the Employment for Women encouraged women to be clerks, telegraphists, shop

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assistants and nurses” (p. 306). Nonetheless, the fabric of Victorian society was still based on strict and almost fixed social ranks. Even so, work conditions for both working-class and middle-class women started to improve. Other jobs besides home service or working at the factories or markets and street-selling became more available. To meet middle-class needs and a desire to spend money, shops needed to employ more staff. A new place for women was therefore provided. New social groups, such as commercial travelers, lower-middle class clerks, and shop assistants, gained more affluence (Searle, 2005). Charles Digby Harrod hired the first woman at Harrod’s in 1885 (Harrod, 2017). Attracted by the prospects of a better life and by the high status normally associated with these department stores, young women tried their luck and applied for work. Women in the position of shop assistant, mainly in the dressmaking and millinery departments, became more common and “normalized” in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras, despite the still dominant patriarchal staff management. However, women were expected to leave their jobs upon marriage. Therefore, mainly young women were employed, and only a few remained beyond the age of 40. It is also interesting to observe that the death rate among shop assistants was high, due to the eleven-hour days they spent standing, the lack of fresh air, and poor food (Ball & Sunderland, 2001; Picard, 2006).10 Christopher Hosgood (1999) characterized these places as “mercantile monasteries” where shop assistants lived and spent most of the time behind the counter. Apprentices, both males and females, had to follow very strict indentures, such as abstinence from alcoholic drinks, attendance at Sunday Schools, regular attendance to “Divine Service in a chapel, morning and evening,” and “never be out of the premises after 10 o’clock without having obtained special permission from the firm” (Picard, 2006, p. 308). Women had to dress smartly and respectably, in addition to behaving politely to the customers despite having to endure such harsh behind-the-scenes conditions. The empowerment of women became more visible on the verge of the twentieth century. The creation of women’s rights movements such as The London Society Women’s Suffrage (1865) and the militancy of the suffrage movement, led by Emmeline Pankhurst and then by her daughter Christabel Pankhurst, became more hopeful and militant in the Edwardian era, after the fruitless attempts of women’s enfranchisement prior to the Reform Act of 1867. In the mid-Victorian age, women like Helen Taylor, Barbara Bodichon, and Emily Davies had already started to organize women’s franchise movements by creating committees – e.g., Enfranchisement of Unmarried Women and Widows possessing the necessary property qualifications (in February 1867) – and “launching petitioning campaigns” (Rendall, 2000, p. 135). The suffragettes then adopted more extreme measures and were made visible by way of public demonstrations and protests. The West End represented the perfect location for this visibility. By going to this prestigious and powerful public space, feminist militants could call attention to their cause, even though it meant radical protests such as breaking windows. As Rappaport (2000) argues, “public identities and public spaces” were “sanctified by the new commerce to reshape national politics and the public sphere” (p. 221). The department stores also took advantage of this visibility by selling “suffrage

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paraphernalia and fashions and advertised in the feminist papers” (Rappaport, 2000, p. 220). It is in this context that Selfridge promoted his business, supporting the women’s cause and calls for suffrage rights. Selfridges’ shop assistants claimed to be well-treated in a place where they felt equal, accepted, and free. Standing up for his women workers’ rights was part of a self-conscious, effective strategy by Selfridge to keep levels of productivity high. By promoting these “rituals of inclusion,” women felt at home, nurturing a feeling of belongingness (Nava, 2007, p. 56). Moreover, this new social and workplace would become a more powerful, pleasurable, and feminized space. Nonetheless, these apparently democratic and cosmopolitan spaces were shadowed by a strong attachment to and development of a high sense of social status by the Victorians and Edwardians. The obsession with status distinctions divided classes internally and also affected the consumer culture and its spaces, as Searle (2005) put it: Shopping, for example, could divide as well as unite the consuming public. Thus some department stores went to considerable lengths to keep working-class customers in their place by opening up bargain basements that could be reached without entering the main store, which was patrolled by intimidating shopwalkers. Working-class housewives, for their part, preferred to stick to shops where they felt at home: “co-ops,” corner shops, and chain stores. Subtle distinctions of status also divided each class internally. Middle-class shoppers, for example, understood that there was a hierarchy of department stores, with Harrods, Whiteley, and Debenham & Freebody at the top, Selfridges at the bottom. (p. 112) Consequently, Selfridges, by adopting a cosmopolitan, democratic approach, became a more social inclusive space for the staff working there. It catered to a wider range of people, as everyone was welcomed, including the lower-middle classes and even working-class people. Unfortunately, the latter often could not afford to buy Selfridges’ products, nor did they have time to seek out pleasurable moments. And, in many cases, the luxurious, highly ornamented departments scared them away. Conversely, Harrods became more confined to and associated with a higher social status, despite its motto “Omnia omnibus ubique,” meaning “Everything for Everybody, Everywhere” (Harrod, 2017, p. 7). This approach represented, in our viewpoint, a first attempt to appeal to a wider public, leaving ground for, to a certain extent, controlled massification of shopping, however dangerous that could be. Yet, this was delusive marketing as, rather naturally, social barriers already existed in the highly hierarchical Victorian and Edwardian society. It was therefore difficult to confront the discourse of social status deeply ingrained in society. Nonetheless, we cannot deny the importance of Harrods as a prominent public space which molded dynamics of power and class in

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metropolitan London, by imposing shopping etiquette and behavior to an upper class who, already identifying with strict social rules, found hence in Harrods the perfect place to be made visible. Contrariwise, Selfridges, trying to make its way and go up against its most direct opponent, introduced some novelty and challenged some social conventions. For example, hiring working-class and lower middle-class women to be staff members and empowering women by supporting their fight for the right to vote was a daring, but deliberate, decision which allowed the gradual reconfiguration of gender issues and class relations both in the commercial and public sphere. As such, both spaces became undoubtedly highly influential at social, cultural, and even political levels in the commercial arena of London.

Conclusion Devotion to tradition and the adoption of strict moral and social codes of behavior were mandatory tenets in Victorian society. Upper- and middle-class people highly valued and respected hierarchies and institutions. Despite this social deference, the retail revolution and the mass market only deceptively diluted spatial and social difference. The creation of places that catered to all types of people, such as multiple shops, bazaars, and department stores, engendered a feeling of shared spaces and social homogeneity, but, in reality, social difference would not be attenuated. These public spaces also became political and feminine spaces as the West End and department stores were at the center of protests and manifestations set forth by the suffragettes in the early twentieth century. Ultimately, the expansion of department stores provided women with the possibility to strive for power and independence. Despite the common inhumane working conditions, these spaces gave women visibility beyond the private sphere, allowing them the possibility to take on a professional career in the public domain. Department stores in late Victorian and Edwardian ages dictated new approaches to commercial culture, and they decisively helped to construct inclusive spaces bolstered by advantageous social, economic, and political circumstances, despite the social and moral strictness of the time. Moreover, department stores fostered democratic spaces in the sense that they initiated rituals of shopping available to everyone and made it highly profitable not only in the arena of commerce but also in the area of tourism. In the last decades of the twentieth century, with the phenomenon of globalization, department stores and shopping centers have mushroomed throughout the world. Renowned brands can today be found everywhere, imprinting cultural homogenization in a highly technological and globalized world. To conclude, Selfridges and Harrods are nowadays considered cultural icons of London. These two spaces epitomize not only progress and modernity, but at the same time tradition and a lingering attachment to the past. The West End and Knightsbridge are still envisioned as trendy and powerful social spaces, as other contiguous cultural and leisure facilities were also constructed such as museums and parks. Notwithstanding the exorbitant and unaffordable prices for

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the lower-middle and working classes, these department stores became more accessible spaces: everyone could enter and feel a cosmopolitan atmosphere while partaking in the illusion of being socially equal.

Notes 1. The Corn Laws were protectionist measures, introduced in 1815 and 1828, which aimed to exclude foreign wheat unless home price was at or above 80s. per quarter, ensuring that farmers grew sufficient grain that would benefit the landlords, farmers, and laborers alike. Nonetheless, it generated widespread popular protest as in times of bad crops; dairy products became more expensive and hence unaffordable for the underprivileged people (Morgan, 2011). 2. Religiously driven strict moral codes of behavior. 3. The Victorian era started when Queen Victoria came to the throne in 1837 and ended when she died in 1901; the Edwardian period comprised the reign of Edward VII, from 1901 to 1910. 4. Fortnum & Mason, for instance, located in Piccadilly, London, and founded in 1707, succeeded as an upmarket department store, selling tea and coffee items. Other drapery shops, such as Dickins and Jones (in 1790), Peter Robinson (in 1833) and John Marshall (in 1837) were also established in the West End. As there was a “huge demand for textile materials and for sewing accessories,” (Ball & Sunderland, 2001, p. 139) these shops expanded rather successfully. This triggered the emergence of the department stores in the 1850s, improving upon bazaars, which began to appear two decades earlier. Marshall and Snelgrove, a department store in Oxford Street, opened in 1848 (Picard, 2006, p. 134). 5. The underground railway, known as the Metropolitan (Metropolitan Subterranean Railways), transported 30,000 passengers in 1863 the first time it started to work. “The first line ran from Paddington to Farringdon street.” (Esposito, 2020, p. 33). Paddington is located in the West End of London. 6. F. H. W. Sheppard (Ed.) (1983). Brompton Road: Introduction’, in Survey of London: Volume 41, Brompton. pp. 1–8. British History Online. Retrieved from www.british-history.ac.uk/survey-london/vol41/pp1-8. Accessed on March 20, 2019. 7. Title illustrating a letter addressed by H.S.H. Prince Alexander of Teck to Selfridges taken from The Spirit of Modern Commerce: Selfridge’s Fifth Anniversary Souvenir Book, 1914 (Nava, 2007, p. 23). 8. The Bystander, March 10, 1909 apud Nava (2007). 9. https://www.selfridges.com/GB/en/features/articles/content/the-history-of-theselfridgesroof/. 10. This information can also be found at http://www.victorianlondon.org/professions/shopassistants.htm.

References Agathocleous, T. (2013). Urban realism and cosmopolitan imagination in the nineteenth century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ball, M., & Sunderland, D. T. (2001). An economic history of London. 1800–1914. London & New York, NY: Routledge.

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Esposito, M. (Ed.). (2020). England as epicenter of railway culture and the Pax Britannica. In A world history of railway cultures. 1830–1930 (Vol. 1). Abingdon & New York, NY: Routledge. Graham, K. (2008). Gone to the shops: Shopping in Victorian England. Westport, CT & London: Praeger. Hannerz, U. (1996 [2006]). The cultural role of world cities. In N. Brenner & R. Keil (Eds.), The global cities reader (pp. 311–318). London and New York, NY: Routledge. Harrod, R. (2017). The jewel of knightsbridge. The origins of the Harrods empire. Stroud, Gloucestershire: The History Press. Heffer, S. (2014). High minds. The Victorians and the birth of modern Britain. London: Windmill Books. Hosgood, C. P. (1999). “Mercantile monasteries”: Shops, shop assistants, and shop life in late-Victorian and Edwardian Britain. Journal of British Studies, 38(3), 322–352. Masculinity and the Lower Middle Class (July, 1999). Morgan, K. O. (2011). The birth of industrial Britain. Harlow: Pearson Education Limited. Nava, M. (2007). Visceral cosmopolitanism. Oxford & New York, NY: Berg. Picard, L. (2006). Victorian London. The life of a city 1840–1870. London: Phoenix. Porter, B. (2004). The absent-minded imperialists: Empire, society, and culture in Britain. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rappaport, E. (2000). Shopping for pleasure: Women in the making of London’s West end. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Rendall, J. (2000). The citizenship of women and the reform act of 1867. In C. Hall, K. McClelland, & J. Rendall (Eds.), Defining the Victorian nation. Class, gender and the reform act of 1867 (pp. 119–178). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rodriguez, N., & Feagin, J. R. (2006). Urban specialization in the world system: An investigation of historical cases. In N. Brenner & R. Keil (Eds.), The global cities reader (pp. 32–41). London & New York, NY: Routledge. Said, E. (2003[1978]). Orientalism. London: Penguin Books. Searle, G. R. (2005). A New England? Peace and War 1886–1918. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Selfridges. (2012). Retrieved from https://www.selfridges.com/GB/en/features/articles/ content/the-history-of-theselfridgesroof/. Accessed on March, 12 2021. Sheppard, F. H. W. (Ed.). (1983). Brompton road: Introduction. In Survey of London: Volume 41, Brompton (pp. 1–8). British History Online. Retrieved from www. british-history.ac.uk/survey-london/vol41/pp1-8. Accessed on March 20, 2019. Steinbach, S. L. (2012). Understanding the victorians: Politics, culture and society in nineteenth-century Britain. Abingdon & New York: Routledge. White, J. (2016). London in the nineteenth century. London: The Bodley Head. Retrieved from http://www.victorianlondon.org/professions/shopassistants.htm. Accessed on January 2, 2021.

Chapter 7

“A Place Perfectly Accordant with Man’s Nature”: Violent Spaces in the Fiction of Thomas Hardy Olivia Krauze

Abstract Thomas Hardy (1840–1928), careful plotter of the fictional region of “Wessex,” is a novelist both acutely aware of the role of space in his works and remarkably fascinated by violence. Bringing these two significant elements of his fictional method together, this chapter examines the numerous violent spaces created by Hardy throughout his fiction. It focuses in particular on the ways in which different spaces, at first presumed to be safe, become invaded by extreme acts of violence. In the course of the chapter, I ask: How does this perversion of space by violence contribute to Hardy’s literary aims? How do spatial relationships and boundaries intersect with his characterization? And does Hardy leave his readers with any hope for future spaces? I suggest that Hardy’s situation of acts of violence in a range of spaces, natural and domestic alike, is purposefully disorientating. It allows him to interrogate defined social ideas of “moral” indoor spaces and “wild” outdoor landscapes during the late Victorian period. There is, in fact, no such thing as a safe space in Hardy – spaces are ambiguous, changing and shaped by their inhabitants. The effect of violent spaces in Hardy, therefore, provides a challenge both to the conventional settings of nineteenth-century realist writing and any presumed knowledge of these environments. It might be tempting to see such spatial aesthetics as rather pessimistic, yet I argue that by dispelling the illusory link between space and safety, Hardy promotes a more sensitive awareness of everyday environments and our interactions with/within them. Keywords: Thomas Hardy; violence; space; realism; nineteenth century; the novel Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 105–119 Copyright © 2022 Olivia Krauze Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221008

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Thomas Hardy’s preoccupation with acts of violence, often extreme to the point of death, can be traced throughout his fiction. While there are several articles and chapters in wider studies on nineteenth-century violence which discuss psychological violence and its consequences in Hardy, studies on acts of physical violence in his works remain scarce.1 I rectify this by examining Hardy’s portrayal of acts of murder and suicide through a spatial lens, examining how this perversion of space by extreme violence accords with Hardy’s self-professed literary aim of representing “ordinary human passions, prejudices, and ambitions” (The Life and Work of Thomas Hardy, 1984, p. 123). I focus, in particular, on the ways in which spaces at first demarcated as safe, become invaded by shocking acts of violence across his major novels. For example, in Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891), Tess is seduced in a natural space, in other instances a pastoral place of retreat, but cold and unfeeling at this crucial moment. Meanwhile, it is the domestic family space which is disturbed by the child murders and suicide committed by Little Father Time in Jude the Obscure (1895). By tracing patterns and shifts over time, I ask questions such as: What role do violent spaces play in Hardy’s fiction? How does he use violent acts to map the symbiotic relationship between indoor and outdoor, internal and external, character and environment? And if safety is a defunct measure, what is a more productive way of looking critically at the role of space in literature?

Novels of Character and Environment There are several reasons why thinking critically about space in Hardy is pertinent. Firstly, Hardy’s own preoccupation with spaces, particularly natural ones, is obvious from the lengthy descriptions of rural landscapes which fill his novels and for which he is still best remembered today. His life-long interest in topography can be traced to his background and professional career before he became a writer. Hardy was born in Higher Brockhampton, Dorset in 1840 to a father who was a stonemason and local builder, before himself becoming apprenticed to local architect, James Hicks, aged only 16. In 1862, he moved to London to join an architectural practice at which he worked on the restoration of several churches and won prizes from prestigious architectural institutions.2 It was only with the success of his fourth published novel, Far From the Madding Crowd (1874), that he was financially able to pursue a career as a full-time writer. It was also in Far From the Madding Crowd that Hardy first mentioned by name “Wessex”, a fictional region, based on his own home of Dorset and the surrounding counties, which became the setting of much of his subsequent fiction, with Oxford, for example, becoming Christminster, Bournemouth becoming Sandbourne, and the Isle of Wight simply The Island. This meticulous plotting on Hardy’s part simultaneously anchors and universalizes the experiences detailed in his fiction. The link between place (as seen on a map) and lived space (as presented through narrative) in Hardy helps to clarify the difference between the two words, which are often used interchangeably in his works and common speech alike. To take the Oxford English Dictionary

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definitions, the word “place” appears defined and concrete: “a particular part or region of space; a physical locality,” whereas the word “space” is much more abstract: “continuous, unbounded and unlimited extent in every direction” (OED, 2021, n.5a, n.9). Although space has consequently been termed “a realm without meaning,” space does not exist in a vacuum, but is rather intricately tied up with purpose and action – a blank slate with the constant potential to be shaped and reshaped into lived space by what happens in it and to whom (Cresswell, 2004, p. 10). As Michel de Certeau puts it in his influential work The Practice of Everyday Life (1984), which defines the distinction between these terms within a social sciences context, “In short, space is a practiced place” (De Certeau, 1984, p. 117, emphasis in the original). De Certeau’s apt analogy that “space is like the word when it is spoken” helps to illustrate why Hardy’s speakers – the various characters who populate the region of Wessex – are integral to the discussion of space and violence in his works (De Certeau, p. 117). Notably, the second half of the nineteenth century saw the beginning of an unprecedented interest in human behavior. As has recently been discussed by several critics, including Rick Rylance, Lucy Hartley, and Thomas Dixon, this was largely due to the emergence of physiological and evolutionary psychology between the 1850s and 1880s (2000, 2001, 2003). Dixon explains that already in the 1830s “[i]t seemed to Darwin that the only conclusion to be drawn from the evidence was complete determinism – that all actions are determined either by habits, by hereditary character, by education or by chance” (2000, p. 161). Questions of which of these factors had the largest impact in the determination of behavior absorbed scientific, philosophical, and literary thinkers alike. Notably, as Helena Ifill states, the Victorians who thought and wrote on this subject rarely reduced it to a simple battle between nature and nurture or the internal and the external. The interplay between nature and nurture was acknowledged to be complex and often impossible to disentangle, with the channels of influence working in both directions. (2018, p. 3) Examinations of this complex interplay continued into the twentieth century, with psychologist Kurt Lewin (1936) eventually proposing the following equation in his Principles of Topological Psychology: B 5 f(P,E). Here, B, or behavior, is expressed as the function of the person (P) and their environment (E), with the comma allowing for flexibility in the level of influence exerted by each variable. I see this theoretical framework as particularly useful in highlighting the inextricability of character and environment, individual and space, in relation to violent behavior as represented in Hardy’s works. Indeed, Hardy himself classified many of his major novels as “Novels of Character and Environment” for Macmillan’s Wessex Edition of The Works of Thomas Hardy (1912), illustrating his avid interest in their narrative interrelationship.3 While, then, this is a close study of the spaces occupied and created by the violence which pervades Hardy’s fiction, I

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inevitably consider the relationship of these spaces (as subfactors of E) to character, agency, and individual responsibility (as subfactors of P). Although I draw on a range of examples, I focus at length on four specific moments of murder or self-murder, violent acts which most thoroughly and irrevocably disturb narrative development, across Hardy’s oeuvre: Boldwood’s murder of Troy in Far From the Madding Crowd (1874), Eustacia’s death and probable suicide in The Return of the Native (1878), Tess’s murder of Alec in Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891), and Little Father Time’s murder of his half-siblings and subsequent suicide in Jude the Obscure (1895). I acknowledge the significance of the various environments which Hardy’s characters traverse and inhabit throughout his works but concentrate specifically on the final violent spaces they themselves create through murder and suicide in the very moment of the act. I argue that Hardy’s increasingly unpredictable choice of settings in each subsequent work, working in tandem with his characterization, contributes to the disorientating effect produced by these acts of violence. Unlike previous critics, I use my discussion of “violent death” to challenge the perennial attribution of pessimism to Hardy’s works, or at least, to find the potential productivity and opportunities offered by that pessimism.4

Hardy’s Spatial Aesthetics It is important to note that, as Jaqueline Klooster and Jo Heirman point out in The Ideologies of Lived Space in Literary Texts, Ancient and Modern, “[u]ntil recently space was usually neglected in favor of time as a parameter of literary analysis” (2013, p. 3). Indeed, it is only since the advent of studies such as Henri Lefebvre’s The Production of Space (1974) that critical attention has been paid to the social construction of different spaces and their relationship to structures of power. In the second half of the nineteenth century, Romantic sentiments of the sublime in relation to natural spaces were reshaped by evolutionary discourse, leading to a notion of nature as harsh and indifferent. As Carl Woodring put it, “[i]n English fiction, after Darwin cashiered Deistic assurance, the countryside and landscape developed ugly crevasses” (1977, p. 198). Meanwhile, domestic spaces, especially the family home, were held up by the Victorian middle classes as ones of affection, propriety, and safety. In Bleak Houses: Marital Violence in Victorian Fiction, Lisa Surridge discusses how cases of domestic abuse, both legal and fictional, challenged this predominating “companionate model of marriage [which] enshrined the home as a sacred inalienable space” (2013, p. 34). The presumed safeness of the home space, because of its relative familiarity and privacy in comparison to other spaces, remains a problematic part of the public imagination today. In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard describes the home as a felicitous space, “space that may be grasped, that may be defended against adverse forces, the space we love” but nonetheless one which has become imbued with “imagined values,” for example, of stable shelter and comfort (2014, p. IX). While Hardy’s characters often find close affinity with their surroundings, he consistently draws attention to these imagined, allegedly inherent spatial values. He challenges constraining conceptions of space, particularly through the introduction of violence into places deemed socially exempt from it. His own approach

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to space becomes most obviously evident in his description of Egdon Heath, the setting of The Return of the Native: It was at present a place perfectly accordant with man’s nature – neither ghastly, hateful, nor ugly: neither commonplace, unmeaning, nor tame; but, like man, slighted and enduring; and withal singularly colossal and mysterious in its swarthy monotony. As with some persons who have long lived apart, solitude seemed to look out of its countenance. It had a lonely face, suggesting tragical possibilities. (p. 11) The landscape, then, is hard to pin down; it is neither this, nor that, literally, a heath barren but for furze. It has none of its own character, but rather “perfectly” matches man’s nature. This description follows Hardy’s portrayal of the durable, essentially neutral qualities of space not only in this novel, but, as I go on to argue, one which he develops throughout his fiction. The final mention of “its lonely face, suggesting tragical possibilities” sees this initial blank canvas of the heath beginning to be tinged by the human experiences which it will become host to in the novel, but which are nonetheless “possibilities” determined not by the space itself, but by the communities of individuals within it. In order to illustrate this point further, it is helpful to compare Hardy’s opening description of Egdon Heath with that which begins an earlier provincial narrative: George Eliot’s Felix Holt (1866). Hardy much admired Eliot’s work and their complementary depictions attest to the prevalent interest in the role of environment in the nineteenth-century realist novel. In the opening to Felix Holt, the landscape and its inhabitants are likewise extensively described, here from the point of view of a journey by coach. We are then told that the local coachman’s view of life had originally been genial, such as became a man who was well warmed within and without, and held a position of easy, undisputed authority; but the recent initiation of railways had embittered him: he now, as in a perpetual vision, saw the ruined country strewn with shattered limbs. (Eliot, 1866, p. 9) The countryside, described as full of “a charm more subtle and penetrating than beauty” a few pages back, becomes “ruined,” “shattered,” and associated with death in the space of a single sentence (Eliot, 1866, p. 6). In Eliot, this happens because of a physical change, the railways, but in Hardy, a catalyst is unnecessary – all depends on the perspective of the onlooker on the space, the “within” on the “without.” For, as Hardy writes of Eustacia’s discontent with her surroundings: “An environment which would have made a contented woman a poet, a suffering woman a devotee, a pious woman a psalmist, even a giddy woman thoughtful, made a rebellious woman saturnine” (p. 70). Here, the blank canvas of the environment has turned actor, but crucially, it is only refracting rather than creating

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meaning through the qualities (suffering, pious, giddy, rebellious) already present in the object (a woman). This close interdependent relationship between person and environment is explicitly illustrated by Eliot at the end of her opening chapter: The poets have told us of a dolorous enchanted forest in the under world. The thorn-bushes there, and the thick-barked stems, have human histories hidden in them; the power of unuttered cries dwells in the passionless-seeming branches, and the red warm blood is darkly feeding the quivering nerves of a sleepless memory that watches through all dreams. (1866, pp. 10–11) As in Hardy, Eliot’s “human histories” and “unuttered cries” are in the landscape; the two are inseparable. Her Classical invocation, with its mention of “thorn,” “cries,” and “blood,” creates a semantic field centered wholly around histories of pain and suffering. Although these are also the histories which interest Hardy most, the above quotation from The Return of the Native shows that he sees such narratives amongst a range of others; for every Eustacia, there are at least four other combinations of person and environment which produce different outcomes. Therefore, according to Hardy’s spatial aesthetics, violent and nonviolent environments are always concurrently possible; it is individual and societal action that imbues space with meaning.

Destroying the Domestic This is not to say that Hardy does not experiment with traditionally “dark” and “dolorous” locations, or, at least, explore the potential of the historical and social associations they carry to influence his characters. Kristin Brady sees “Hardy’s continued interest in portentous settings,” especially outdoor, reflected in such isolated locations as the knap or the ruin of a hillfort in his short stories Interlopers at the Knap (1884) and A Tryst at an Ancient Earthwork (1885) respectively (1982, p. 170). While Hardy occasionally does construct narratives of violence which propagate dominant concepts of safe and dangerous spaces, or draw on superstitions and legends surrounding them, these are mostly limited to his early novels or short fiction, showing a linear development in his views on space. His first published novel, Desperate Remedies (1871), features Manston, a suspicious, brusque character, who is eventually found out to have killed his wife – in his words, accidently. Hardy himself called Desperate Remedies “the melodramatic novel […] which was the unfortunate consequence of Mr Meredith’s advice to ‘write a story with a plot’” (The Life and Work of Thomas Hardy, 1984, p. 66). This plot, especially in the climactic description of Manston burying the body in the woods at night, draws on characteristically Gothic conventions of space, where stories of “supernatural or horrifying events” are “embodied typically in enclosed and haunted settings […] in images of ruin and decay, and in episodes of

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imprisonment, cruelty, and persecution” (Birch, 2009, p. 135). Manston performs the task in secret, “from midnight to half-past one a.m.,” in a pit filled with leaves “rotten and brown alike, [which] mingled themselves in one fibrous mass,” anticipating the decomposition of Eunice Manston’s own body into this debris (p. 349). The actual crime, too, occurs at twilight “beneath the shadow of the park trees” (p. 364). However, significantly, the murder, or manslaughter, does not occur in the wilderness but in a park attached to a middle-class property “at the door” of a cottage (p. 364). Although it does not take place directly in the marital home, then, it is disturbingly close, with Manston confessing “I carried her indoors” afterward; a confession which violently perverts the tradition of the husband and appointed protector carrying his wife over the threshold of their new home (p. 364). However, the majority of violent acts in Hardy do not just hover on the outskirts of domestic spaces, but entirely destroy any preconceptions about their being safe from violence directly from within. The destruction of the domestic idyll had previously been a major trope of the sensation fiction of the 1860s and 1870s, to which, for the Victorians, extreme violence traditionally belonged. As Ifill writes, “[w]ith its staple attributes of crime, murder, adultery and bigamy, all taking place in the supposed sanctity of the domestic sphere, sensation fiction was contentious, censured as commercial, plot-driven and cheaply playing on the senses of the reader” (2018, p. 5). Yet I argue that murder and self-murder in Hardy’s later works function as much more than a cheap play on the senses; that he uses the ruptures they afford to develop his own nuanced explorations of violence which expand modes of characterization, setting and narrative employed in nineteenth-century realist fiction. A closer inspection of these acts in Hardy, shows them to be carefully plotted disturbances, which deliberately disrupt the boundaries between good and evil, public and private, masculine and feminine, upper and lower class, critiquing the fixed social assumptions which underpin these binaries. To take, for example, Far From the Madding Crowd, where it is a Christmas Eve party in the household of a wealthy and respectable local farmer which suddenly turns into a murder scene: In bewilderment they turned their eyes to Boldwood. At his back, as he stood before the fireplace was a gun-rack, as is usual in farmhouses, constructed to hold two or three guns. […] He had turned quickly, taken one of the guns, cocked it, and at once discharged at Troy. (p. 367) The fireplace, centrepiece of the home, becomes the backdrop to the shooting, while the “gun-rack, usual in farmhouses” for the provision of nutrition to the homestead, here provides a murder weapon. Indeed, shooting, hanging, and drowning are the most common forms of intentional violent death in Hardy; either committed with familiar domestic and labor objects (box cords, firelocks) or in local bodies of water, subverting their literal purpose as places of sustenance

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as well as the symbolic life-giving qualities of water.5 These subversions show that murder in Hardy is typically an act of situational desperation committed by a character under psychological duress, and not a sensational, premeditated attack designed merely to thrill the reader. In Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Tess’s murder of Alec, the man whose initial seduction of her has been her downfall, and with whom she has finally been coerced to live as mistress, is equally quick and bewildering. Mrs. Brooks, the housekeeper of their inn, actually discovers the murder through the space: …her eyes glanced casually over the ceiling, till they were arrested by a spot in the middle of its white surface which she had never noticed there before. It was about the size of a wafer but speedily grew as large as the palm of her hand, and then she could perceive that it was red. (p. 404) The details of the white ceiling of the room turning red with blood and “drip, drip, drip[ping],” combined with those of Alec “on his back, pale, fixed, dead […] in his bed” – the ultimate symbol of peaceful repose and marital love – form visually arresting images which disrupt readers’ expectations of the kind of narrative set at a hospitable seaside inn (pp. 404, 405). Significantly, both these moments went unillustrated; too shocking to be visually represented in the family magazines in which they were serialized. This corresponds with Surridge’s observation of the “growing middle-class concerns over the impact of public intrusion on the private home” in nineteenth-century fiction, journalism, and law alike (2005, p. 24). Yet Hardy persists in the literary exposure of these deadly acts of domestic violence, interestingly often committed by sympathetic and unlikely characters who are driven to extremes – kindly, older men like Boldwood, women like Tess, and even a child in Jude the Obscure – rather than stereotypical cold-blooded villains like Dickens’s Bill Sykes, with whom contemporary readers would have been familiar. As such, Hardy’s portrayal of violence allows for a nuanced social critique in which the reader is left questioning: what kind of desperate circumstances lead a child to commit murder-suicide? Thus, the domestic space ruptured by violence becomes a microcosm of the wider dysfunctional community.

Narrative versus Pictorial Violence I purposefully refer to Hardy’s method as the literary exposure of violence, in order to differentiate between the narrative space created by the author and the pictorial space created by the illustrators of his major novels, which were all initially serialized with accompanying plates.6 For, as Philip V. Allingham reminds us, “[t]he difference between a part-reading in volume and an authentic serial reading is that the illustrations, published usually as frontispieces […] or to face a particular page, condition the reader’s response to the text, causing him to compare ‘word-picture’ to plate” (2014). Crucially, Hardy’s “word-pictures” often push directly against, or at least, go over and above the work of the

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illustrations, picking up on a tension between his literary aims and the demands of the polite middle-class audience of the serial. The plates accompanying the Tess of the d’Urbervilles instalments, for example, contain several traditional pastoral and domestic depictions of the characters and settings. The plate depicting Angel in bed, sick after his return from Brazil, is almost teasing in its parallels to the absent image of Alec, stabbed in bed, which textually arrests the reader – both are on their back, but while the former is “scarcely moving,” the latter is “fixed” (see Appendix: A1). Where scenes of violence are visually represented, it is always the moment just before, such as that of Boldwood facing Troy prior to shooting him in Far From the Madding Crowd (A2), or just after, as when Eustacia’s dead body is pulled out of the water in The Return of the Native (A3), rather than the act itself, which is illustrated. Writing on Helen Paterson Allingham, the illustrator of Far From the Madding Crowd, Arlene M. Jackson likewise points out that “[t]he selection of illustrated scenes as a whole tends to de-emphasize the melodramatic realities of Hardy’s text” (1981, p. 81). Yet, as she goes on to say, “[s]ome of Hardy’s best rural scenes, however, are highly melodramatic and in the absence of such scenes […] the artist was not only avoiding melodrama but also eliminating one of the most notable features of Hardy’s novel” (Jackson, 1981, p. 87). I see Jackson’s contention extending in particular to Hardy’s depiction of violence, which becomes increasingly crucial to his narrative method. In Hardy’s earlier works, vague descriptions of violence predominate: “What took place in the few following moments he never exactly knew. He discerned portion of a shadow in quick muscular movement; then there was a fall of something on the grass; then there was stillness” (What the Shepherd Saw, 1881; 1982, p. 887). Here, the murder is only partially seen, a “portion” of the action deliberately left in “shadow,” and described in no more exact terms than a “movement.” In contrast, these instances are replaced by fuller, unsparing descriptions in his later novels, designed to jar and affront the reader. In Jude the Obscure, the minutiae given of Little Father Time’s murders and suicide are particularly graphic: He looked in bewilderment round the room. At the back of the door were fixed two hooks for hanging garments, and from these the forms of the two youngest children were suspended, by a piece of box-cord round each of their necks, while from a nail a few yards off the body of little Jude was hanging in a similar manner. (p. 325) Again, the focus is first on the domestic space – the room, the door, the hooks, a nail – before turning to the bodies of the children. Not only are the perpetrator and whereabouts shocking, but so is the timing of the murders in the context of the narrative. In Far From the Madding Crowd, Troy is shot in Chapter 53 of 57, in Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Alec is stabbed in Chapter 56 of 59. Yet, in Jude the Obscure, the murders occur a whole nine chapters away from the end of the novel, defying formal pre-conceptions about the narrative place of murder in fiction.

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Several other examples of murder and suicide in Hardy can be found in a variety of settings, both outdoor and domestic, following his assertion in The Return of the Native that spaces behave “perfectly [in] accordan[ce] with man’s nature,” as containers and refractors of individual and wider societal actions, rather than their initiators (p. 11). Situating acts of violence in a range of spaces allows him to interrogate defined social ideas of “moral” indoor spaces and “wild” outdoor landscapes, suggesting much more fluidity than this, and working in tandem with his questioning of fixed character qualities. Although Hardy’s descriptions of acts of violence are often deeply disturbing, the places they occur in do not seem to bear the mark of previous violence, or at least not in the long term. Boldwood’s house will presumably be sold and once more occupied, Alec’s blood at the seaside inn cleaned up, the bodies of the children in Jude the Obscure removed, and the rooms rented to myriad other lodgers.

Ameliorative Endings? Hardy’s inclusion of these boundary-blurring violent acts, therefore, does not necessarily equate with overwhelming tragedy. Surridge claims that nineteenthcentury realist depictions of marital violence work “as a means of reasserting marriage as an ideal to be refined or corrected; they need not conclude that marriage is rotten because they depict rotten marriages” (2005, p. 20). In fact, characters in Hardy who are present in or indirectly affected by these violent acts have the opportunity to learn, move on, and nurture nonviolent spaces instead – be they marital, familial, or otherwise. I see the details that Hardy chooses to provide at the end of several of his novels as potentially offering a forwardlooking, rather than fatalistic, outlook in the aftermath of violence. In Far From the Madding Crowd, for example, Troy’s death allows Gabriel and Bathsheba to marry, with the latter literally transformed at the end of the novel: there was a certain rejuvenated presence about her:– As though a rose should shut and be a bud again. Repose had again incardinated her cheeks; and […] at Gabriel’s request [she] arranged her hair as she had worn it years ago on Norcombe Hill. (p. 388) The simile of the rosebud, taken verbatim from Keats’s The Eve of St Agnes (1820), symbolizes rebirth and a new marital start for Bathsheba and Gabriel, which would have been impossible but for Boldwood’s violent interference. Its allusion to Keats’s undressed, sleeping heroine and the return to a premarital space, Norcombe Hill, also suggests a sexual reawakening. The repetition of “again” and mention of “years ago” suggests that it is not too late for any of the above. Although more sombre in tone, the final sentence of Tess of the

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d’Urbervilles sees Angel, Tess’s widower, and Liza Lu, Tess’s sister, similarly unite in their grief over her execution: “As soon as they had strength they arose, joined hands again, and went on” (p. 420). The images of rising and walking on ultimately bring an element of hope to the end of a long and painful story, perhaps even a hint at new life with the possibility of their marrying and having children remaining open. The liminal walk between spaces itself is full of opportunity. Of course, the reason for writing these mitigated endings was partly practical. Following the publication of Far From the Madding Crowd, Hardy notes that “having now to live by the pen – or, as he would quote, ‘to keep base life afoot’ – he had to consider popularity” (The Life and Work of Thomas Hardy, 1984, p. 105). Readers of serials expected appropriate content, whether visual or narrative, from beginning to end with plots that culminated, if not in a wedding, at least a satisfactory resolution. In a postscript to the 1912 edition of The Return of the Native, Hardy admitted that the wedding between Thomasin and Diggory Venn was not his preferred conclusion: “The writer may state here that the original conception of the story did not design a marriage between Thomasin and Venn […] But certain circumstances of serial publication led to a change of intent” (p. 440, note to 380:11). Indeed, a pattern of unhappy marriages underlies or prefigures most, if not all, of the cases of violent death across Hardy’s early and late works alike, and fixing these marriages, the solution that Surridge sees most popular fiction at this time as advocating, is not always enough. As Rosemarie Morgan writes, “Hardy was deeply opposed to the […] idealisation of marriage. Tending, instead, toward socialistic views and the abolition of marriage in its current institutionalised form” (1988, p. xv). Despite remaining the social norm, marriage in Hardy, particularly in his later novels, becomes less and less the desirable or profitable end, with violence as his chief tool of critique. That, in hindsight, Hardy intended his endings to inspire more of the pessimism with regard to the human condition, which has most closely been associated with Jude the Obscure, is plausible, though in some ways immaterial. For even in this, his final novel, the ending is not without a glimmer of hope, as Arabella and Mrs Edlin stand beside Jude’s dead body listening to outside sounds: “The bells struck out joyously; and their reverberations travelled round the bedroom” (p. 490). On the one hand, the tone of the detail is mocking; Hardy uses it to emphasize the failure and insignificance of Jude’s life. On the other, it serves as a reminder that elsewhere life goes on, people are celebrating, happy. The reader himself may be one such person; a person with the additional privilege of fiction as the testing ground for the construction of spaces which underpin acts of violence, spaces which might be reshaped in real life. “Our ideas were fifty years too soon to be any good to us,” says Jude; too soon, but not futile (p. 482).

Conclusion Hardy’s fascination with various boundary-blurring violent acts, then, does not necessarily establish their permanent effect on space, but rather highlights the human tensions which underlie all of the spaces inhabited by his characters.

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As I have illustrated, Hardy’s situation of acts of violence in a range of spaces, natural and domestic alike, is deliberately shocking and disorientating. There is, in fact, no such thing as a safe space in Hardy, but neither are there any dangerous ones; spaces are ambiguous, changing and “perfectly accordant with man’s nature,” in itself malleable. The effect of violent spaces in Hardy, therefore, provides a challenge both to the conventional settings of nineteenth-century fictional writing and the Victorian ideals of family, gender, and class associated with them. His works speak to an ongoing deterministic discourse on space, where areas associated with poverty are deemed to be permeated with violence, in ways in which middle-class domestic spaces are not. It might be tempting to see such a theory as rather pessimistic, yet, by dispelling the illusory link between space and safety, Hardy promotes a more sensitive awareness of everyday environments as well as our interactions with and within them, emphasizing individual agency and responsibility for the kind of spaces we can and do choose to foster. Hardy’s texts may take unhappiness, suffering, and violence as their subject, but not necessarily and wholly as their endpoint. The awareness Hardy shows of the inextricable relationship between person and environment, with neither factor privileged – which Lewin’s equation first drew to wider psychological attention – simultaneously highlights the constant potential for changeability in these factors, and thus, in human behavior.

Notes 1. The closest similar study to date is Minna Vuohelainen’s article “‘Deeds of Darkness’: Thomas Hardy and Murder” (2018). One might also look at the sections pertaining to Thomas Hardy in works such as Rachel Ablow’s Victorian Pain (2017) and Garrett Stewart’s Novel Violence (2009). 2. For a full account of Hardy’s architectural background see Claudius J. P. Beatty’s The Part Played by Architecture in the Life and Work of Thomas Hardy: A Biography of Thomas Hardy as Architect (2004). 3. The full list of novels comprises The Poor Man and the Lady (1867, unpublished), Under the Greenwood Tree (1872), Far from the Madding Crowd (1874), The Return of the Native (1878), The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886), The Woodlanders (1887), Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891) and Jude the Obscure (1895). All further references are to the respective Oxford University Press editions and are given in parentheses. 4. See, for example, G. W. Sherman’s influential study The Pessimism of Thomas Hardy (1976). 5. According to my research, there are at least six counts of shooting, four counts of hanging, and three counts of drowning across Hardy’s novels and short stories, with many more instances attempted and contemplated. This is in comparison to two acts of stabbing and two acts of bodily force. 6. Far From the Madding Crowd was serialised in the Cornhill Magazine in 1874, The Return of the Native in Belgravia in 1878, Tess of the d’Urbervilles in The Graphic in 1891, and Jude the Obscure (originally under the title The Simpletons, then Hearts Insurgent) in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine between 1984 and 1985.

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References Primary Eliot, G. (1866). Felix Holt: The radical. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hardy, T. (1871; 2003). Desperate remedies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hardy, T. (1874; 2002). Far from the madding crowd. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hardy, T. (1878; 2005). S. Gatrell (Ed.), The return of the native. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hardy, T. (1891; 2005). Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hardy, T. (1895; 2008). Jude the obscure. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hardy, T. (1912). The Wessex edition of the works of Thomas Hardy (20 Vols.). London: Macmillan. Hardy, T. (1982). K. Brady (Ed.), The short stories of Thomas Hardy. London: Macmillan. Hardy, T. (1984). M. Millgate (Ed.), The life and work of Thomas Hardy. London: Macmillan. Hopkins, A. (1878). All that remained of the desperate and unfortunate Eustacia. Plate 12 for the December instalment of The return of the native in Belgravia. Retrieved from http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/hopkins/12.html Paterson Allingham, H. (1874). Troy next advanced into the middle of the room, took off his cap. Plate 12 for the December instalment of Far from the madding crowd in The Cornhill Magazine. Retrieved from http://www.victorianweb.org/art/ illustration/allingham/12.html Von Herkomer, H. (1891). He lay on his back as if he has scarcely moved. Plate 23 for the 19 December instalment of Tess of the d’Urbervilles in The Graphic. Retrieved from http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/herkomer/23.html

Secondary Ablow, R. (2017). Victorian pain. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Allingham, P. V. (2014). Arthur Hopkins’s illustrations for the monthly serialisation of Thomas Hardy’s. In The return of the native. Retrieved from http://www. victorianweb.org/authors/hardy/native/illustrations.html Bachelard, G. (2014). The poetics of space. Maria Jolas (Trans.). New York, NY: Penguin Classics. Beatty, C. J. P. (2004). The part played by architecture in the life and work of Thomas Hardy: A biography of Thomas Hardy as architect. Dorset: Plush Publishing. Birch, D. (Ed.). (2009). The Oxford companion to English literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cresswell, T. (2004). Place: A short introduction. Malden, MA: Blackwell. De Certeau, M. (1980/1984) The practice of everyday life. Steven Rendall (Trans.). Berkeley, CA: California University Press. Dixon, T. (2003). From passions to emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hartley, L. (2001). Physiognomy and the meaning of expression in nineteenth-century culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ifill, H. (2018). Creating character: Theories of nature and nurture in Victorian sensation fiction. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Jackson, A. M. (1981). Illustration and the novels of Thomas Hardy. London: Macmillan. Klooster, J., & Heirman, J. (Eds.). (2013). The Ideologies of lived space in literary texts, ancient and modern. Gent: Academia Press.

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Lewin, K. (1936). Principles of topological psychology. Fritz Heider (Trans.). New York, NY: McGraw-Hill. Morgan, R. (1988). Women and sexuality in the novels of Thomas Hardy. London: Routledge. Oxford English Dictionary. (2021).Oxford: Oxford University Press. Retrieved from http://www.oed.com Rylance, R. (2000). Victorian psychology and British culture, 1850–1880. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sherman, G. W. (1976). The Pessimism of Thomas Hardy. Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. Stewart, G. (2009). Novel violence: A narratography of Victorian fiction. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Surridge, L. (2005). Bleak houses: Marital violence in Victorian fiction. Ohio: Ohio University Press. Vuohelainen, M. (2018). “Deeds of darkness”: Thomas Hardy and murder. Humanities, 7(3), 66. doi:10.3390/h7030066 Woodring, C. (1977). Nature and art in the nineteenth century. PMLA, 92(2). doi:10. 2307/461940

Appendix

A1: “He lay on his back as if he had scarcely moved.” by Hubert Von Herkomer (December 19, 1891). Scanned image by Philip V. Allingham.

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A2: “Troy next advanced into the middle of the room, took off his cap” by Helen Patterson Allingham (December 1874). Scanned image by Philip V. Allingham.

A3: “All that remained of the desperate and unfortunate Eustacia” by Arthur Hopkins (December 1878). Scanned image by Philip V. Allingham.

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Chapter 8

Rising Cittagna(s): A Dialogue between Literature and Urbanism in Contemporary (Post-)Pastoral Cityscapes Stefano Rozzoni

Abstract Since the establishment of ecocriticism, the traditional Western dualistic categories of spaces and places have become objects of increasing pluralistic refigurations in light of the challenges posed by current environmental crises. More and more scholars have discussed how rooted dichotomies, including country/city and nature/culture, should be reconsidered for better acknowledging the sense of connectedness occurring between humans and the surrounding nonhuman world. Consequences of this approach in literary and cultural studies have been pivotal: new environmentally oriented hermeneutic practices have developed, which allow for reevaluating phenomena linked to old-fashioned understandings of the natural world. Among them, the pastoral, traditionally conceived as the contrast between the rural and the urban, has been reexamined by ecocritics through new concepts, starting from the “post-pastoral” (Gifford, 1999). By stressing the investigation of the relationship between the human and the environment in pastoral representations, the post-pastoral has become a favorable tool (Gifford, 2006) for enhancing ethical considerations in response to the challenges posed by the Anthropocene. This transdisciplinary chapter is also inspired by “geocriticism,” which reflects on how literary narratives influence spatial practices in the real, material world. Specifically, this chapter discusses how the neologism “cittagna” – blending the Italian terms citt`a (city) and campagna (country) – which first appeared in Stefano Benni’s novel Prendiluna (2017), allows critics to reflect on the development of similar combinatory processes in contemporary urban spaces. When considering this process in parallel with the notion of post-pastoral, “cittagna,” becomes a useful concept for

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 121–141 Copyright © 2022 Stefano Rozzoni Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221009

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observing how, in current cityscapes, the emergence of new spaces and places negotiates the conventional country/city split, while highlighting the sense of intertwining between the two terms. Hence, attention is placed on how two possible examples of rising “cittagnas” – roof gardens and off-leash dog parks – can be read as evidence of the increasing attentiveness toward issues of human-nonhuman relationality in today’s urbanism, which becomes a hope on the horizon for facing current environmental concerns. Keywords: Ecocriticism; geocriticism; cittagna; country/city dichotomy; roof gardens; off-leash dog parks

Introduction Among the many cultural narratives that have significantly contributed to influencing the relationship between humans and the environment in the Western world, the pastoral represents one of the most crucial. While the pastoral defies a univocal definition, considering the many cultural objects and interpretations to which it can be attributed – from literature to architecture – it is important to clarify how this study engages with this “contested term” (Loughrey, 1984, p. 8). Terry Gifford has proposed a useful, wide definition of the pastoral, which allows for embracing an array of cultural objects connected to it, even if they derive from different fields and contexts: the pastoral, as Gifford affirms, can be seen as “the country with an implicit or explicit contrast to the urban” (Gifford, 1999, p. 2). From this preliminary definition, it is possible to consider how the pastoral relies on a dualistic spatial figuration, which resonates with the traditional Western understanding of the natural world, as an ontologically separated entity from the human (Soper, 1995, p. 16). Greg Garrard (2004) has determined the pastoral – or, at least, a traditional understanding of it – to be a trope “deeply problematic for environmentalism” (p. 37): its long-standing influence on identifying the environment, along dualistic and anthropocentric perspectives, in this sense, does not consider the complex, pluralistic vision that ecocritical epistemology has made evident when depicting the natural world. Ecocriticism, as “the study of the relationship between literature and the physical environment” (Glotfelty, 1996, p. xviii), attempts to develop ethical reflections from the study of literary and cultural objects by stressing the sense of human-nonhuman intertwining in both contemporary and past representations of the environment. When reflecting on traditional texts, ecocritics rely on an updated analytical lens to determine how past phenomena may inform current readers about ethical forms of relationality with the nonhuman. It is now established that traditional Western approaches to the concept of “nature,” which depict it as a pristine realm detached from humans, have favored exploitative behaviors toward the environment (Ferrando, 2019, p. 30) leading to the Anthropocene. The Anthropocene represents the current geological period in which humans appear as the main cause of the biospherical alteration occurring on planet Earth (Crutzen & Stoermer, 2000); therefore, it is evident how

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embracing a new ethical human-nonhuman relational paradigm serves for (re) conceptualizing the environment in a non-anthropocentric way, as a response to environmental crises. In this alignment, it is important to move beyond the pejorative use of the pastoral, which Gifford (1999) observed as “an idealisation of the reality of life in the country” (p. 2), while replacing it with a vision in which human and nonhuman entities are in connection, enmeshed, and intertwined. Along this line, several reconceptualizations of the pastoral started emerging in the 1990s: with the establishment of ecocriticism, increasing scholarly attention has been dedicated to discussing how the pastoral in literature and culture can in fact disclose useful narratives for investigating issues of human-nonhuman ethical relationality. Gifford’s (1999) notion of the “post-pastoral,” which expresses the need to move “beyond the closed circuit of pastoral and anti-pastoral to achieve a vision of an integrated natural world that includes the human” (p. 148), appears particularly significant for the purpose of this chapter. While Gifford discusses the post-pastoral primarily in the field of literary studies, the concept is here adopted for developing a wide cultural reflection about ongoing spaces and places practices in urbanism. Urbanism can be intended as both “the empirical description and study of the conditions and characteristics of urbanization” and as “the disciplinary and professional capacity for intervention within those conditions” (Waldheim, 2016, p. 2). Focusing on the first part of this definition, it is possible to affirm how certain features of current urbanization seem to mirror the conceptual evolutions that the pastoral has undergone in the past few decades. Specifically, just like the pastoral has moved from determining a strict separation between the urban and the rural to the intertwining of the two, current urbanism has matured in more combinatory dynamics in which the separation between the rural and the urban becomes less certain. Moreover, a dialogue between the pastoral and urbanism is fostered by the fact that even though the roots of the pastoral lie in poetry, this issue is not an exclusively literary concept. Since its first appearance in antiquity, with Ancient Greek author Theocritus’s Idylls (third century BC), the pastoral soon spread to several cultural contexts, including painting, sculpture, and architecture. Nowadays, the pastoral represents a popular transdisciplinary theme in scholarship which stretches across several fields, from advertising to videogames. Among these many possibilities, this chapter relies on the long-standing dialogue between literature and urban architecture to understand how this dynamic, which continues today in the increasing attention to the pastoral studies regarding sustainability and urban environmental policies (Fiskevold & Geelmuyden, 2018), becomes significant for investigating expressions of the postpastoral in the contemporary cityscape. On the basis of these considerations, I intend to investigate how current postpastoral evidence in and out of literature can contribute to better attuning the sense of human-nonhuman relationality claimed by ecocritical epistemology, while answering current ecological challenges. In order to achieve this goal, I focus on a concept that is emerging (almost) concurrently in literature and urbanism, and that can be attuned to Gifford’s vision of “post-pastoral”: this neologism is “cittagna.” While blending the terms citt`a (city) and campagna

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(country), this expression becomes a valuable concept for (1) negotiating the ontological separation of the country and the city in current times, as well the oftreiterated, traditional, dualistic pastoral critical domains; (1) better highlighting how the growing presence of material processes in urban spaces echoes the narratives prompted by (eco)critical evaluations of the pastoral in literary studies; and (3) inspiring a more attentive look at how the ethical potentials of the (post-) pastoral allow for a possible response to the challenges posed by current ecological crises. The preliminary theoretical background for this transdisciplinary chapter, positioned between literature and urbanism, is offered by Bertrand Westphal’s (2011) scholarship on geocriticism. Geocriticism represents a study approach to literature which intends to incorporate spaces and places’ theoretical issues to literary analysis. Specifically, through this method, Westphal focuses on the idea that “real” and “literary” spaces do not represent separated domains, but, contrarily, are characterized by constant interaction and reciprocal influence. Discussions of this kind have been increasing in literary and cultural studies in the last few decades, particularly after the occurrence of a “spatial turn” (Warf & Arias, 2014). In this context, Westphal has gained prominence for his interest in the relationship between “real” and “fictional” spaces in literature, as well as the interplay of spatial practices in literary texts, which determines the capacity of literature to act as a discursive practice affecting culture. While undermining the idea of an absolute split between aesthetical and phenomenological aspects, Westphal reflects on the concept of reality as a complex system of interconnected representations since “any work, no matter how far from sensed reality […] is part of the real – and, perhaps, participates in forming the real” (2011, p. 85). In these terms, literary spatial descriptions cannot be seen as mere distortions, or as attempts to re-produce a given reality, but, rather, as relevant instruments for constructing it. This perspective is particularly useful for discussing how literature and urbanism inform each other in the evolution of traditional spatial figurations of “country” and “city” into “cittagna(s),” in light of the growing popularity of ecocritical standpoints regarding the connectedness of humans and nonhumans. Just like geocriticism reflects on exceeding the forcible separation between literature and the real-material world, ecocriticism acknowledges the importance of literature for affecting the maturation of more ethical reflections in regard to how humans can relate to the natural world and how they interact with each other. Therefore, in this work, geocriticism and ecocriticism are in dialogue with each other when exploring the parallels between post-pastoral literary narratives and similar trends in contemporary urbanism, thus providing a privileged transdisciplinary perspective that also exhibits a keen environmental commitment. In alignment with these considerations, the first part of this paper traces the evolution of the “pastoral” into the “post-pastoral,” while discussing how this concept suggests new evaluations of the country/city dichotomy, both in literature and in urbanism. After introducing “cittagna,” the second part of this essay presents on how this “post-pastoral” neologism allows critics to reflect on the growing attentiveness toward ethical forms of relationality between the human

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and the nonhuman in contemporary urbanism practices. The third part of this chapter grounds these considerations through the analysis of two main case studies proving traces of “cittagna(s)” in traditionally conceived urban areas: (1) roof gardens, and (2) off-leash dog parks. These examples will be discussed visa` -vis an ecocritical (re-)reading of some passages taken from classical pastoral poems, which, by presenting similar motifs, guide reflections on their latent human-nonhuman relational implications. New ecocritical readings of past literary texts permit alternative narratives to emerge from texts regarding issues of human-nonhuman relationality; in the same way, reading contemporary cityscapes through the notion of “cittagna” becomes beneficial for determining similar considerations in material spaces and places practices.

The Pastoral: A Concept between Literature and Architecture If asked to think of a pastoral scenario, it is likely that some highly conventional images will automatically appear in someone’s mind: white sheep grazing in boundless meadows; shepherds playing pipes in the countryside; nymphs running in the woods. Even though these subjects are considered – and often dismissed – as mere old-fashioned clich´es (Santasso, 2006, p. 175), they represent some of the most popular images that have preserved the pastoral ideal from antiquity through today. Lawrence Buell, in this regard, has underlined how the pastoral represents “a species of cultural equipment that western thought has for more than two millennia been unable to do without” (Buell, 1995, p. 32). Literature has played a significant role in determining this cultural legacy, particularly considering that the roots of the pastoral lie in poetry. Greek poet Theocritus’s Idylls (third century BC) is commonly considered the work that originated the pastoral in Western culture by introducing an idealized description of the natural world based on a harmonic coexistence of humans – in the guise of shepherds – and nonhumans, inspired by the myths of the Golden Age (Poggioli, 1975, p. 17). Theocritus’s pastoral realm was later conventionalized, and popularized even more, by Virgil’s invention of Arcadia in the Eclogues (first century BC). This trope, describing an idealized representation of the natural realm, has become the epitome of the locus amoenus (the pleasant place) for Western culture, “an idealized landscape with three fundamental ingredients: trees, grass and water” (Ruff, 2015, p. 92), resulting in a long-standing pastoral trend in literature and culture that survives today. Despite the many ways, and the different fields, in which the pastoral has progressed – and notwithstanding the many critical, idiosyncratic perspectives that have interpreted it – some common trends in the understanding of this phenomenon stand out. As Gifford (1999) observes, a popular, “‘broader’ use of pastoral […] refers to any literature that describes the country with an implicit or explicit contrast to the urban” (p. 2). The established dichotomic understanding associates the pastoral with a key issue characterizing Western thought’s spatial figuration, well expressed by the country/city dualism: this issue epitomizes a rooted understanding of the natural world, which, in this sense, has often been

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conceived almost as an ontologically separate realm from the human. Raymond Williams famously summarized this idea in his seminal study The Country and The City (1973), in which he states how opposite values are being attributed by Western culture to these two terms: “On the country has gathered the idea of a natural way of life: of peace, innocence, and simple virtue. On the city has gathered the idea of an achieved centre of learning, communication, light” (p. 9). A similar narrative associated with this dichotomy is evident not only regarding how the pastoral has often been interpreted in the field of literary studies, but also how it emerges when reflecting on more material pastoral traces in culture, especially in urbanism. As Allan Ruff (2015) observes: “Virgil’s poetry did not just remain on the printed page” (p. 44) but, indeed, it re-emerged, in the ancient world, in the developments of new lifestyles and examples of architectural practices. Specifically, the (pastoral) country/city dualism relates to the popular Latin ideal of otium/negotium (Rosen & Sluiter, 2006), which defines a conceptual separation for times of relaxation (otium, “leisure” in current English) and other times that are dedicated to labor activities (negotium, “job,” “tasks,” or “business” in current English), which a different organization of public and private spaces at that time also reflected. The practice of villeggiatura is pivotal in this sense: during the reign of Augustus (27 BC – 14 AD), it was common among Romans to spend “time for learned leisure and contemplative recreation” (Ruff, 2015, p. 44) outside of the city in Roman villas (Jones, 2011, p. 142). These locations, which already appear to align with what Williams would define as the values attributed to the countryside, represent the first material evidence of a growing popularity in pastoral trends outside the domains of literature, in particular alongside new trends in architecture. The dialogue between the concepts of otium and negotium, as well as the country and the city, continues throughout history, and many other examples of pastoral cultural narratives in architectural and urbanism practices can be discussed accordingly. Among these, one can focus on a popular example of “pastoral architecture,” namely the Hameau de la Reine (The Queen’s Hamlet), the small picturesque rustic village built for Marie Antoinette in the park of the Chˆateau de Versailles in 1783: it represents a clarificatory case regarding how pastoral narratives appearing in literature possess counterparts in material space and place practices. This rustic retreat, in fact, attunes to the imaginative standards presented in pastoral poetry of that time considering the Hameau de la Reine’s old-fashioned visual appeal, reproducing a traditional farm with thatchedroof architecture on a barn, windmill, and a farmhouse typical of pastoral literature (Condello, 2014, p. 80). A pastoral experience was also possible in this location, considering that in there the Queen could “pose as a shepherdess” while also experiencing “a contact with farm animals” in Versailles, albeit with a theatricality and artificiality that has often been discussed as emptied of any moral respectability (Condello, 2014, p. 81). In this example, one can see how the pastoral does not appear solely as theoretical concept, but results in the material presence of certain symbolic aspects of the rural realm, including animals, shepherds, and specific country architectural elements. In addition, the Hameau de la Reine is representative of the pastoral in reference to behaviors and

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relational dynamics that it inspires, which appear as prolonging traditional, dualistic human/nature and nature/culture figurations. While the long-standing overlap between literary and architectural practices for what concerns the pastoral can be discussed through a wide collection of cases, the two examples presented are particularly convenient for highlighting how, according to Westphal, real and fictional spaces do engage with each other through dynamics of interplay, and that reflecting on pastoral literature also allows for better determining the rationale behind certain space configurations. Moreover, both the practices of villeggiatura and the pastoral dynamics connected to the Hameau de la Reine should be regarded as important examples of how, in Western traditional thought, the concepts of the country and the city appear as forcibly separated, particularly in regard to the evaluation of the notion of the environment: the “country” represents the location where the relationship between humans and nonhumans is favored, while, contrarily, the “city” is where this connection is at stake. However, it is important to stress how, today, similar understandings are problematic, considering the growth of (ecocritical) counternarratives based on more complex assumptions where the inter-connection between these two realms prevails.

An Ecocritical Trajectory in Pastoral Study: The “Post-Pastoral” Since its establishment in the 1990s, ecocriticism incorporated ecological concerns affecting the contemporary world in the study of literature and culture. Within this scholarship, the growing awareness of living in the Anthropocene has led to developing a more critical approach toward the dualistic, anthropocentric assumptions characterizing the traditional Western idea of the environment. Scholars in ecocriticism, in fact, urge the adoption of attentive standpoints when engaging with the notion of environment, while establishing it as referring to the complex relationship occurring between human and nonhuman entities (Glotfelty & Fromm, 1996). In regard to a similar epistemology, the understanding of the pastoral alongside the idea of the country/city dichotomy – and related divide, such as human/ nature and nature/culture – is limiting. Gifford’s notion of post-pastoral remains particularly relevant for providing a response to this issue since it proposes a more ecocritical stance in the study of the pastoral. Through this notion, in fact, Gifford (1999) invites critics to go “beyond the closed circuit of pastoral and anti-pastoral” (p. 148) when exploring pastoral literary works, and to pay attention to the “deep sense of the immanence in all natural things” (p. 152). In this sense, the pastoral becomes a tool for exploring new sustainable praxis among living beings as well as for responding to the challenges raised by the current ecological crisis. In line with Gifford’s vision enhancing the disclosure of alternative narratives from past and present pastoral literary works – as is visible in his rereading of Ted Hughes poems – this concept of post-pastoral guides similar operations in regard to “pastoral” evidence outside the domains of literature, such as in urbanism.1

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In recent years, growing attention has been dedicated to (eco)critical approaches concerning the pastoral in space and place studies, among which the recent work of Fiskevold and Geelmuyden titled Arcadia Updated: Raising Landscape Awareness through Analytical Narratives (2018) remains pivotal. These two scholars utilize the pastoral as the standpoint for investigating how humans perceive landscape(s), particularly underlying how pastoral imagery allows for issues of “sustainability” to develop in alignment with growing debates about urban environmental policies.2 Fiskevold and Geelmuyden (2018) depart from the idea that the landscape primarily represents a “culturally inherited idea […] which helps us to imaginatively recognise and assemble a unique visual entity from the chaos of an area’s features” (p. ix). While reflecting on this vision, the two scholars discuss how “landscape ideals visualise a problematic gap between culture’s productions and evolving nature as the entirely other” (Fiskevold & Geelmuyden, 2018, p. 42). In this regard, the pastoral is presented as a way of filling this gap since it fosters an effective reconciliation of the human with the natural world due to its capacity of prompting a “prelapsarian harmony between man, nature and man” (Boyle, 1986, p. 20). Parallels between this perspective and Gifford’s notion of post-pastoral are evident in the idea that, in both cases, the pastoral not only engages with issues of separateness between the human and the nonhuman, or the country and the city, but it also offers narratives centering on issues of connectedness between these realms. In this sense, Fiskevold and Geelmuyden prove the pastoral to be a useful tool for also regarding issues of human-nonhuman relationships in the study of spaces and places, which paves the way for extending Gifford’s insights outside the domain of literature. To strengthen this possibility, there is also the growing relevance of the idea of “relationality” in contemporary understandings of “space”: far from being conceived of as a mere phenomenological unit, in fact, space is increasingly visible as the result of relational practices among (human and nonhuman) individuals in a territory, which provides meanings through their interactions, shared experiences, emotions, and socializing, as stated, among others, by Edward Soja (1996). As a result of these perspectives, the following considerations can be established: (1) the pastoral represents an ongoing narrative that does not cease to influence culture in the contemporary world; (2) the pastoral has become a topic of interest in several fields of study, from literature to urbanism, and it plays a role in influencing the relationship between humans and the environment in several occurrences, from texts to more material spatial evidences; and (3) the conventional understanding of the pastoral is undergoing a process of refiguration through an ecocritical lens, which establishes it as a site where one can dig up useful reflections regarding the relationship among living beings, echoing current discourses on sustainability. The following paragraphs will ground these points by discussing the neologism “cittagna”: by emerging almost simultaneously in literature and urbanism, this notion becomes evidence of the establishment of post-pastoral trends in the development of spaces and places in contemporary cities.

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“Cittagna”: A Post-Pastoral Neologism across Literature and Urbanism “Cittagna,” a neologism deriving from the blending of the Italian terms citt`a (city) and campagna (country), is useful for stressing the growing relevance of the topic of human-nonhuman connectedness in contemporary space and place figurations. Just as overlaps between literature and urbanism – as well between “imagined” and “real” spaces – have been discussed in reference to the concepts of “pastoral” and “post-pastoral,” “cittagna” offers proof of this interface considering the almost simultaneous appearance of the neologism in both these areas of study. First, in literature, “cittagna” stands out in Italian bestselling fiction author Stefano Benni’s Prendiluna (2017) as referring to transforming spatial practices in the novel’s storyworld. Prendiluna is a surreal fairy-tale focusing on an old, retired teacher, to whom a ghost assigns a mission: finding 10 righteous people to whom she can leave her many cats before her upcoming death, since this can avoid the end of the world. While Prendiluna, as the character is named, begins her journey to accomplish this task, she travels to several locations, including “cittagna,” which Benni describes as: […] that strange hybrid of houses and factories, vegetable gardens and supermarkets, gas stations and billboards, witnessing the march of progress. In two minutes, one could go from the civilization of wells and chimneys to the marvellous world of the metropolis.3 As this excerpt reveals, “cittagna” appears as a space that combines elements conventionally attributed to the urban, such as houses and factories, and others pertaining to the general figuration of the rural, such as wells and vegetable gardens. The stress placed on the combination of the rural and the urban conventional imagery strengthens the idea that “cittagna” represents an enmeshment between the two locations. This understanding is corroborated by a specific reference to the idea of “hybridity” in this description, as well as by the dynamics of the linguistic blending. The features of Benni’s “cittagna” invites readers to take into consideration the paradoxes and contradictions that emerge when regarding traditional domains of the country and the city more attentively, particularly in reference to their liminality: despite often being discussed as ontologically separate locations, they represent porous concepts, sharing multiple imagery and values, as the novel also discusses. In general, the novel offers multiple cases that foster the idea of blurring boundaries between established concepts, not only in regard to space representation but also in reference to the identity of different characters. For instance, one can consider the very title Prendiluna as a merging of a verbs, “prendi” (to catch), and a noun, “luna” (moon), whose combination determines a phrase echoing the attitude of the protagonists. Shedding light on the relevance of linguistic and conceptual blending in the novel is useful for relating Benni’s concept of “cittagna” to the discussion on challenging traditional Western dualisms

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offered in the previous paragraphs. Specifically, just like the post-pastoral invites critics to unveil new ecological implications from traditional texts by highlighting issues of relationality in traditional dichotomies such as human/nature, nature/ culture, and country/city, “cittagna” offers similar outcomes: this concept invites critics to stress the idea of interconnectedness between different, opposing spatial figurations, especially the country and the city. Although the novel does not present a strict ecological message, the fact that Prendiluna’s mission is saving the world from an imminent catastrophe draws parallels between the novel and the environmental discourses behind the genesis of post-pastoral in regard to the concept of the Anthropocene, as already discussed. Benni’s “cittagna” appears as a liminal spatiality between the country and the city in a literary work: therefore, this concept can be adopted for reflecting on wider phenomena that characterise the evolution of contemporary urbanism practices along similar trends. Discourses about improving the habitability (Lincoln, 2017) of urban spaces are increasing in urbanism alongside the growing relevance of environmental policies, which seem to foster “the idea of a natural way of life of peace, innocence, and simple virtue” (Williams, 1973, p. 1). Emerging “cittagnas” are evident in the growing attention to leisure and wellbeing (otium) in urban areas by pursuing the more ecological figurations of space. The notion of “green architecture,” among others, is the epitome of these trends. Along this perspective, therefore, Benni’s concept of “cittagna” will be here adopted for highlighting ongoing transformations occurring in contemporary cityscapes, regarding which issues of relationality between humans and the natural environment are central. The fact that the concept of “cittagna” has emerged almost simultaneously, albeit separately and autonomously, in extra-literary areas of study strengthens the relevance of these processes in urban spaces and places. “Cittagna,” as a neologism, was, in fact, also theorized along similar assumptions by CENSIS (Italian Center of Study on Social Investments) in 2003 to define a settlement in which sequences of buildings are spaced out by residual rural areas (Schiaffonati, 2003, p. 11). By determining growing models of spatiality that defy the limiting dualistic perspective which strictly divides rural from urban areas, attention can consequently be placed on the necessity to take into consideration the transforming processes of the spaces and places that we inhabit. The ecocritical trajectories in these developments cannot be disregarded; neither can one disregard a conceptual refiguration of traditional dualistic categories on which our figurations of spaces and places are based. The alarming statistics showing the hazardous changes of our world may easily discourage one from believing in possible alternatives to the Anthropocene; however, focusing on ongoing conceptual and material transformative processes regarding the traditional notions like “the country” and “the city” represents a useful way of responding to current environmental challenges. Particularly, one can consider how these processes may foster the development of new relational ethics between humans and nonhumans, inspired by the growing environmental awareness suggested by the gradual affirmation of ecocriticism. And while it is true that, in the dynamics of emerging “cittagna(s),” attention could be placed on

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how “the country” hosts traces of traditional evaluations of “the city” – e.g., increasingly factories are located in rural areas – the scope of the following analysis relies on how urban spaces and places are developing alongside features primarily attributed to the rural world. Specifically, attention is here placed on two recent post-pastoral phenomena in urban areas, namely roof gardens and offleash dog parks. The following analysis extends the transdisciplinary dialogue between literature and urbanism already presented by stressing how the rereading of traditional pastoral poems along a post-pastoral standpoint informs readers about similar occurrences in contemporary urban spaces.

Roof Gardens and Green-Roof Architecture: New Examples of Human-Nonhuman Cohabitation In response to the ever-increasing concerns connected to growing patterns of overpopulation, pollution, and the increasing use of concrete to cover urban areas (Pacione, 2011, p. 38), notions such as “green urbanism” and “green architecture” have gained prominence (Jaakkola, 2012, p. 115). And in alignment with the gradual establishment of these approaches in spaces and places studies, in the past few decades new environmentally friendly examples of public and private architecture have started appearing: roof gardens represent a useful case of this evolving trend, which this chapter will discuss alongside the dynamics of rising “cittagna(s)” in contemporary cityscapes. In his seminal work on roof gardens, Theodore Osmundson (1999) defines them as “any planted open space, intended to provide human enjoyment or environmental enhancement, that is separated from the earth by a building or other structure” (p. 13). From this preliminary description, it is already possible to determine the post-pastoral potentials embedded in these burgeoning locations, especially in reference to their emphasis on the intertwining between human enjoyment and the environment. This connection is expressed by how Osmundson’s definition resonates with the Latin notions of otium, as already observed; however, the fact that roof gardens ensure a similar result in the realm of the negotium – that is, in urban areas, aspect of innovation can also be acknowledged if compared to traditional spaces and places. Specifically, while the connection between human leisure and the natural world thriving in the rural realm is a classic pastoral trope, roof gardens seem to subvert this conventional dynamic by illustrating how forms of human and nonhuman engagement can simultaneously occur in urban contexts. This consideration allows for roof gardens to be considered as blurring the boundaries between “the country” and “the city” presented by dichotomic spatial evaluations, as the following paragraphs will discuss in more detail. It is useful to reflect on how roof gardens can contribute to affecting the understanding of the concept of environment along more ecocritical figurations. A beautification function can be acknowledged in how roof gardens promote the ecological balance of the urban space while favoring the idea of returning to nature (Mao, 2002). The idea of the “return” to nature, which roof gardens

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permit, seems, at first, to mirror the traditional, dualistic pastoral critical perspectives based on the myth of the Golden Age, as already discussed. However, roof gardens also prove how examples of a balanced coexistence between human beings is not limited to rural locations, according to traditional figurations, but it can also occur in urban spaces. Hence, through roof gardens, people are invited to reflect on how “the country” and “the city” do not refer to mutually exclusive concepts and values, but, instead, these terms can be negotiated through a more pluralistic, critical perspective alongside the idea of their simultaneous, enmeshed manifestations. Consequently, when considering roof gardens, the notion of the natural environment is not limited to an idealized figuration of the natural world as ontologically separated from the urban world; rather, the natural environment can be regarded in relation to multiple forms of entanglements between the human and nonhuman within a wider spectrum of areas, in alignment with what ecocritical epistemology also sustains. In addition, the fact that roof gardens highlight an attempt to provide “environmental enhancement” (Osmundson, 1999, p. 13) establishes them as examples of architecture that are not-strictly anthropocentric, in the sense that they do not serve only human beings: their benefits are, in fact, evoked both in regard to humans and nonhuman entities. Observing how roof gardens contribute to bringing “back” natural entities including trees, flowers, and herbs in urban areas discloses a useful eco-logical narrative: hence, roof gardens reveal keen ethical implications in the attempt to foster human and nonhuman models of cohabitation. This aspect is visible, among several instances, in the fact that roof gardens provide urban wildlife with new habitats (Grant, 2012, p. 133): due to their capacity to attract, for instance, insects, birds, bees, and butterflies, roof gardens prove to be human-designed spaces in which the relationship with other forms of life, both vegetal and animal, is a deliberate purpose behind their planning. These considerations are supported by conducting post-pastoral analysis of the images of roofs in pastoral poetry. Since the Idylls, the roof appears as a significant trope among other architectural references in the pastoral realm. The following excerpt taken from Theocritus’s collection is evidence of the fact that, by regarding its lines through an ecocritical lens, issues of human-nonhuman relationality can be unveiled in the poetic images of the roof. In this sense, the emergence of this issue echoes the discussion of how roof gardens serve as disclosing ecocritical standpoints. This passage, taken from Idyll XIV, presents the description of a nest built under a roof, which appears as possessing benefits for the birds: As for her callow brood, that nested lies Under the roof, the swallow swiftly flies To bring them food, and flies for more again: From her soft couch more swift she fled amain, Through hall, court, gate, as fast as she was able. (Theocritus, 1836, p. 120)

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As this excerpt suggests, the image of the roof does not solely refer to a human dwelling as a metaphor for the house inhabited by human beings; in this section, the roof appears as an element that provides protection to other forms of life, specifically to birds, and to their nest. While the latter remains the animal-made location where swallows can live and thrive, the roof is the human-made architectural element that makes the very nesting possible and which materially contributes to protecting it, while also assisting in the daily activities of these animals. Thus, as a powerful ecocritical symbol of human-nonhuman cohabitation, the image of the roof presented in these lines becomes a useful piece of evidence for developing similar reflections when thinking about extra-literary roof architectures, like roof gardens. Another valuable ecocritical trajectory that can be determined is the fact that roof gardens involve the use of organic materials in their construction. As previously discussed, roof gardens generally represent an alternative to traditional practices of urbanization, since the use of dirt, herbs and other organic materials in their construction factually replaces, and reduces, the use of concrete for building practices. This aspect makes it evident that, beyond the mere idea that roof gardens provide an increase of vegetation in urban areas on a visualaesthetic level, the effects of this sustainable constructive practice are also ethical. Differently from the artificiality of pastoral architectures, such as with Marie Antoinette’s Hameau de la Reine, where the visual aspect of pastoralism prevailed over its ethical functions, roof gardens ensure keen, post-pastoral effects through their involvement of organic materials. Not only are roof gardens useful for reducing CO2 emissions in the atmosphere but the presence of nonhuman elements in their construction also becomes evidence of attempts to enhance forms of human-nonhuman coexistence in urban spaces. Along the geocritical perspective inspiring this study, literature helps ground these considerations while regarding similar effects in (another) pastoral poems. A surprising parallel with what has been discussed about the ethical aspects of roof gardens can be observed in the environmental narratives emerging from so-called “country house poems,” a branch of pastoral poetry developed in English literature during the seventeenth century. Usually categorised as country house panegyrics, these poems are often regarded as merely celebrating the landed gentry’s property grandeur due to narratives that stress the artificiality of the pastoral imagery associated with these country mansions (MacClung, 1977). However, through an ecocritical lens, descriptions of country houses in “country house poems” become ways for investigating cases of (proto)eco-architecture in literature in alignment with the ecological dynamics discussed in the case of roof gardens. The following excerpt from Ben Jonson’s To Penshurst (1611) testifies how, beyond merely celebratory intents, the description of the house offered by the poem possesses ecocritical potentials:

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Through these lines, Penshurst provokes admiration not only due to its aesthetical, external beauty, or the intrinsic economic value of the materials used for its construction; rather, the praise arises in reference to the qualities of wellbeing and healing that this “country house” offers since (1) environmental elements abound in this property and (2) they contribute to fostering humannonhuman relational experiences. The combination between ethics and aesthetics is therefore evident in these architectures, and this aspect allows for exploring analogous cases in other locations in the real-world. Similar understandings derive from another popular country house (pastoral) poem. In Thomas Carew’s To Saxham (c. 1635), attention is placed on the idea that the value of the eponymous location relies on its capacity to enhance forms of human-nonhuman enmeshment, rather than on the quality of its visual outcome: That beauty which without door lies, Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so I might not all thy pleasures know. (Carew, 2019, p. 225) As these lines reveal, the “beauty” of Saxham lies in that this location favors experiences of engagement between humans and the natural world. In this sense, the idea of “beauty” exceeds a mere aesthetical evaluation, while extending its meaning to wider considerations regarding ethics: specifically, Saxham fosters experiences of human-nonhuman connectedness. Therefore, while country house poems can still be discussed as examples of literature corroborating a sense of idealization and artificiality of the countryside, attention can also be placed on how these poems contribute to fostering a relationship between the human and the nonhuman. And while country houses remain human-made constructions, they can still be regarded as prolonging ethical forms of relationality between humans and the environment, just like roof gardens do. In this way, one can reflect on how approaching the analysis of certain architecture elements through an ecocritical lens serves for disclosing how they can foster models of ethical forms of human-nonhuman relationality. And just like literature informs readers that “roofs” and “country houses” can enhance a similar sense of connectedness, the growth of roof gardens in contemporary cityscapes becomes visible along similar lines, as examples of urbanism practices where cohabitation among humans, plants, and animals is also fostered. These effects determine the hybrid nature of roof gardens and their contribution in challenging the dualistic domains conventionally attributed to the country and the city. Fusing natural and artificial elements, imagery, and values traditionally

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associated with the rural and the urban, roof gardens serve as examples of evolving patterns in our cityscapes according to the dynamics of the “cittagna.”

Off-Leash Dog Parks: Interspecies Ethics in Urban Areas Considering the growing relevance of animals within the scholarship of ecocriticism, as also suggested by the establishment of the field of Animal Studies, reflecting on emerging patterns of interspecies relationships in cityscapes is beneficial for further grounding the ethical implications of the rising cases of “cittagnas.”4 Among growing examples of new spaces and places where the sense of connectedness between humans and animals is fostered in contemporary cityscapes, off-leash dog parks cannot be overlooked. While several animals inhabit our cities, dogs appear as a particularly useful case for this study, considering their centrality in critical research into the topic of interspecies ethics, starting from Donna Haraway’s concept of “companion species,” which she establishes as “a pointer to an ongoing ‘becoming with’” with nonhuman forms of life (2008, p. 16). As Haraway observes, dogs appear as a pivotal example of “significant otherness” (Haraway, 2008) in the sense that they are linked to humans historically and on a social, biological, and behavioral level, and that this relationship is fundamental when considering the cultural implications connected to dogs. Moreover, Haraway investigates this human-dog relationship through the lens of her notion of “natureculture”: “a synthesis of nature and culture that recognizes their inseparability in ecological relationships that are both biophysically and socially formed” (Malone & Ovenden, 2017, p. 848). Along this line, the following paragraphs shed light on how the interconnections between dogs and humans are useful for disclosing further post-pastoral/cittagnarelated evaluations in the growing phenomenon of off-leash dog parks. Discussing dogs in reference to the pastoral is not new considering that, notwithstanding the popularity of Leo Marx’s motto “no shepherd, no pastoral” (1986, p. 45), sheep do not represent the only species populating pastoral poetry. Since classical literature, in fact, the pastoral displayed an array of animals, from domestic ones to wildlife – including birds, fish and insects – among which dogs remain pivotal. A clear piece of evidence of their popularity can be observed when considering their presence in fine arts: dogs inhabit an array of pictures epitomizing the trend of pastoral landscape painting, such as Claude Lorraine’s Landscape with the Nymph Egeria and John Constable’s Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows.5–6 In reference to literature, early traces of dogs in the pastoral are visible in Theocritus’s Idylls. A first interesting case, for instance, regards Idylls V in a section describing how the shepherd Lacon praises the qualities of his dog for herding purposes: “And I, I have a flock-dog, a wolver of good fame,/Shall go a gift to my dearest and hunt him all manner of game” (Theocritus & Edmonds, 1950, p. 75). This brief excerpt is useful for determining the coexistence occurring between dogs and humans in the pastoral domains of antiquity in regard to practices of herding; however, the fact that dogs can also become objects of good

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reputation (“of good fame”) suggests that forms of affective attunement should be intended between humans and their animals. This relationship determines dogs much more than a form of “otherness,” in alignment to what Haraway affirms. Similar considerations emerge in the case of Virgil’s reference to dogs in Eclogues III, in which the shepherd Menalcas provides information about the non-conventional capacities of his dogs. While describing his fellow shepherd Amyntas, Menalcas states: “He gives himself unasked – Amyntas, who’s my rapture. My pooches know him better than the moonlit skies.” (Virgil & Krisak, 2010, p. 20). As these lines reveal, beyond being limited to herding skills, dogs also present affective capacities with the shepherds, which, again, stresses the existence of a deep, intimate bond between these animals and human beings. These evaluations highlight the presence of non-anthropocentric implications in the representations of dogs in these classical examples of pastoral poetry. Through an ecocritical lens, in fact, the presence of dogs in pastoral realm(s) invites scholars to engage with critical considerations about issues of interspecies relationality, by investigating how humans relate to these animals. Similar reflections will be here extended to the analysis of (post-)pastoral evidence in contemporary urban locations, where dogs have a central position, like off-leash dog parks. Off-leash parks can be considered special parks because dogs can move freely and entertain relationships with other beings, both human and nonhuman, in a natural, free-access public setting. Parks per se already represent valid examples for discussing post-pastoral figurations in contemporary cityscapes, considering that, as Gifford (2006) observes, they “cross the boundaries between the urban and the rural, the inanimate and the animate, culture and nature” (p. 23). However, off-leash dog parks further emphasize the sense of connectivity between humans and nonhumans in at least two ways: (1) by placing dogs as almost the direct addressees of these locations; and (2) appearing as deliberate spaces where interspecies relational dynamics are encouraged. In the first case, off-leash dog parks emerge as places favoring the fulfilment of ´ psychological and physical benefits for both canine and human users (Gomez, 2013). Similar to the shared human-nonhuman benefits discussed in the case of roof gardens, this consideration highlights the non-exclusively anthropocentric assumptions inspiring the planning of these off-leash parks. Furthermore, although off-leash dog parks are limited to very few square meters in comparison to the dimensions of the city, these areas can still be regarded as attempts to surpass the limits of mere human interests in public space management. It is interesting that a sensibility regarding the wellness of nonhuman animals in urban areas is increasing in the contemporary world. Julie M. Walsh (2011) has discussed this aspect when observing the growth of legal controversies regarding regulations about public urbanism that aim to obtain more attention for spaces dedicated to moments of exchange between animals and humans. This result is useful for reflecting on how spaces promoting interactions between human and nonhuman animals represent valuable examples for proving how the dynamics of the otium – in the sense of the enjoyment and leisure of the human when in presence with the natural environment – become increasingly relevant in the space of the negotium. Thus, while traditional space and place understandings would

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limit the benefits of the proximity with the natural world to the rural realm, offleash parks infuse these effects into urban locations. This aspect, therefore, enhances the idea of off-leash parks as hybrid spatialities alongside the idea of rising “cittagnas.” Furthermore, off-leash parks represent deliberate spaces where interspecies relational dynamics are encouraged. In addition, these locations favor freeing animals from the constraints of a domesticated life, both symbolically and practically. The issues of domestication are significant when approaching the notion of dogs as “pets,” for this term reveals controversial aspects within the dynamics of human-nonhuman coexistence in the urban realm (Marchesini, 2000). Dogs, in fact, should be considered as the result of the evolution from wolves “through cultural processes of domestication [which] began when the animal was enfolded into the social structure of the human community” (Serpell, 1995, p. 15). The origin of dog, in this sense, appears to be strictly connected to issues of spatiality, in relation to how “animals were welcomed into the private space of the home, in the form of ‘pet’” (Howell, 2012, p. 240). While dogs can appear as the very result of anthropocentric practices on nonhuman beings, regarding them through the concept of Haraway’s “companion species” allows for determining how these pressures are weakened when considering new postpastoral space and place trends in urban areas. The increasing number of off-leash parks, in fact, can be seen as an acknowledgment of the need for more ethical forms of relationship between animals and humans, through the reduction of the constraints to which dogs are usually exposed in urban spaces. In this sense, it is interesting to see what Tora Holmberg observes when affirming that “sociospatial production of inclusion/exclusion and the process of becoming admissible” represents a useful issue for determining “where, when, how and why are the dog/human nexus allowed or banned.” (Holmberg, 2015, p. 25). And despite the reality that off-leash dog parks do not entirely escape anthropocentrism, the fact that these areas provide dogs with spaces from which they would normally be excluded corroborates the ethical implications of these locations. In the form of locations in which entanglement between the humannonhuman is stressed, off-leash dog parks can thus be considered evidence of further attempts to overcome strictly dualistic figurations of space in the presentday world. In this sense, off leash parks appear as hybrid spatialities challenging the traditional space identity of the urban realm.

Conclusion Although statistics regarding the biospherical alterations of planet Earth demonstrate unequivocally that we are now living in the Anthropocene, a more attentive look at the conceptual and material developments of spaces and places in the present-day world reveals an alternative account: what we are (also) experiencing today is a slow but steady increase of locations capable of challenging the traditional, dualistic, and anthropocentric country/city dichotomy.

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Through the concept of “cittagna,” the values usually conceived of as prerogatives of the country, such as leisure and the enjoyment brought on by the proximity and interactions of humans with the nonhuman realm, are extended to what is traditionally determined as the city. This blending of values and imagery traditionally conceived of as forcibly separated serves as evidence for the ongoing negotiation of Western-rooted spatial figurations and related dualisms, including human/nature and nature/culture in current urbanism practices. In fact, the appearance of the neologism “cittagna” in different cultural fields, namely literature and urbanism, leads scholars to consider that these processes of hybridization are not only manifesting themselves on a conceptual level, but also on a practical one. As this analysis has demonstrated, new trends in contemporary urbanism echo current ecocritical epistemology, while highlighting the engagement with a growing non-anthropocentric sensibility. This aspect is particularly evident in the appearance of new urban locations, where ethical forms of humannonhuman relationality are enhanced, like roof gardens and off-leash dog parks. And just like pastoral literary spaces can be rediscussed along a post-pastoral perspective for better disclosing their ecocritical potentials, contemporary real cityscapes can be rediscussed along similar transformative trends. Therefore, the concept of “cittagna” can be seen as a tool for identifying (post-) pastoral spaces and places in the real, material world, as well as for promoting ethical modes of relationality between humans and nonhumans. And by fostering the sense of connectedness between humans and nonhumans both in literary studies and in urbanism, the growth of “cittagnas” appears as a hopeful trajectory in contemporary culture for responding to the environmental concerns brought on by the Anthropocene.

Notes 1. Ted Hughes, for instance, is discussed by Gifford as a major example of postpastoral poetry (p. 169) considering, among others, his works Cave Birds (1978), in which the protagonist is put on trial for having neglected his inner self and for his alienation from the forces of nature in and outside himself. Gifford’s approach has become popular as an early “mature” (Buell, 1995, p. 32) attempt to expand the idea of pastoral beyond the dialectic contrast between “the country” and “the city”, while determining the possibility of an almost “third way” “to achieve a vision of an integrated natural world that includes the human” (Gifford, 1999, p. 148). 2. In line with what stated by the European Landscape Convention, which addresses to it as “a key element of individual and social well-being” (Fiskevold & Geelmuyden, 2018, p. 2). In their discussion on the evolution of the concept of “landscape” in current times, Fiskevold and Geelmuyden attunes the concept to that of “sustainability”, for instance in the sense adopted by the European Landscape Convention as “a key element of individual and social well-being”. 3. My translation of Stefano Benni, Prendiluna, Milano: Feltrinelli, 2017. “[…] quello strano ibrido di villette e capannoni, orti e supermercati, distributori di benzina e insegne pubblicitarie, che testimoniava il cammino del progresso. In due

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minuti si passava dalla civilt`a del pozzo e del camino al meraviglioso mondo metropolitano.” (Benni, 2017). 4. (Critical) Animal Studies represents a growing interdisciplinary field of study, developing since the Seventies, which examines nonhuman animals under an array of scopes, from philosophy to politics. Scholars in Animal Studies reflect, rethink, and reconfigure how humans and nonhumans relate, as well as explore the ecological implications of these relations. For a further discussion on this topic, consider Kalof (2017). The Oxford Handbook of Animal Studies. New York: Oxford University Press, or Waldau (2013). Animal Studies: An Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press. 5. Claude Lorrain, Landscape with the Nymph Egeria, 17th century, (oil on panel), Museo di Capodimonte, Naples, Italy. 6. John Constable, Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows, circa 1830, (oil on canvas), National Gallery, London.

References Benni, S. (2017). Prendiluna. Milano: Feltrinelli. Boyle, A. J. (1986). The Chaonian dove: Studies in the Eclogues, Georgics, and Aeneid of Virgil. Leiden: BRILL. Buell, L. (1995). The environmental imagination: Thoreau, nature writing and the formation of American culture. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Carew, T. (2019). To Saxham. In T. A. Borlik (Ed.), Literature and nature in the English Renaissance: An ecocritical anthology (p. 225). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Condello, A. (2014). The architecture of luxury. Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company. Crutzen, P. J., & Stoermer, E. F. (2000). The ‘anthropocene’. Global Change Newsletter, 41, 17–18. Ferrando, F. (2019). Philosophical posthumanism. Cambridge: Bloomsbury. Fiskevold, M., & Geelmuyden, A. K. (2018). Arcadia updated: Raising landscape awareness through analytical narratives. Milton: Routledge. Garrard, G. (2004). Ecocriticism. London: Routledge. Gifford, T. (1999). Pastoral. London: Routledge. Gifford, T. (2006). Post-pastoral as a tool for ecocriticism. In M. Skoie & S. Bjornstad-Vel´asquez (Eds.), Pastoral and the humanities: Arcadia re-inscribed (pp. 14–24). Exeter: Bristol Phoenix Press. Glotfelty, C. (1996). Introduction. In C. Glotfelty & H. Fromm (Eds.), The ecocriticism reader: Landmarks in literary ecology (pp. xv–xxxvii). Athens: University of Georgia Press. Glotfelty, C., & Fromm, H. (1996). The ecocriticism reader: Landmarks in literary ecology. Athens: University of Georgia Press. ´ Gomez, E. (2013). Dog parks: Benefits, conflicts, and suggestions. Journal of Park and Recreation Administration, 31(4), 79–91. Grant, G. (2012). Ecosystem services come to town: Greening cities by working with nature. Chichester: Wiley.

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Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Holmberg, T. (2015). Urban animals: Crowding in zoocities. Oxford: Routledge. Howell, P. (2012). Between the Muzzle and the leash: Dog-walking, discipline, and the modern city. In P. Atkins (Ed.), Animal cities. Beastly urban histories. Farnham: Ashgate. Jaakkola, M. (2012). Helsinki, Finland: Greenness city amid the finger metropolis. In T. Beatley (Ed.), Green cities of Europe: Global lessons on green urbanism (pp. 109–128). Washington, DC: Island Press. Jones, F. (2011). Virgil’s garden: The nature of bucolic space. London: Bristol Classical Press. Jonson, B. (2016). To Penshurst. In J. Black, L. Conolly, & K. Flint (Eds.), The broadview anthology of British literature: Concise volume A–Third edition. Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press. Kalof, L. (2017). The Oxford handbook of animal studies. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Lincoln, T. (2017). The habitable city in China: Urban history in the twentieth century. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan. Loughrey, B. (1984). The pastoral mode: A casebook. London: Macmillan. MacClung, W. A. (1977). The country house in English Renaissance poetry. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Malone, N., & Ovenden, K. (2017). Natureculture. In A. Fuentes (Ed.), The international encyclopedia of primatology (pp. 848–849). Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. Mao, X.-N. (2002). On the design of roof garden. Journal of Chongqing Jianzhu University, 24(3), 10–13. Marchesini, R. (2000). Vivere con gli animali in citt´a. Bologna: Edagricole Calderini. Marx, L. (1986). Pastoralism in America. In S. Bercovitch & M. Jehlen (Eds.), Ideology and classic American literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Osmundson, T. (1999). Roof gardens: History, design, and construction. New York, NY: Norton. Pacione, M. (2011). Introduction: Urban growth patterns–Trends and policy issues. In H. S. Geyer (Ed.), International handbook of urban policy: Volume 3 (pp. 3–38). Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Poggioli, P. (1975). The oaten flute: Essays on pastoral poetry and the pastoral ideal. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Rosen, R. M., & Sluiter, I. (2006). City, countryside, and the spatial organization of value in classical antiquity. Leiden: Brill. Ruff, A. (2015). Arcadian visions: Pastoral influences on poetry, painting and the design of landscape. Oxford: Windgather Press. Santesso, A. (2006). A careful longing: The poetics and problems of Nostalgia. Newark, NJ: University of Delaware Press. Schiaffonati, F. (2003). L’evoluzione della prefabbricazione. Ville e Case Prefabbricate, 7, 11. Serpell, J. (1995). The domestic dog: Its evolution, behaviour, and interactions with people. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Soja, E. W. (1996). Thirdspace journeys to Los Angeles and other real-and-imagined places. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell.

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Soper, K. (1995). What is nature? Culture, politics and the non-human. Oxford: Blackwell. Theocritus, & Chapman, M. J. (1836). The Greek pastoral poets, theocritus, bion and moschus (pp. 115–122). London: James Fraser. Theocritus, & Edmonds, J. M. (1950). The Greek bucolic poets. London: W. Heinemann. Virgil, & Krisak, L. (2010). Virgil’s eclogues. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Waldau, P. (2013). Animal studies: An introduction. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Waldheim, C. (2016). Landscape as urbanism: A general theory. Princenton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Walsh, J. M. (2011). Unleashed fury: The political struggle for dog-friendly parks. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press. Warf, B., & Arias, S. (2014). The spatial turn: Interdisciplinary perspectives. New York, NY: Routledge. Westphal, B. (2011). Geocriticism. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan US. Williams, R. (1973). The country and the city. New York, NY: Oxford University Press.

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Chapter 9

Rewilding My Garden and Community Activities Angela Specht

Abstract The nonhuman world is under substantial threat from human activities and economies. Rewilding gardens and community action can build relationships of care with the nonhuman, restore habitat, connect people and land, and empower humans to work with and for the nonhuman. Stories about family relationships to land and through land, and creating a wild garden are used to explore place attachment, creating relationships of care through gardening, and purposeful rewilding of a garden; stories about participation in a community service organization examine how collective action can take rewilding ideas out into the larger community. By consciously creating care for the nonhuman and participating in rewilding, we can actively build ecological paths forward for ourselves and our nonhuman neighbors. Keywords: Alberta; rewilding; garden; community; care; change I have been thinking a lot about my long time endeavors to create and share my garden as wild space, or as I like to think of it, a place for all: birds, bugs, animals, and people. I have also been thinking about my efforts to have those personal endeavors of creating the wild garden influence the broader community in which I live, through my volunteer work with a community service organization, the Wabamun Community in Bloom Club. It has been challenging to think and write about these personal and local projects as, looming large in our collective world background, are, as Jon Kolko (2012) describes, the “wicked problems” – the social or cultural problems – that seem too big to solve. Our world is rife with human-made ecological disasters that seem too big and complicated for individuals or communities to address. Our contemporary capitalist economic and governance systems have created the global networks and conditions under which nature becomes a devalued

Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 143–164 Copyright © 2022 Angela Specht Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221010

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resource or as Jason Moore (2017) describes, “Cheap Nature” which serves as the foundation for capital accumulation and for devaluation of many humans (women, Indigenous, colonized people, and unpaid or low wage workers) within capitalist processes.1 The acceleration of capitalist endeavors and contemporary neoliberal governance that value individual endeavor within the deregulated free market as serving public interest (Harvey, 2007) have expedited these problems on a global scale. The effects of capitalism and neoliberal governance have created the conditions for: the collapse of insect life (S´anchez-Bayoa & Wyckhuys, 2019), the loss and mass extinction of animals (Ceballos, Erhlich, & Raven, 2020) including birds (North American Bird Conservation Initiative Canada, 2019) and fish (Rosane, 2021), the significant and asymmetrical effects of climate change (Althor, Watson, & Fuller, 2016), the entrenchment of environmentally damaging fossil fuel and other resource extraction economies (MacDonald & Sloman, 2020), as well as many other socioeconomic and environmental effects creating human disparities (Dorling, 2017). While these wicked problems seem too big to solve, they motivate me to do what I can and to fix ecological problems: I do this by creating wild spaces in my home garden and acting as an influence to create change among the people and landscapes of my home community. In this chapter, I explore two main endeavors. First, I talk about how my home area and the relationship with my garden developed via that landscape. I also talk about my family dynamic related to our garden and my efforts to rewild it. In particular, I examine how caring for and interacting with my place, my garden, and its people (my family) have influenced my perception of nature and of human relationships with the nonhuman. Moreover, I observe how developing caring relationships (with the garden and with people) can create change for both humans and nonhumans. I use the notion of “rewild” in a very simple sense, and its meaning is dynamic and changes as I learn. Rewild, in this chapter, means any activity that conserves existing or encourages introduction of indigenous plants, animals, insects, and birds. I create habitat (water, plant, and landscaping configurations). I try not to be too controlling on them (by limiting activities such as pruning, digging, weeding, and mowing), and I do not use herbicides or pesticides. Nature thrives on and through diversity. Plants at different phases of their life cycle, for example, offer up different things to different insect, bird, and animal communities, enabling and increasing diversity. Second, I examine how a community can work to build relationships with – and share their spaces with – the nonhuman or the wild. I do this by telling stories about my involvement with the Wabamun Community in Bloom Club. As mentioned earlier, the club is a voluntary service organization that takes care of the summer flower program and public garden spaces in our little hamlet.2 I will provide more details about the club in upcoming sections. I also want this chapter to be a testament to the hope, joy, motivation, and action that can occur within our gardens and communities. The wicked ecological problems described above are very real, and they can be overwhelming. However, we still have the capacity to act and change, and to find hope and joy in the creation of our gardens and communities, as well as in the sharing of them with our nonhuman neighbors. As the late journalist Alexander Wilson (1991) reminds

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us, even though we live in times of ecologic crises and the very asymmetries and contradictions of the contemporary world are being worked out on the landscape and within our communities, the immediate work for ecological change needs to include preservation and restoration: Restoration recognizes that once lands have been “disturbed” – worked, lived on, meddled with, developed – they require human intervention and care. We build landscapes that heal, connect, and empower, that make intelligible our relations with each other and with the natural world: places that welcome and enclose, whose breaks and edges are never without meaning…We urgently need people living on the land, caring for it, working out an idea of nature that includes human culture and human livelihood. All of that for a new culture of nature, and it cannot come soon enough. (p. 17)

Sense of Place: Setting the Stage for Discussions of Care and Practice The notion of “sense of place” is important for understanding the story of why rewilding my garden has become an important part of my life and why I have situated the wild or the nonhuman as a central theme into my community volunteer work. Jennifer Adams (2013) states, “sense of place is the lens through which people experience and make meaning of their experiences in and with place” (p. 47). It is situated within both place attachment (the bond between people and places) and place meaning (the symbolic meanings ascribed to places through our cultures, economies, biographies, emotions, stories, and imagination) (Kudryavtsev, Stedman, & Krasny, 2012). Sense of place can change over time and may also vary between people. This capacity for change within constructs of sense of place is important for creating different ways of valuing and being with the nonhuman world. Positive sense of place and active participation in place-making can in fact be developed. Fostering positive place attachment and meaning through things like direct experiences with a place, its people, and its nonhuman inhabitants can create understanding, care, and changed behavior (Kudryavtsev et al., 2012).

Wabamun, Alberta, Canada: Place as Nature and Economy I grew up and again live in the house my parents built in the hamlet of Wabamun, Alberta, Canada, located on the north shores of Wabamun Lake.3 In this section, I describe the natural landscape of the Wabamun area and the main economies that operate within this region. These two elements of place, as both a natural geographical setting and as economic form, are significantly connected since the landscape (both what is on top, like trees, plants, animals, water, and people and what is underneath, like coal) are linked in the human activity and economy (human daily activity and life in all its complexities, coal extraction, electrical generation, and recreation/tourism).

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Wabamun is located in a transition area between ecological zones. It consists of mixed wood forests (aspen parkland and boreal forest) consisting of Aspen poplar (Populus tremuloides), Black poplar (Populus negra), and deciduous understory on gently rolling hills, boggy boreal forests of Black spruce (Picea mariana), tamarack (Larix laricina), and marsh plants in wet, low-lying areas. The mixed wood forests mean that a larger variety of animal, bird, and insect species inhabit or visit the area, unlike zones where there is one predominant ecosystem (e.g., solely boreal forest or solely aspen parkland). The most significant industries in the Wabamun region over the last 65 years have been open pit coal mines that fuel electrical generation, a province-wide oil and gas industry, and tourism/recreation. The Calgary Power, Ltd. (renamed Transalta, Ltd.) Wabamun coal-fired electrical generating station was built in the hamlet of Wabamun in 1956. The generating station was retired in 2010 and decommissioned by 2012 at which point its supporting coal mining west and northwest of Wabamun ended production.4 The Wabamun generating station loomed large in my community’s life. It was the main industry and biggest employer and taxpayer, and its visual, aural, and environmental presence impacted daily life. It was an ongoing source of white noise, and I remember the exact moment the station shut down because it became instantaneously quiet. I could look down my street and see the station as it was only about one kilometer away and see the effects of coal firing in the brown streak that often was visible from the stacks and the white dust that often coated vehicles and windows. Water from the lake was heated by the coal fire to turn the electrical generating turbines, and after being used it was discharged into the lake as warm water; in the winter, our end of the lake had places that never iced over. The Whitewood Mine, the open pit coal mine that fueled the Wabamun electrical generating station, was also simultaneous evidence of both economic prosperity and environmental destruction. While a thin border of trees to the west and highway to the north acted as a buffer separating residential life from industrial life, one had only to travel a short way outside the residential site to see the mining. Between 1962 and 2010, 1,900 hectares of the Aspen forests, boreal wetlands, and two small lakes located west and northwest of the hamlet townsite were destroyed as overburden by the mine (TransAlta, 2015).5–7 The mined lands have since been reclaimed, most as farmland (alfalfa) and some as conservation area (trees planted, and two human-made lakes stocked with Rainbow trout [Oncorhynchus mykiss]). The oil and gas sector is important as well, since many Wabamun residents regularly commute to different locations in Alberta to work in the oil fields. The oil and gas sector (until the recent [mid 2014–2016] global collapse of oil prices reduced demand for oil products with the COVID-19 pandemic and increased international environmental and climate change pressure for divestment in oil sands production) have fueled Alberta’s larger economy. The final major human economic activity for Wabamun is recreation, with activities based on Wabamun’s natural landscapes. Wabamun Lake is a popular destination for travel and tourism activities. Cottaging, fishing (both summer and

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winter), boating, sailing, all-terrain vehicle riding, camping, golfing, and bird watching are popular activities for both locals and visitors. These exploitive resource economies underpin uneasy relationships between whether to prioritize nature or human economy (especially with respects to extractive resource development) for many Albertans.8 A recent example illustrates Albertans’ fraught relationships between nature and resource extraction. The conservative-led Alberta government in May of 2020 announced opening much of the previously protected Eastern Slopes of the Rocky Mountains to surface coal mining. Over 420,000 hectares of previously protected (but still under coal lease) land and river headwaters are threatened by Australian coal developers who want to mine and export metallurgical coal to Asia (Nikiforuk, 2021). Even though extractive resource economies have been central to Alberta’s individual and economic fortunes, there is still a deep love by Albertans for natural environments and human activities within these natural landscapes (Nikiforuk, 2021). Alberta singer Corb Lund, for instance, sings this worry for the vulnerability of the land and its people’s willingness to resist extractive resource development: This is my prairie, this is my home/I’ll make my stand here and I’ll die alone/They can drill, they can mine o’er my smoldering bones/ ’Cause this is my prairie, this is my home. (in Cecco, 2021)9 Indigenous activist Latasha Calf Robe of Blood Tribe recognizes what is at stake for her people and the land with coal mining expansion: The land is woven into the fabric of our culture and our identity. Every aspect of our lives is connected to the land… And all of that is at risk of disappearing. You can’t rebuild a mountain. (Cecco, 2021) Albertans are mobilizing and resisting coal mining in the Eastern slopes of Alberta’s Rocky Mountains. The problematic relationship between nature and human economy are forefront in Albertans’ experience of land and economy, and it is an element I negotiate within my community work with the Wabamun Community in Bloom Club too. Even though Albertans have been reliant on extractive resource economies, they do care deeply about the nonhuman world, and this care has been, and can be, mobilized to create change.

Story One: My Family, My Garden In 1968, when I was 10 months old, my parents (along with my three older sisters and six older brothers) moved to the hamlet of Wabamun.10 They bought the grocery store and a half acre of property on which they built a house. The property was part of a former farm, specifically the farm’s horse pasture of white

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clover (Trifolium repens), quack grass (Elytrigia repens), and dandelions (Taraxacum officinale). The only other plant growing on the lot was a 150-foot-long caragana (Caragana arborescens) hedge that grew, and still grows, on the east side of the property. Like my family, all the above plants (largely considered weeds in contemporary Alberta gardening logic) were introduced species. The three biggest gardening influences of my young life were my mom, dad, and the broader environment in which Wabamun is situated. My parents’ respective stances about the garden are also where I first learned that our respective relationships to place can be very different, and that gardening for the wild could be a subversive practice rooted in care for the nonhuman. Wabamun’s environment (land, lake, wildlife, and the industrialized as well as recreational land beyond my garden) introduced me to the tension that many Albertans’ experience between loving the land as a natural wonder and seeing it as a resource to be exploited. I spent the majority of my time as a child on the land, hiking and skiing in the forest trails of the local provincial park as well as swimming, canoeing, and fishing down at the lake. I spent untold hours with my mom, brothers, and friends at the lake or in the forests surrounding the hamlet. I was intrigued by critters and plants that shared these spaces with us. Boreal Chorus frogs (Pseudacris maculate), wood frogs (Lithobates sylvaticus), and leopard frogs (Lithobates pipiens) heralded in the spring with their cacophonous song from the sloughs and reed beds. There were eruptions of dragonflies and damselflies (Odonata) throughout the summer, each eruption signaling the arrival of later phases of the season. They provided protection from mosquitoes (Culicidae) and other insects and acted as food for birds. At night, we heard the high-pitched yapping of coyotes (Canis latrans). I was surrounded by nature everywhere, except for in my pasture-like yard. This rupture in place attachment between my positive experiences of, and connection to, the diversity of natural things and natural cycles in the local forests and at the lake, as opposed to my biodiversity-lacking yard is central to understanding the connection between place attachment, care, and action. My attachment to my home and location and care for the nonhuman are rooted in my experiences with my family and with the natural world around me. I see the value of nature, and I care greatly for it. But this attachment to place as natural wonder, and a relationship between humans and the nonhumans, does not occur naturally for all people, particularly in increasingly urbanized and industrialized settings. Indigenous botanist, scholar, and poet Robin Wall Kimmerer (2013) describes her experience of surveying non-Indigenous university students in a General Ecology class at State University of New York. She asked them “to rate their knowledge of positive interactions between people and the land” and “the median response to the question was ‘none’” (Kimmerer, 2013, p. 6). Kimmerer was stunned by her student’s revelations. Indigenous cultures, traditions, and knowledge situates humans, land, and nature in close, mutually dependent and beneficial relationships of sharing, responsibility, duty, and obligation. Kimmerer suspects that her students could not think of beneficial relationships between the

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people and the environment because of what they see and experience every day in urbanized and industrialized environments: Perhaps the negative examples they see every day – brownfields, factory farms, suburban sprawl – truncated their ability to see some good between humans and the earth. As the land becomes impoverished, so too does the scope of their vision. When we talked about this after class, I realized that they could not even imagine what beneficial relations between their species and others might look like. How can we begin to move toward ecological and cultural sustainability if we cannot even imagine what that path feels like? (Kimmerer, 2013, p. 6) If we value ecological diversity then, it becomes important to understand how different people value place, nature, and human nature environments in order to connect them to it and to build an ecologically healthy path forward. My dad’s story illustrates his path and how his early interactions with his home place and farming shaped his understanding and interactions with our Wabamun property. My dad grew up on a grain and cattle farm during the 1920s and 1930s near the town of Provost in the prairies of East Central Alberta. Whenever I asked him about his life on the farm, he only said a few things: it was flat, hot in the summer and freezing in the winter; farming was hard, isolating work; and the happiest day of his life was when he left the farm knowing that he was never going to go back to live on it or to be a farmer. My dad’s relationship to that place, farming, and by extension wildland and wildlife was fraught. Don Wetherell (2016) in Wildlife, Land, and People: A Century of Change in Prairie Canada speaks to the radical transformation of the prairie landscape and our oft-changing relationship to the wild through settlement. Farming, in particular, shaped highly contradictory relationships between settlers, the land, and wildlife. On a utilitarian level, the land was regarded as the foundation for economic prosperity through “breaking it” (clearing indigenous species of plants and animals) and bringing it under the control of farmers and ranchers. The breaking of the land often meant that incredible human toil was needed to replace complex and biodiverse plant and animal communities, with economically profitable plant monocultures (wheat, oats, barley, hay, and later canola) and domestic cattle. Under these conditions, indigenous wildlife, insect life, and plant life were regarded as either friend or foe. If one could use it, or it supported one’s farming goals, then it was a friend and good to have around; if it did not, then one either got rid of it or ignored it. The moniker of friend or foe was not universally applied to each animal or plant, however. For example, owls on grain farms were regarded as productive, as they were the natural predators of vermin (mice and other rodents that could destroy crops and eat the profits after harvest). Owls on mixed farms took their chances, as their predatory instincts could be directed at chickens and small livestock that the farmers valued for food or for the market.

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My dad’s attitude reflected this utilitarian perspective when it came to the family property. He had little interest in creating a garden. He was perfectly content to just have a pasture-like lawn because all that he or his sons had to do was mow it every once in a while. He was resentful of the caragana hedge because it had to be pruned once a year, and it could take four days to do that. He advocated for the property to stay as just lawn and hedge, and usually once a year (after doing the hedge pruning) he advocated to get rid of the hedge. For my dad, the yard was as productive as he wanted it to be. In his view, he did not need a vegetable garden to feed the family because we owned a grocery store; and flowers, although pretty, were a waste of time and energy. The farm life had constrained my dad’s desire to make gardens and plant trees. My mom, however, was a different creature. She loved the idea of trees, of colorful flowers, and of a little vegetable patch. My mom immigrated from Northern England to a farm near Vermilion, Alberta, in 1929 when she was three years old. Her family (mom, dad, and nine children) left England because her dad (a retired Army veteran and milk delivery man) saw no employment opportunities for his sons that did not lead directly to the dangerous coal mines of Northeast England. They came to Canada through a Scottish Aid Society and Canadian Pacific Railroad Company scheme to populate railroad rights-of-way in East Central Alberta with new immigrant farmers. The family had limited farming experience; therefore, it subsisted on the money generated from a small dairy herd, janitorial duties for the local one-room school next to their farm, my granddad’s army pension, and then his enlistment in the Veterans’ Guard at the start of World War II. Farming brought them to Alberta, but they had a much different relationship to the land and to animals than had my dad’s family. Mom’s family liked gardening, and they enjoyed working with cows, horses, and chickens. Mom often referred to the horses as her dad’s babies, and the milk cows and laying hens as “the girls.” I got the sense from my mom’s stories that coming to Alberta to farm was more important as a way out of England, and that the farming element, while necessary to make a living, was not framed within the utilitarian perspective of many of Alberta’s other immigrant farmers. As a result, my mom’s upbringing fostered a different type of relationship with the land and with animals. She was liberated by her upbringing on the farm. She especially loved flowers and trees, and while she enjoyed planting vegetables and flowers, she had limited success with most of them. She had a vision for transforming our lawn in Wabamun: she wanted to create a forest, and she worked diligently toward that end. It was through my mom’s efforts that I began to recognize gardening as building a different relationship with the land, as acts of caring for the nonhuman, and as a subversive element for change. One of her first forest-building efforts involved buying two seedlings, a Manitoba maple (Acer negundo) and a mountain ash (Sorbus), from a neighbor. She planted these two trees in the front lawn and protected them from the lawn mowing efforts of my dad and brothers. These two trees were the first in a series of trees and shrubs that she got from other people, the local forests and roadways, and from seedlings started in our lawn from bird droppings. The main benefit

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from both her and my perspective was that the more trees she planted in the yard, the more birds and animals showed up. My mom’s acts were subversive in the sense that she just quietly went about populating the yard with trees and then took an active role in protecting them from harm. She never consulted my dad even though she knew his preference was just for a lawn, though she did once actively badger him into saving a mature Manitoba maple tree that would have been cleared to make way for the expansion of our grocery store. Her actions taught me to just do it (get plants and plant them) and to resist or advocate for those plants as needed. From my early childhood, I willingly and actively participated in her garden activities. When I was 10 years old, we picked up about 20, six-inch-tall spruce (Picea) trees that had been discarded by ungrateful recipients of a provincially sponsored tree program at a local May Day celebration. We planted two of them at our house and the rest at my sister-in-law and brother’s farm. Then, when I was 17 years old, mom and I decided we needed a hedge on the west side of the garden. I picked Cotoneaster (Cotoneaster lucidus), mountain ash, and Manitoba maple seedlings out of the lawn to serve as the foundation of our hedge. These seedlings were the product of bird digestion. The birds, Bohemian waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus) and American robins (Turdus migratorius), eat the berries from these shrubs and trees, and the digestive process scarifies the seeds which helps in germination while the other contents of the droppings help to fertilize the next generation of trees. I planted them into a 125-foot-long hedge row on the west side of the property. My dad followed behind me as I planted, saying, “These are just work. You’re going to have to prune them every year. Why do you two always do these things?” I did those things for Bohemian waxwings, robins, and other birds that eat the berries, and I soon learned that doing these things also brought in Warblers (Parulidae), Black-capped chickadees (Poecile atricapillus), and other insecteating birds. The presence of more songbirds attracted the attention and appetites of birds of prey like Sharp shinned hawk (Accipiter striatus), Cooper’s hawk (Accipiter cooperii), Merlin (Falco columbarius), and American kestrel (Falco sparverius). I did these things to make the hedge a smorgasbord of flowers and vegetation for insects and insect larva, and so that I could watch the wildlife that came to live in and feast off of it. In the spring, the Cotoneaster blossoms attract Cedar waxwings (Bombycilla cedorum) who perform the lovely courtship dances along the branches. They hop back and forth toward each other, tapping bills, and the males then give the females the nectar-rich flowers. The females reciprocate by returning the flower. After a few exchanges, the females eat the flower gift. This hedge brings life and diversity to the garden. I do these things to share our space with the nonhuman. When I was in my early 20s, I decided to resurrect a small flower bed that mom had made in front of the house. It had failed because of the unrelenting conditions to which it was subject. It was located on the south facing wall (hot), under the house’s eve (dry), and with very poor soil (clay and rocks). I dug it up, weeded out quack grass, and separated the irises and daylilies that had managed to live in the worst of conditions. I then added new soil and compost, and planted some

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sunflower (Helianthus) and bachelor button (Centaurea cyanus) seeds that I got from the spring seed collection my dad sold at the family grocery store. Then I watered and weeded the space diligently. I knew very little about flower gardening other than that I wanted to do it. At one point as I dug up the space, my dad came out and said, “I know you are not going to listen again, but why are you doing this? They are just flowers. You can’t even eat them.” I laughed and said, “they’ll look beautiful, Dad.” This first attempt at flower gardening significantly influenced me with respect to adding flowers as a form of rewilding the garden. The sunflowers were visually delightful, but more than that they attracted bees, bugs, spiders, and birds. One day, I looked out the window overlooking the garden and saw a Bumble bee dangling in mid-air below a sunflower head. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the Bumble bee (Bombus) had been caught by a Goldenrod Crab spider (Misumena vatia), and the spider was slowly dragging its prey back up to the flower via its safety web. In the later part of the summer, as the sunflower heads started to ripen, the seeds became the favored food of American goldfinch (Spinus tristis), House finch (Haemorhous mexicanus), Black-capped chickadee, and Pine siskin (Spinus pinus). A pleasant surprise about reviving the flower garden was a supportive shift from my dad. He played cards in the afternoon at the local senior’s activity center, and as the summer wore on and the sunflowers bloomed in the front garden, his friends started telling him that his garden looked nice. They told him the trees and sunflowers were pretty, and the lawn well-kept. He came home one day and announced his friends’ praise for his garden, and proudly stated, “I told them we’ve worked really hard on it.” He then started to buy little gifts of plants for my mom and supported my ongoing gardening efforts. In essence, my dad was influenced by positive community support for the activities occurring in his garden, and that community praise helped him to value not just the lawn but also the flowers and trees. Even though that value was situated in his friends’ praise (and not necessarily in the value of the trees and flowers), it opened up for my dad a space and place for those trees and flowers to be a valued part of the garden.

Story Two: My Wild Garden Over the last 25 years, I have built up my family’s garden to be an oasis for insects, birds, and wildlife. Much of what I do in the garden is based on adding plants, water features, and habitat that is shared with others (nonhuman and human). Specifically, I focus on three key elements for the nonhuman – habitat, food, and water – and on an open-garden attitude for human friends, family, or nature-minded people who want to visit. I plant for food, for ensuring cover and protection, and for the sake of diversity. Within the past five years, I have been mindful of increasing indigenous plant presence. Indigenous species of plants and animals are adapted to each other. By adding indigenous plant species, one provides for the needs and biological adaptations of indigenous bird, animal, and insect species to those respective

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plants. I also plant annual flowers, and I focus on pollinator plants and plant species that migratory birds feed off of in their winter range. For example, since Ruby-throated hummingbirds (Archilochus colubris) feed off of a variety of salvia (Lamiaceae) across their range, I have planted both perennial and annual salvias for them (and insect pollinators like them as well). I do not use pesticides and herbicides since they are detrimental to the overall health of the garden, its residents, and its visitors. Although many people think of hummingbirds, for example, as nectar feeders, the reality is that 80% of their diets are insects and spiders. Using insecticides undermines much of the diets of insectivores and contribute to species’ declines throughout the food chain. Water features also add to my successful rewilding efforts. I have two fountains that act as bird baths and drinking stations. One is artificially heated which mimics streaming or moving ice-free water, and it operates during the cold Alberta winters. I have also added a small pond which has encouraged frogs, toads, and snails to live in the garden. In the summer of 2018, I discovered freshwater clams living in the pond. The clam larva likely came to the pond on the feathers and feet of birds who had visited nearby Wabamun Lake. In addition to water, I keep areas of the garden purposely messy, as it provides shelter, nesting space, and safe areas for animals, birds, and insects to hide from predators. Since 2010, I have kept a list of birds and wildlife that have visited my garden. I measure my success by seeing increasing numbers of diverse species of birds, bugs, and animals. Since I actively began the conversion of my garden into a wildlife-friendly place, I have had over 110 different species of birds, 15 different species of mammals, three species of amphibians, one species of reptile, and an untold variety of insects visiting or living there.11 As well, it attracts the attention of birders from all over Alberta and even parts of the United States. One birder stated, “It’s like a mini garden of Eden!”. Members of the Edmonton Nature Club and Wabamun Lake Christmas Bird Count group visit my garden regularly because of the prolific numbers of birds in regular attendance, often including those species which are typically difficult to find.12 My endeavors as I move forward with my garden are to continue its rewilding by increasingly using native plant species and to simply share it with my nonhuman neighbors and other people who enjoy a wild garden. It is by creating these wild spaces in our urban settings that we create important habitat and pockets of space we can share with wildlife.

Story Three (Part A): My Communities in Bloom (Stony Plain) In this next section, I tell the stories of how I came to move my rewilding efforts out into the community of Wabamun and how these experiences shaped my strategies for rewilding through kindness and care. In particular, I tell of two different but related experiences I have had with a National Organization called Communities in Bloom, a Canadian nonprofit organization that fosters friendly competition between Canadian communities to beautify their civic spaces.13 Communities participate on the provincial level, and if they win their competition

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category (based on size of the community), they are invited to participate at the national level. Communities are evaluated by a …volunteer jury of trained professionals on the accomplishments of their entire community (municipal, private, corporate and institutional sectors, citizens) on six key criteria: Community Appearance, Environmental Action, Heritage Conservation, Urban Forestry, Landscape and Floral Displays. (Communities in Bloom, n.d.) Communities are awarded a Bloom Rating based on the judges’ cumulative assessment of these categories. The highest score a community can be awarded is five blooms, and the five-bloom ranking is further divided into gold, silver, and bronze categories to express exceptional merit. Many communities adopt the Communities in Bloom program for achieving community development objectives and as a promotional program for economic and residential development. They use it to address potential deficiencies, to give their communal goals shape and direction, to attract residential and economic opportunities, and to build community involvement or pride of place. I first encountered Communities in Bloom when I conducted my PhD research about how the town of Stony Plain, Alberta, was using heritage-, art-, and gardening-themed community development to build social, cultural, and economic opportunities. I wrote a fairly critical piece about how Stony Plain used many different tactics to encourage, incite, and shame its citizens into action aimed at winning the “Communities in Bloom National Title” in the year 2000. One of the strategies that Stony Plain used to coerce participation and improve its chances of winning was the deployment of bylaw infractions. A bylaw is a rule or regulation that a local government uses to enforce a particular community standard or rule. In this case, Stony Plain used its Community Standards Bylaw to enforce standards about unsightly properties. At that time (2000), I was temporarily living in Stony Plain, which is 35 km east of Wabamun. I visited my mom and dad regularly and still actively worked in my family’s Wabamun garden, and I also cared for the garden at my home in Stony Plain. My Stony Plain yard had a lawn composed largely of dandelions. During that Community in Bloom competition summer season, the town cracked down on Community Standards bylaw infractions that targeted things like dandelions and other weeds, unsightly yards, and unkempt fences, decks, sheds, and other structures. I, like many of my fellow residents, was issued a warning ticket and told to mow and spray (with herbicides) my lawn. If I did not comply, I was warned, I would be fined and bear the cost of the town performing the work. I did not spray, but I mowed my lawn more often than I normally would. I also weeded by hand the most visually problematic areas. My lawn had consisted of dandelions in the years previous to Stony Plain’s competing in Communities in Bloom, but I had not received bylaw citations. However, once the dandelion became problematic to Stony Plain’s competition goals, the plants had to go. In this instance, the Stony Plain town council and

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Community in Bloom Committee had a particular vision about what the community should look like in both public and private spaces: visually prosperous, as neat and tidy, and cultured and cultivated street and gardenscapes. This was to be understood as a representation of the community that would encourage residents and existing businesses to take pride in white collar, suburban success (Specht, 2004). The discord of dandelions, weeds, and unsightly gardens situates the nonhuman and wild in ways similar to Alberta’s settlers and farmers, where if animal or plants advanced one’s goals they were welcome, but when they did not, they had to be removed or eradicated. The deployment of the Community Standards bylaw also illustrated the powerful motivating force of community. Like my dad, who was happy and motivated when friends (his community) told him his sunflowers, trees, and lawn were beautiful, many of Stony Plain’s residents who failed the community standards goals (i.e., received a bylaw enforcement citation) felt guilty about their yards and their failure to help the community meet its goals. I, for example, felt motivated to mow in order to help out and to not receive a fine. There were many letters to the editors of the local newspaper about how different conditions (ill health, limited resources, limited time, other personal or family priorities) were inhibiting the ability to participate fully. Letters also commented that the heavyhanded tactics by the Community in Bloom Committee were not very community-oriented, friendly, or environmentally responsible. Counter responses by the town of Stony Plain’s Community in Bloom Committee focused on how residents could volunteer to help each other out and pull together to support the competition (Specht, 2004). Stony Plain did win the National Championship. I received useful material for my dissertation, and I also vowed (after watching Stony Plain’s Community in Blooms’ process unfold, participating in those community goals, and academically writing about the program and effects within the Town) to not participate again in draconian community development activities. I did not want to participate in coercive tactics that made people feel bad about themselves or their gardens, and I did not want to support the applications of herbicides and pesticides as a supposedly environmentally responsible process for community beautification.

Story Three (Part B): My Communities in Bloom (Wabamun) In 2002, I sold my house in Stony Plain and moved back to my childhood home and its garden in Wabamun to be with my mom after my dad passed away. In 2011, 11 years after my Stony Plain Community in Bloom’s experience, my vow to not participate in coercive community programs was challenged. I was invited to come to the founding of what I was told by Wabamun friends was to be a “garden club” for the hamlet. I thought we would be chatting about and exchanging plants and horticultural ideas and doing garden-related workshops. When I got to the meeting, I learned that a local real estate agent/municipal councilor actually wanted a Community in Bloom program that would build community involvement and beautify Wabamun in order to attract new businesses and residents.

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Many of the 40 other folks in attendance were in favor of this community development and beautification plan. I was uneasy about the proposition because all I could think about were some of the more unsavory elements of coerced community action and herbicide advocacy I had experienced in Stony Plain. After the first couple of organizational meetings, though, I found myself thinking of my dad, and about how mom and I, through our rewilding efforts, as well as the community support of his friends, had shifted his relationship with our garden. I wondered if I could help change residents’ attitudes around gardening and sharing space with wildlife through this program. This is how I found myself elected as vice president, and then shortly thereafter, president of the Wabamun Community in Bloom Club. I thought that I could influence the group from within, and I was encouraged when I found like-minded gardeners in the group. I decided to advocate for wildlife and rewilding of private gardens and public spaces from within the program. My goal was to help the community disrupt suburban tendencies that value lawns or monocultures and that normalize spraying herbicides and pesticides in gardening. The club took up the Community in Blooms development themes committed to encouraging gentle participatory forms of community involvement, and environmental activities which valued and promoted wildlife, gardening with wildlife in mind, and not using pesticides and herbicides.14 Two years in, the club has stabilized at about 20 regular volunteers. We have taken on responsibilities of a floral program that consists of 60 oak half-barrel planters, 30 hanging baskets, five raised beds, and four public flower gardens throughout the community, and we’re planting the containers and gardens with pollinator flowers, edibles, and fruiting trees. We care for these plants throughout the spring, summer, and autumn by watering, weeding, and pruning. Three wild-friendly initiatives that the Wabamun Community in Bloom Club has been involved in illustrate how community development frameworks can shift attitudes and behaviors, develop place attachments, and value the nonhuman through gardening and club initiatives. First, “The Library Garden” (initiated in 2011, prior to the official forming of the Wabamun Community in Bloom Club) was developed as a legacy project by our local librarian Betty. The library garden predates the club but involved many of the same community members who then took over responsibility for the library garden on behalf of the club. The municipal council (who owns the land) had put in the hardscape leading to the library (the sidewalks and a cement pad upon which one picnic table was set), but it left the majority of the space around these structures hard pack clay (which is the local soil). Betty enlisted the help of six volunteers. I and two others were future Wabamun Community in Bloom Club members, and three were library patrons (a mom and her two children). Betty arranged for some guerrilla gardening to occur, since we did not have permission from the municipality to install the garden. We put in four flower beds and convinced local gardeners and a couple of local greenhouse businesses to donate plants, and the Friends of the Library organization donated landscape fabric and mulch. The library garden, however, began to languish from a lack of care shortly after its inception. We (Betty and the other volunteers) assumed that the

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municipality would care for the garden once it was installed. We thought public works would commit to water, weed, and add more plant diversity to the flower beds. We, the future club members, learned an important lesson about attachment, care, and action. We consciously valued the library gardens and invested in them as a community space and as a garden that could be developed and diversified over future seasons. However, the municipality and public works did not “see” or value them – as a place for residents to congregate or as a shared space for nonhuman visitors – in the same way we did. The following season (2012) the club took over care of the gardens with a focus on diversifying the plant life and using the site for future educational programs. At the same time, we worked at building relationships with the municipality (the council, the administration, and public works) about Wabamun’s public garden spaces, including the library garden. The relationships we have built with the municipality have fostered knowledge and caring about the club, our goals, and more importantly about how these public spaces can foster community and environmental awareness and action. The municipality has responded to our work by offering funding for materials and plants, access to water, and public works support. For the last six years, the club has focused on introducing fruit-bearing trees, pollinator perennials, and indigenous plants to the library garden. Plans are in place for an insect hotel (a human-made structure that provides habitat for insects), interpretive signage around the importance of insects as pollinators and botanical labeling of plants and trees. Our goals include making the library garden a pleasant place for patrons but also to continue to build visitors’ relationship with the plants and wildlife. We hope that by bringing attention to plants, insects, birds, and wildlife in the garden that visitors will learn to value the role that gardens can play in providing habitat for wildlife and to encourage them to develop their own gardens for wildlife. Second, Lake Wabamun is a major recreational lake 70 kms west of the city of Edmonton (population, one million people). The proximity of the hamlet of Wabamun to Edmonton means that tens of thousands of visitors per year come to the hamlet for recreational purposes. The hamlet has one of the lake’s two boat launches, the only public pier on the lake, and a well-used waterfront recreational park. As a result, the hamlet hosts many human visitors who boat, swim, fish (summer and winter), and visit local businesses. These visitors also produce a tremendous amount of litter and that causes human and wildlife conflict which plays out in two forms. It encourages scavengers to congregate around the litter as a potential food source. Skunks, coyotes, gulls, ravens, crows, and magpies then become perceived (especially by urban people and utilitarian Albertans) as pests, or as dangerous threats to people, pets, and human recreational activities. Animals also become victims of the human generated litter. Microtrash (small pieces of human litter like glass, soda can tabs, plastics, cigarette butts, balloons, and so forth) is implicated in the deaths of many bird species and even mammals who mistake these bits of trash for food. The microtrash can choke or block digestive paths, and birds and animals often die after ingesting it. Other forms of trash also kill and entrap wildlife. Carelessly discarded fishline tangles birds and animals, and empty fishing bait containers can entrap animals’ heads.

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Although the community has an annual spring cleanup day, where organizations and volunteers scour the village for trash, Wabamun Community in Bloom Club discussed the problem of ongoing litter as both a visual blight and a threat to the community’s wildlife. We wanted to encourage residents to pick up and properly dispose of litter on a regular basis. Club member Eleanor was part of a walking group, and she suggested this group start picking up garbage on their daily walks, and that they would pick up litter in a different area of the village each day. The club advertised on our Facebook page what the group was doing, and it influenced other members of the community to do the same during their own daily walks. 15–16 This action has been so influential that even though four of the original five walkers have moved over the past five years, other walkers continue to pick up litter daily. The second thing the club did was attach litter containers to the club’s watering truck. The daily volunteers who water the community’s hanging flower baskets and planters also pick up litter on the watering routes. By identifying challenges posed by litter and modeling litter collecting behavior, the club has helped to build support and capacity for litter control in the community. It has helped to create a visually beautiful environment as well as to limit human conflict with the local wildlife. The next challenge for our club is to work with visitors (especially people visiting the lake for recreational activities and fishing) to reduce wildlife/human conflict. We are pondering educational kiosks where volunteers can speak to visitors about not littering, packing out what they bring in, and maintaining respectful distances from wildlife on the lake (especially during nesting season). The third and final example of gardening for wildlife is based on our club’s desire to encourage gardening and other Community in Blooms themes (in private and public spaces) in the hamlet. During the club’s first year, we started a garden contest. We asked residents to nominate gardens, and then we sent out volunteer judges who awarded first, second, third places, and honorable mentions based on visual appeal (use of space, color, visual impact), general maintenance (tidiness, regular maintenance of gardens and structures), originality (creative features, ponds, indigenous and special planting), and environmental awareness (mulching, organic practices, rain barrels, wildlife habitat) (Wabamun Community in Bloom Club, 2014). This contest lasted for four years. It was very well received and helped to build gardening capacity in the community, but it also became too competitive. Residents were comparing their garden rankings against their neighbors and were unhappy if they thought they did not get the ranking they wanted. We got all sorts of push back about why particular gardens received first places and why others got third or honorable mention, or no ranking at all. We also recognized that our judges had quite different interpretations about what constituted pleasing garden aesthetics and good practice. Finally, the club decided that even though the contest model was very popular, it was not promoting our ethos of kind, namely gentle participation. The club, however, still wanted to promote gardening and encourage residents to garden so we repackaged the contest as a “Celebration of Gardens.” We created four themes (creative curb appeal, fabulous flowers, wildlife garden, and

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neat and tidy) based on Community in Blooms themes and some themes past competition participants wished for. We hoped residents would find value, and want to participate, in this gentler form of public acknowledgment and valuing of the community’s important garden spaces. We borrowed from the reward system every parent or elementary school teacher in Alberta knows: the awarding of gold stars stickers for good work or behavior. We supplied each garden in the village with a colorful garden-themed card, upon which was listed the four themes, and we placed a fun sticker (a flower, a ladybug, a bee, an ant, etc.) next to each category represented within the respective gardens. The Celebration of Gardens program has also become wildly successful, and residents are particularly motivated to get a sticker in the wildlife garden category. We originally released some general criteria for each category so that residents could determine some of their own goals or be creative in the application of the respective themes. For the wildlife gardens, we announced that having bird houses, feeders, baths, bathouses, indigenous plant species, wild habitat, water conservation elements, and ponds contributed to the wildling of residents’ gardens. Residents shared feedback that criteria should also include bug hotels, chemical-free gardening, untidy garden sections, winter habitat for birds and small animals, pet-free space (to avoid wildlife conflict), organic planting, and so forth. It is clear that residents love their gardens and enjoy seeing the wild in their gardens as well. The club also gets called back to gardens by residents so we can see how they are incorporating what they have learned from talking to us, engaging with their neighbors, or have gleaned from our club’s Facebook page and other sources. The Celebration of Gardens has encouraged residents to ask for garden presentations that can help them learn about what they can do to help wildlife, as well as other general garden themes. Club members have produced three presentations (Gardening for Hummingbirds, Identifying and Managing Invasive Plant Species, and Perennials Across the Growing Season) that have been offered to the public at the local library and at community events. The Celebration of Gardens program both builds and supports existing resident care toward the nonhuman in gardens. It illustrates that residents do care passionately about their gardens and are actively building and sharing their space with the nonhuman.

Creating Paths Forward My involvement in Wabamun Community in Bloom Club has been rewarding, as has been my work of rewilding my garden.17 However, these two things should not be considered as mutually exclusive endeavors. The values, tactics, and strategies that I learned from being in and building my family garden were important ones that I carried into my role as community organizer. My mom’s desire to have a forest in her garden, and her willingness to just keep planting and protecting trees from my lawn-inclined dad, showed me the value of persistence and action. My efforts to build hedges and sunflower patches, and to watch and learn from the increasing diversity of wildlife in the garden, taught me about the

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importance of actively making places for wild creatures in human disturbed environments and about the joy that one experiences from sharing space with the nonhuman. My dad’s positive response to his community’s comments about how nice our garden was illustrated how important community can be in motivating positive change. The mobilization of community through formal community groups then can inspire care for the nonhuman beyond the individual or family space. Community organization can help residents to prioritize the nonhuman as valuable members of their community. Furthermore, community organizations offer structure through which tactics and community-building strategies can operate with productive results for both humans and our nonhuman neighbors. To address Robin Wall Kimmerer’s question (2013), “how can we begin to move toward ecological and cultural sustainability if we cannot even imagine what that path feels like,” (p. 6) my response is: We need to be mindful of the nonhuman and active in building relationships with the nonhuman, with our spaces, with other people, our communities, and our public and private institutions. We must be purposely building and remediating our spaces for inclusion of the nonhuman as valuable and necessary members of our communities. In both our local and global communities, we are facing incredible challenges with climate change, urbanization, mass extinction, security, and poverty. We have to be committed to hope and to action that can help create change in our personal and community spaces. My hope is that readers think and act upon how they too can contribute to the rewilding in their own gardens large or small, their neighborhoods, and their communities and start to think about how they can advocate for their own needs as well as the needs of nonhumans. Biologist, journalist, and activist George Monbiot passionately reminds us that the future and our actions can bring hope, and in rewilding, “we can envision our silent spring being replaced with a raucous summer” (2013). Right now, our collective path is fraught with ecological, economic, and culturally unsustainable practices. We need to imagine, create, and follow a hopeful and wild path forward to a different and sustainable future.

Notes 1. Jason Moore (2017) describes “Cheap Nature” as a process by which nature is stripped of its value as intact natural entities within capitalism and capitalist processes (i.e., systems of governance, power networks, mobilization of capital). Forests (living ecosystems that harnessed light and nutrients, and build diverse ecosystems) become reduced to individual trees or timber that can be mapped, measured, cut, and sold. Their real worth as functioning ecological processes are devalued as they are transformed into cheap resources in the capitalist economic network. Nature is also devalued in the ideological and ethical sense as well, in that nature is not viewed or treated with dignity or respect. 2. From 1980 until 2020, Wabamun was incorporated as a municipality (a village) within the province of Alberta’s municipal governance system. It devolved back to hamlet status within Parkland County on January 1, 2021. I will call Wabamun a hamlet throughout this chapter for the sake of ease and based on the fact

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that the population of Wabamun has remained between about 650 and 700 people since I was a child (over 50 years). Wabamun is located in Treaty Six territory. It is the traditional home to the Nakoda and Cree people of Paul First Nation, the Gunn M´etis, and settler folk like myself and my family. Although this chapter does not tell the stories of the Nakoda, Cree, and M´etis, in relationship to settler folk, the story of my garden is predicated on the forced removal of Indigenous people from the land through processes of colonization and capitalization of the land. I and other settlers are indebted to the generosity (real, asymmetrical, and ongoing) of Indigenous peoples, and we too must strive to build meaningful and enabling relationships with them and the land. Three electrical generating stations (and their associated mines) located between the south shores of Wabamun and the North Saskatchewan River still operate, but coal electrical generation is being phased out in favor of natural gas-powered stations and the turn to green electrical technologies. The reference to Whitewood in Whitewood Mine’s name is a reference to Aspen Popular trees in the area. The trees have a brilliant white bark; moreover, it was the name of a small lake, Whitewood Lake that was drained to mine the coal. Overburden in mining terms is anything that exists above the element to be mined. Trees, plants, rocks, and soil all become unwanted or in some cases secondary economic resources (timber and gravel, for example) to be removed in order to access the product (e.g., coal). Through coal mining processes, we can also see Jason Moore’s (2017) “cheap nature” – where nature is devalued as itself and reconfigured as cheap resource to be sold or used within economic drive for capital accumulation. In Alberta, reclamation policy for land that has been mined is generous toward the developer. Reclamation requirements are met in two ways: purchasing or donating equivalent land or cost of land to a conservation organization and/or making the land useful (i.e., backfilling, contouring for drainage, and revegetating – often as alfalfa fields, and some tree planting). Please see Alberta Energy Regulator, Mine Regulation Requirements: https://www.aer.ca/regulatingdevelopment/project-closure/reclamation/mine-reclamation-requirements, and Reclamation Checklist: https://static.aer.ca/prd/documents/forms/Reclamation Certificate_EPEAApprovedActivities-Checklist.pdf. I include recreational activities because they too exploit natural resources, even though humans often perceive these activities as sustainable activities that are less harmful to nature. Corb Lund (2012). This is my prairie (video). https://www.youtube.com/watch? v5AhAB6Wj0pGw. My garden has been in the hands of my family since 1968. Over the last 50 years, the garden has been transformed from horse pasture to suburban wild space. At times, I have left the family home and garden to pursue postsecondary education and work, but I have always been within commuting distance to my family home. My proximity to the family home enabled me to return and work in the garden during summers, weekends, holidays, and then to return permanently in 2002. And even though I left my home and garden to attend university and begin my working life, my experiences of my garden and relationships with my home informed my professional development. Between 1985 and 2004, I attended the

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Angela Specht University of Alberta, completing three degrees (BA – English – undergrad thesis on representations of Canadian nature in Margaret Atwood’s novels, MA – thesis on environmental philosophy and back to the land movements, and PhD – dissertation on place-making through heritage-based community development). During my postsecondary and early work life, I taught Outdoor and Environmental Education for the University of Alberta, various summer residential camps, and guided wilderness excursions. Since 2005, I work at Athabasca University in the Master of Arts, Interdisciplinary Studies program, teaching community development and governance, and I volunteer in my home community. In 2011, I joined Wabamun Community in Bloom Club to participate in community life through gardening. My garden (2021) is not fenced and allows for free movement of animals. The half-acre property is framed by two hedges (east and west side). The south side faces a residential street. The north edge is open to an undeveloped back alley. My neighbors on the north side of the property have 11 acres, nine acres of which are undeveloped forest. This forest area contributes to my garden’s success as well. Edmonton Nature Club is located in Alberta’s capital city, Edmonton. It is 70 kilometers east of Wabamun. This chapter is the product of a paper presented in 2019 at the Progressive Connexions: Spaces and Places conference in Bruges, Belgium. Bruges was a finalist in the 2017 International Communities in Bloom competition. It received a rating of five blooms, and special mention for parks’ innovative design. Community Appearance, Environmental Action, Heritage Conservation, Urban Forestry, Landscape and Floral Displays. Wabamun Community in Bloom Club Facebook Page. https://www.facebook.com/wabamun.cib. The Wabamun Walkers. https://www.facebook.com/wabamun.cib/photos/ 561831983939063. Editor Beitske Boonstra asked if Wabamun Community in Bloom Club competed in the National program. The club didn’t want to formally compete because of our noncoercive and friendly ethos, but program registration requires judging every three years. We participated in provincial evaluation as “friends evaluated” (a friendly noncompetitive category of evaluation by judges but not competing against other communities) in 2012 (4 blooms, special mention for beautiful barrels and baskets) and 2015 (4 blooms, special mention for themed landscapes). In 2018, the Alberta provincial edition coordinator asked us to participate in the competition against other communities. We achieved a five blooms rating with special mention for our Celebration of Gardens program; and that year we also won the provincial award for communities’ population between 501 and 2,000 people. In 2019, we were invited to participate in the National competition and placed second for communities under 2,500 people. We achieved a five blooms bronze rating and received special mention for our floral program. We were to compete nationally again in 2020, but the COVID-19 pandemic converted the competition into a virtual edition (participating communities participated in webinars and community discussions about building using Communities in Bloom as a community development tool). We have chosen not to compete again.

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References Adams, J. D. (2013). Theorizing a sense of place in transnational community. Children, Youth and Environments, 23(3), 43–65. Althor, G., Watson, J., & Fuller, R. (2016). Global mismatch between greenhouse gas emissions and the burden of climate change. Scientific Reports, 6, 20281. doi:10. 1038/srep20281. Ceballos, G., Ehrlich, P. R., & Raven, P. H. (2020, June 1). Vertebrates on the brink as indicators of biological annihilation and the sixth mass extinction. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, 117(24), 13596–13602. doi:10.1073/pnas.1922686117 Cecco, L. (2021, February 9). ‘This land feeds our souls’: The battle to save the Rockies from big coal. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian. com/environment/2021/feb/09/canada-alberta-rockies-battle-big-coal-aoe Communities in Bloom. (n.d.). About us. Organization website. Retrieved from https://www.communitiesinbloom.ca/program/about-us/ Dorling, D. (2017). The equality effect: Improving life for everyone. Oxford: New Internationalist. Harvey, D. (2007). A brief history of neoliberalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kimmerer, R. W. (2013). Braiding sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge and the teaching of plants. Minneapolis, MN: Milkweed Editions. Kolko, J. (2012). Wicked problems: Problems worth solving (A handbook and a call to action). Austin, TX: AC4D. Retrieved from https://www.wickedproblems.com/ Kudryavtsev, A., Stedman, R. C., & Krasny, M. E. (2012). Sense of place in environmental education. Environmental Education Research, 18(2), 229–250. MacDonald, C., & Sloman, P. (2020). Resource extraction, economic growth, and the climate dilemma in Canada and Australia. The Political Quarterly. doi:10.1111/ 1467-923X.12902 Monbiot, G. (2013, July). For more wonder, rewild the world. Video. TED Conferences. Retrieved from https://www.ted.com/talks/george_monbiot_for_more_ wonder_rewild_the_world?language5en#t-887381 Moore, J. W. (2017). The capitalocene, part I: On the nature and origins of our ecological crisis. Journal of Peasant Studies, 44(3), 594–630. doi:10.1080/03066150. 2016.1235036 Nikiforuk, A. (2021, January 19). Alberta’s cancelled coal leases called a ‘trick’. The Tyee. Retrieved from https://thetyee.ca/Analysis/2021/01/19/Alberta-CancelledCoal-Leases-Trick/ North American Bird Conservation Initiative Canada. (2019). The state of Canada’s birds, 2019. Ottawa, ON: Environment and Climate Change Canada. Retrieved from www.stateofcanadasbirds.org Rosane, O. (2021, February 23). One third of freshwater fish face extinction, new report warns. EcoWatch: Environmental news for a healthier planet and life. Retrieved from https://www.ecowatch.com/forgotten-fish-conservation-265072 3354.html?rebelltitem51#rebelltitem1 S´anchez-Bayoa, F., & Wyckhuys, K. A. G. (2019). Worldwide decline of the entomofauna: A review of its drivers. Biological Conservation, 232, 8–27. doi:10.1016/j. biocon.2019.01.020

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Specht, A. L. (2004). Stony Plain: Making and representing a heritage community. Unpublished doctoral dissertation. University of Alberta, Edmonton, Alberta. TransAlta. (2015, July 24). Reclaiming mine land: From coal to crops and conservation areas. Retrieved from https://transalta.com/newsroom/feature-articles/ reclaiming-mine-land-from-coal-to-crops-and-conservation-areas/ Wabamun Community in Bloom Club. (2014). Best blooming garden contest. Retrieved from https://www.facebook.com/wabamun.cib/photos/554330061355922 Wetherell, D. G. (2016). Wildlife, land, and people: A century of change in Prairie Canada. Montreal, QC; Kingston, ON: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Wilson, A. (1991). The culture of nature: North American landscape from Disney to the Exxon Valdez. Toronto, ON: Between the Lines.

Conclusion Stefano Rozzoni, Beitske Boonstra and Teresa Cutler-Broyles “The whole process of becoming is a process of abandoning identity and entering in the construction of subjectivity, subjectivity being per definition transversal, collective.”1 Through these words, philosopher Rosi Braidotti sheds light on the idea that the belief and values involved in the determination of subjectivity are engrained in dynamics of constant self-challenging and negotiation, which include the idea of seeing identity as not rooted, fixed, and immutable. This consideration is also beneficial for pinpointing the thread running through the composite chapters of this collection for what concerns the notions of space and place: although not strictly focusing on subjectivity, the nine essays included in this book have – in different ways and from different outlooks – underlined the importance of conceiving spaces and places as being inextricably involved with processes of transformation. Moreover, they clearly demonstrate how spatial dynamics entail a primary role in determining processes of identity formation, both in relation to society as well as space and place construction. By combining studies positioned along an extended disciplinary spectrum, spanning from architecture to literature, these chapters offer evidence of the mutability of spaces and places both in accordance with, and in consequence to, forms of activism, to rereadings, to conceptual reframings, and to new critical perspectives. Considering spaces and places in this sense allows for disclosing latent narratives concerning the material and imaginary spaces and places we experience. Through the tool of re-imagination, a myriad of possibilities for understanding them are, in fact, disclosed from apparently – and allegedly univocal – identitycentered categorizations associated with, for instance, squares, buildings, cities, literary scenarios, or spatial concepts: by reassessing them alongside the mutable dynamics of human (and nonhuman) life, we can reclaim an array of figurations for better understanding the world(s) that we (human and nonhuman alike) inhabit. As the chapters have illustrated, reimagining spaces and places makes evident the transformative power of public participation in facing social issues and crises, and acknowledges the relevance of activist movements during place transformations as a way of responding to authoritarian regimes in different squares around the world. Reimagining spaces and places also works as a way of reflecting on the implications of the symbolic function national buildings have on Re-Imagining Spaces and Places, 165–166 Copyright © 2022 Stefano Rozzoni, Beitske Boonstra and Teresa Cutler-Broyles Published under exclusive licence by Emerald Publishing Limited doi:10.1108/978-1-80071-737-420221011

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culture and on the complex array of narratives that they implicitly or explicitly entail. Moreover, reimagining serves for reclaiming spatially exclusive venues of art and culture in order to create more inclusive spaces, which are crucial for local communities. Reimaging spaces and places not only regards ongoing material spatial transformations but it also applies to the act of rethinking and reevaluating past phenomena through a retrospective glance. Taking into account the development of the London commercial arena between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, for instance, is useful to acknowledge the paradoxical cohabitation of inclusivity and social equality alongside moral strictness and exclusivity in the Victorian era. This reimagining of spaces and places also allows for reframing the role of violent spaces in the works of past novelists, such as Thomas Hardy; this operation provides a more attentive consideration regarding the inextricable relationship between human beings and the environment. And while re-imagining is also connected to the opportunity of developing new understandings of longlasting cultural narratives – such as the country/city dichotomy – in more pluralistic ways, under the pressure of current environmental concerns, intimate stories of one’s family and community become valuable sites for inspiring the undertakings of more ethical behaviors toward nonhuman entities for the construction of sustainable futures. Other reflections on dissecting the potentials of the transforming and everchanging identity of spaces and places could have been shared in this collection; yet we hope that the glimpse offered by this book will still serve its purpose and inspire future studies on these, and an ever-expanding, interconnected series of topics.

Note 1. On nomadism: A conversation with Rosi Braidotti. (2018, July 24). Retrieved from http://politicalcritique.org/world/2018/nomadism-braidotti/. Accessed on August 31, 2021).

Index Adaptive capacity (AC), 9–10 Advisory Planning Committee (APC), 63–64 Al-Tahrir Square, 28 development projects and perspective of Tahrir, 41 goals and objectives, 28–29 identity, art, and Graffiti, 40–41 interrelation between people and place, 40 methodology, 29–30 public space into interactive place, 33–38 Revolution of January 25, 2011, 31–33 space and place, and relations, 28–29 Tahrir architectural and urban description, 30 Tahrir behavior, 38–41 Alberta, 145–147 American goldfinch (Spinus tristis), 152 American kestrel (Falco sparverius), 151 American robins (Turdus migratorius), 151 Analytic generalization, 12–15 Anthropocene, 122–123 Ataturk Cultural Center (AKM), 51–52 Bachelor button (Centaurea cyanus), 151–152 Bavdhan Area Sabha (BAS), 16–17 Bedouin tent and merging of culture and religion, 68–70 Berlin Wall, 49 Bharat Bhavan, 3, 86, 88 Bhopal, 86–88

Big Shop, The, 99 Bilbao, 81–82 Bilbao Effect, 82–83 Black-capped chickadees (Poecile atricapillus), 151–152 Bohemian waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus), 151 Boreal Chorus frogs (Pseudacris maculate), 148 Bumble bee (Bombus), 152 Cairo, 28, 35–36 Calgary Power, Ltd., 146 Canada, 145–147 Caragana (Caragana arborescens), 147–148 Care, 145 Causal loop diagram, 12, 14–15 Cedar waxwings (Bombycilla cedorum), 151 Celebration of Gardens, 159 Change, 143–144 Cheap Nature, 143–144 Cittagna, 123–124, 129, 131 ecocritical trajectory in pastoral study, 127–128 off-leash dog parks, 135–137 pastoral, 125–127 roof gardens and green-roof architecture, 131–135 City reimaging, 80 Commercial arena, 102 department stores and role in arena of commercial culture, 94–97 Harrods and Selfridges, 97–102 Metropolitan London and Retail Industry, 93–94 Communities in Bloom, 153, 155, 159

168

Index

Community, 144 Community Standards, 154 Companion species, 135 Continuous public participation, 19–22 Cooper’s hawk (Accipiter cooperii), 151 Corn Laws, 92 Cosmopolitanism, 95, 97, 102 Cotoneaster (Cotoneaster lucidus), 151 Country house poems, 133–134 Country/city dichotomy, 124–125, 127 Coyotes (Canis latrans), 148 Critical regionalism of Utzon’s KNA building and mosque, 71–73 Daily life, 46–48 Dandelions (Taraxacum officinale), 147–148 Deindustrialization, 80 Democracy, 46, 70–71 Department stores and role in arena of commercial culture, 94–97 Deterritorialization, 1 Ecocriticism, 122–124 Economic restructuring, 80 Egyptian revolution of 1919, 28 Environmental enhancement, 132 Environmental psychology, 29–30 Event-based public participation, 19–21 Feedback loops, 15–17 loop B1 exemplifies disasters, 17 loop R and B2 exemplify archetype “limits to growth”, 15–16 Flood resilience, 12, 19–20 Galatasaray Square, 53–55 Garden, 143, 147, 152 Gender, 92, 96 Geocriticism, 124 Gezi Park in Istanbul, 49 Globalization, 80 Goldenrod Crab spider (Misumena vatia), 152

Governance, 9 Great Exhibition of 1851, 92 Green-roof architecture, 131–135 Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, 80–82, 84, 86 Hardy, Thomas, 106 ameliorative endings, 114–115 destroying domestic, 110–112 in memory of Rosemarie Morgan, 106 narrative vs. pictorial violence, 112–114 novels of character and environment, 106–108 spatial aesthetics, 108–110 Harrods, 97–102 High Military Council (HMC), 32–33 House finch (Haemorhous mexicanus), 152 Human-nonhuman cohabitation, new examples of, 131–135 Identity, 2 Immigration, 50 Imprisonment, 3 of public space, 51–54 Info-media technology, 38 Information technology enhancing interactivity, 36–38 International Association for Public Participation (IAP2), 19 Ismailia Square, 28 Istanbul, 46 Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality (IMM), 55–56 Istanbul Palace of Culture. See Ataturk Cultural Center (AKM) Kuwait, 62 historical background on democracy and reflection in Kuwait’s history, 62–63

Index Kuwait National Assembly building (KNA building), 3, 62 additive architecture between flexibility and security, 67–68 competition and analysis of submitted proposals, 63–64 critical regionalism of Utzon’s KNA building and mosque, 71–73 historical background on democracy and reflection in Kuwait’s history, 62–63 Mosque, 70–71 symbolism, 68–70 symbols between architectural shapes, democracy and control, 64–67 Legislative Council, 63 Leopard frogs (Lithobates pipiens), 148 Manitoba maple (Acer negundo), 150–151 Merlin (Falco columbarius), 151 Metropolitan London and Retail Industry, 93–94 Moslem Brotherhood regime of 2012, 41 Mosquitoes (Culicidae), 148 Mountain ash (Sorbus), 150–151 Mubarak regime, 31, 36 Municipal Council, 63 Narrative violence, 112–114 Nation-building, 63, 70 National Democratic Party (NDP), 30 Nature, 122–123 Natureculture, 135 Negotium, 126–127 Nineteenth century, 106–107 Novels of character and environment, 106–108 Off-leash dog parks, 124–125, 135, 137 Otium, 126–127

169

Pastoral, 125–127 Personal experience, 38, 40 Pictorial violence, 112–114 Pine siskin (Spinus pinus), 152 Place, 28–29, 1–4, 165–166 attachment theories, 34–36 generation, 33–34 as nature and economy, 145–147 transformation, 29 Place-marketing, 80 Placemaking, 21–22 Planning Board, 64 Post-pastoral neologism, 123–125, 127–128 Power, 46, 92, 97, 102 “Power of 101”, The concept, 36 Progressive connections, 2 Project of Public Space theory (PPS theory), 36 Public, 46 Public participation, 8 analytic generalization and case study of Ramnadi River Corridor, 12–15 characteristics of resilience, 9, 12–13 continuous public participation, 19–22 event-based public participation, 19–21 feedback loops, 15–17 placemaking, 21–22 effect of public participation on resilience, 17–19 resilience, 8–9 Public space, 46 emancipating space, 55–56 imprisonment, 51–54 information technology enhancing interactivity, 36–38 into interactive place, 33–38 place attachment theories, 34–36 place generation and sense of place, 33–34 Tahrir Transformation Cycle, 36 as tool of/for democracy, 46–48 in twenty-first century, 49–50

170

Index

Public sphere, 46–47 Puerta del Sol in Madrid, 49 Quack grass (Elytrigia repens), 147–148 Ramnadi River Corridor, case study of, 12–15 Reclaiming art and cultural venues Bhopal and Bharat Bhavan, 86–88 Bilbao and Guggenheim Museum, 81–82 global trend, 82–84 Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, 84–86 Redundancy, 11 Reimagining, 2 Religion, 70–71 Representational space, 48 Representations of space, 48 Resilience, 2–3, 8–9 characteristics, 9, 12–13 new binary of public participation for, 20 effect of public participation on, 17–19 Restoration, 145 Revolution of January 25, 2011, 31–33 Al Tahrir during 2011, 32–33 emergence, 31–32 Rewilding, 145 Communities in Bloom, 153, 155, 159 garden, 147–152 paths, 159–160 sense of place, 145 Wabamun, Alberta, Canada, 145–147 wild garden, 152–153 Right to city, 48 Robustness, 11–12 Roof gardens, 124–125, 131, 135 Ruby-throated hummingbirds (Archilochus colubris), 152–153

Salvia (Lamiaceae), 152–153 “Saturday Mothers”, 54 Self-organization, 10–11 Selfridges, 97–102 Sense of place, 33–34, 145 Sharp shinned hawk (Accipiter striatus), 151 Shura Council, 63 Social-ecological system, 8, 11 Space. See also Public space, 1–4, 28–29, 46, 106, 165–166 emancipating, 55–56 Spatial turn, 1–2 Subjectivity, 165 Sunflower (Helianthus), 151–152 Sydney Opera House, 80 Symbolism, 68–70 Syntagma Square in Athens, 49 Tahrir Square, 3 Tahrir Transformation Cycle, 36 Taksim Gezi Park, 51–53 Taksim Mosque, 55 Terrorism, 50 Tourism, 80 Transformative dynamics, 3–4 Tripartite Organizing Framework, 34 Universal Provider, 97 Urbanism, 123 Utzon, Jørn, 63–64, 67, 73 Victorian ethos, 92 Violence, 106 Wabamun, 145–147 Warblers (Parulidae), 151 West End phenomenon, 95–96 White clover (Trifolium repens), 147–148 Whitewood Mine, 146 Wood frogs (Lithobates sylvaticus), 148 Zuccotti Park in New York, 49