Concrete Decisions

The Aims, Ethics and Costs of Reconstruction

The reconstruction of historical sites is such a regular occurrence that we hardly blink when they are scaffolded and taped off for restoration. As a commonplace practise of cultural heritage management, we don’t often question of whether returning sites and monuments to their ‘former glory’ is indeed the best way to deal with them. 

Restoration challenges us to think collectively about what we value about the past, presenting the opportunity for us to visibly rewrite it in an architectural medium. The moments in history we are ashamed of or are too painful to remember can be edited out; the pieces of our story that we want to commemorate can be immortalised forever. It further forces us to weigh up the best way of telling that story architecturally, and at what cost.

A Mirror on Memory

Restoration directly reflects collective memory, what people choose to remember about the past. Whether in the context of a small communities, a cultural group or an entire country, even ancient history can become integrated into our memory once we claim it as our own, and we begin to recall the distant past as if we had lived it ourselves. Local communities therefore must be involved in the process of decided whether to reconstruct monuments and the histories they represent. 

Attitudes towards whether historic sites and buildings should be reconstructed vary, because there are more variables at play than one might think. Some are certain that the living are obligated to do more than only be caretakers of these remnants of the past. Beyond preservation, many support the idea that we should also reconstruct ancient sites to the best of our ability, with meticulous care and research enabling us to so as authentically and safely as possible. Reconstruction can incredibly positive, as it can aid us in envisioning the form that historic spaces took while they were in use, hundreds and thousands of years ago.

This is difficult to do only in our minds – try to imagine the Colosseum as it would have stood in the days of Ancient Rome, a complete cylinder missing the iconic slope that attests to the decay of time. Filling in the missing components of a structure can serve as the physical equivalent of rebuilding an experience of the past that might otherwise be lost. 

Historical sites and buildings offer a sense of understanding of the past far richer than what one might read in a book or hear in a lecture: the opportunity to engage with the past by to experiencing it. Ancient spaces restored to their original form make gleaming tourist attractions, not only thanks to the potential economic benefits for the local community, but more so thanks to the promise of continuity in future education. Although at times crowded and reminiscent of an amusement park, heritage sites can become places where new memories are made; where artists can practice their craft by capturing remains in charcoal or ink; where individuals can seek reflection in quiet moments; where students and scholars can use the breadcrumb trail of physical remains of the past to sketch an image of life before our time.

Why Reconstruct? 

It’s easy for academics, many concerned with maintaining the ‘purity’ and authenticity of a site, to peer down their noses at modern supplements to ancient remains disapprovingly. But the romanticism of a ruin to those who know what they’re looking at can appear simply confusing to the untrained eye. In other words, when deciding whether or not to reconstruct, greatest accessibility is a significant priority. 

The only way to prevent heritage from becoming exclusive and uninviting it to help people understand what they’re looking at so that they can connect to it. Reconstruction can be one of the most valuable mediums of learning and teaching, bridging the gap between the formally educated and those who hope to understand it a little better, even if just for a few hours. 

Restoring In Parts and Virtual History

Perhaps another solution to the puzzle of what to do with historical sites is partial restoration. Renewing a small fraction of a site, just enough to provide an example of what it would have looked like in its original state, is surely more cost effective than reconstructing a whole structure, and less invasive. The simple interference of stacking one or two columns upright again may make a world of a difference in a viewer’s imagination, transforming the rubble into something digestible, familiar, and concrete. 

Another answer may lie in the rapidly advancing world of technology, where the ruins can be digitally reconstructed without physically adding any modern material. Instead of painting ancient marble, for example, could we project colour onto it? Sites like Ancient Olympia are already employing Virtual Reality visual aids to guide viewers through a site, the digital imagery grand and complete in comparison the ruins that remain today. But this, too, can be problematic. If we visit a site only to view it through a lens or on a screen, what justifies making the voyage to be physically present on the site at all? What does virtual reality allow viewers to experience more than what they could watch on television?

“What would it have been like to a person who lived, trained, ate, drank, shopped, worshipped, socialised and spent time in the space? What elements would have spurred its visitors to feel something – awe, intimidation, peace, excitement, joy, fear, togetherness – and how can they be enhanced to connect visitors back to that inherently emotive experience? ”

The Spirit of Reconstruction

Whatever the method, in my view the aim of reconstruction should be to invoke the experience of the site in its day. What would it have been like to a person who lived, trained, ate, drank, shopped, worshipped, socialised and spent time in the space? What elements would have spurred its visitors to feel something – awe, intimidation, peace, excitement, joy, fear, togetherness – and how can they be enhanced to connect visitors back to that inherently emotive experience? Although it may remain perpetually unanswered, these are the questions that propel researchers and phenomenologists to keep digging, keep unearthing, keep rebuilding. 

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

The pitfalls of preserving historic sites didn’t cross my mind for a long time, simply because I was never disadvantaged by efforts to retain the remains the past.  In many cases, archaeological discoveries have resulted in entire homes and neighbourhoods being uplifted and cleared in order to access the treasures that lied beneath. Faced with the challenge of whether we should delve deeper the past or devote ourselves to the present, we are left with the question of what is more valuable: the narrative of a time before our own, or the ongoing story that is being written every day? Critics of reconstruction have posed that we should be more inclined to look to the future instead of latching onto the experiences of the past which may be long gone; that to avoid reconstruction altogether is to admit that the past is valuable partly because it can never be relived, despite our desperate efforts to preserve and recreate it. 

Allowing spaces to be repurposed, built atop of and continually occupied after we have extracted as much possible knowledge from a site may sometimes be the most ethical action we can take. Although a bold statement, especially coming from an archaeologist, the argument is quite logical. Despite the importance of the past, we cannot keep it alive at the expense of the present. Furthermore, those who have fallen second in priority to the enterprise of digging and reconstructing may be more likely to resent history than to celebrate it. 

‘T

o preserve through incorporation, tipping a hat to the past and welcoming the future all at once, knowing that those before us would have likely done just the same.’

There is something to be said about the choice to move forward, and about how perhaps it is what the people who claimed these spaces thousands of years ago would have wanted us to do. After all, that is precisely what they did themselves. They kept telling the stories of those before them and incorporated what was left behind – the rubble of earlier buildings often became the foundation of new ones. They embedded pieces of the past within their identities, memories, architecture and storytelling, keeping it alive in the present and future rather than fencing it off, isolated and untouched by new memories. 

In the same way that thousands of years ago, Classical Athenians chose to leave a hole in the city walls in order to keep the Bronze Age fortifications that stood before them visible, maybe we are better off finding ways to reclaim what survives of an earlier time by making it physically inseparable from the present world. 

There are cities all over the world that are brilliant at this, though often unintentionally. Parts of London, Athens, Matera and Rome are stratified with visible layers, monuments predating the very pavement they stand upon. They are completely woven into the fabric of the modern city. 

Perhaps this is the answer – to preserve through incorporation, tipping a hat to the past and welcoming the future all at once, knowing that those before us would have likely done just the same.

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