5/21/2021

Dystopian Dread of the Brutalist Tower Block


Harnessing the Dystopian Dread of the Brutalist Tower Block

The real-life British buildings behind J.G. Ballard’s harrowing “High-Rise.”


Housing in postwar Britain was anything but romantic. The necessity of building, and quickly, shelter to replace the 100,000 houses destroyed by the Blitz in London alone, meant there was little room for romance. Coming to England as a teenager in 1946, after having been raised in the Shanghai International Settlement and spending two years in a Japanese internment camp, novelist J.G. Ballard described it as “a terribly shabby place.” It was, he said, “locked into the past and absolutely exhausted by the war.”

Swiss-born French architect Charles Edouard Jeanneret assumed name Le Corbusier, and was a proponent of utopian modernist architecture.
Swiss-born French architect Charles Edouard Jeanneret assumed name Le Corbusier, and was a proponent of utopian modernist architecture. FELIX MAN/GETTY IMAGES

In 1975, Ballard published a novel that focused on these London developments, marrying consumerist ideals of luxury housing with the social problems caused by crowded urban environments. High-Rise begins with 2,000 hopeful residents entering a 40-story apartment tower with smooth, modern design and high-end conveniences, feeling that they have bought into a life of domestic ease. However, the novel ends with the dwellings, halls, shops, and corridors being devastated by a brutalism that has less to do with architectural design than with the human malevolence it has somehow inspired.

The flats in Ballard’s dystopia are occupied not by social-housing tenants, as in the tower blocks that were dotted around London and other U.K. cities by this time, but by “professionals,” who are nonetheless grouped by of wealth. The lower nine floors are “home to the ‘proletariat’ of film technicians, air-hostesses and the like,” while the middle section, up to the 35th floor, is made up of “docile members of the professions—doctors, and lawyers, accountants and tax specialists.” The top five floors contain “the discreet oligarchy of minor tycoons and entrepreneurs, television actresses and careerist academics.” This last group has access to the high-speed lifts, carpeted stairs and “superior services.” It is not difficult to foretell how grievances might erupt in a building that is seen by its residents as both “a hanging paradise” and a “glorified tenement.”

Trellick Tower, seen here in 2011, has become a more desirable address.
Trellick Tower, seen here in 2011, has become a more desirable address. STEFANO RAVERA/ALAMY

Robert Laing, a physiology lecturer, is one of the main protagonists of the story, and has his first hostile encounter involving a dispute over the shared rubbish chute. As he negotiates the social strata of the building, he soon realizes that “people in high-rises tended not to care about tenants more than two floors below them.” Glitches in the building’s electricity supply and malfunctions in some of the lifts servicing the lower floors ignite an internal class war. Unpleasant confrontations in the public spaces rapidly escalate into physical violence. Like most of the residents, Laing becomes drawn in, rather than repelled, by the growing depravity as tenants raid each other’s apartments and are reduced to the “three obsessions” of security, food, and sex. Ballard describes clashes taken to surreal extremes, arguing that the building itself demanded this behavior, being “an architecture designed for war, on the unconscious level if no other.” The relentless narrative catalogues scene after scene of primal beings battling through apartments that have been torn apart and barricaded, where mounds of rubbish line every space, and where domestic animals are killed for food.

Although Ballard never made direct comparisons between the novel and the Brutalist towers that were going up during the time he was writing, those buildings certainly can be seen as structures that are better off with “man’s absence.” As pristine edifices they can appear pleasingly sculptural, but are less so when their balconies are dotted with the detritus of everyday life, and further degraded by poor maintenance, graffiti, and general neglect. Ballard’s environments of uniform luxury become dehumanizing, but rather than engendering mindless conformity, as in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, they result in “the regression of middle-class professionals into a state of barbarism.”

The partial collapse of the Ronan Point tower block in London following a fire in 1968 claimed three lives.
The partial collapse of the Ronan Point tower block in London following a fire in 1968 claimed three lives. PA IMAGES VIA GETTY IMAGES

The novel is often associated with Trellick Tower, a Brutalist 31-story block in Kensington designed by architect Ernő Goldfinger, which by the time Ballard was writing High-Rise had had a series of problems and a lot of bad press. Even before its opening, there were crises, both in its own construction and in other projects. In 1968, a fire in the Ronan Point tower block in London caused most of the 23 floors to collapse and the deaths of three people. The disaster fueled popular agitation against tower blocks, so that by the time Trellick Tower was completed in 1972, it seemed doomed to fail. The “drying rooms” that Goldfinger had designed in the ground-floor amenities block were vandalized before they were finished. These rooms were his attempt to convince the tenants not to air their laundry on the balconies (and so ruin the appearance of the tower), but they never functioned properly. Just before Christmas 1972, a fire hydrant on the 12th floor was tampered with, causing flooding through the elevator shafts, which meant that the block had no water, heat, or electricity during the holidays. The tower became so firmly linked with crime and social decay that some council-housing tenants lobbied not to be housed there. (It should be noted that at least some of Goldfinger’s assumptions were correct: In the 21st century, improvements in maintenance and security have made the Trellick Tower a desirable address.)

Another immediate provocation for the high-rise setting of the book probably came from the development of the London Docklands at about the time that Ballard was writing. Developers were attempting a regeneration of land among the old warehouses and abandoned shipping yards of a long-desolate waterfront district by introducing a scheme of high-rise towers for office and residential use. The first tower in this development was finished in the 1980s, but plans had already been underway for ambitious building projects in the disused ports since the early 1970s. Ballard specifically sites his fictional tower in a square mile “of abandoned dockland and ware-housing” in London, so the Docklands development provides some ambient background. But Ballard seems particularly keen to demonstrate that the luxury high-rise is as prone to criminality as its less fortunate relations in subsidized estates. In fact, the professional classes in the world of Ballard’s imagining become more deviant, relishing their descent into inhumanity as more buildings are finished and occupied around them. The five towers in the fictional development overlook an ornamental lake, which remains an empty concrete basin (a sign of promise unfulfilled), while the tenants of the first tower fall into savagery reminiscent of the adolescent boys in William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, an equally disturbing fable of human depravity.

Author J.G. Ballard outside his home in suburban Shepperton in 1973.
Author J.G. Ballard outside his home in suburban Shepperton in 1973. DAVID REED ARCHIVE/ALAMY

Ballard’s more extreme scenarios may be in the realm of science fiction or fantasy, but his underlying assertion that the vertical container for living could have a serious social and psychological impact are not so easily dismissed. His decision to focus on a luxury high-rise inhabited by the educated and the wealthy, rather than on the typical tower blocks built for social housing, was perhaps to make the point clearly that it was the design of the building, not the class of the residents, that brought about such a hellish downward spiral of human behavior. It is a telling irony that in Ballard’s technologically advanced high-rise, warfare is ignited largely by an everyday facilities failure: the breakdown of the lifts.

This story is excerpted and adapted from Phyllis Richardson’s House of Fiction: From Pemberley to Brideshead, Great British Houses in Literature and Life, published in May 2021 by Unbound.

5/20/2021

Radioactive Glassware

 

The Collectors Who Hunt Down Radioactive Glassware

Their tools are black lights and Geiger counters.

A small uranium-glass pitcher (left) and uranium glass plates (right).
A small uranium-glass pitcher (left) and uranium glass plates (right). COURTESY OF DAN AND LISA SAWYER/THE_GLOWING_GLASS_GUY_

IN JANUARY OF 2021, A New Jersey teenager brought a piece of an antique Fiestaware plate to a high-school science class. The student had received a Geiger counter, an instrument used to measure radiation, for Christmas, and wanted to do an experiment. When the plate registered as radioactive, someone at the school panicked and called in a hazmat team. The entire school was evacuated, and those in the nuclear science field were aghast.

But thousands of similarly radioactive plates and cups can be found in antique stores, thrift shops, and possibly your own kitchen cabinets. Radioactive antiques have a long history, as well as a certain glow that is highly desired by some collectors today.

The scientists dismayed by the events at Haddon Township High School were not upset that someone had brought in a radioactive plate. They thought school administrators had overreacted. When it comes to radiological hazards, says health physicist Phil Broughton, “There is a world of difference between detectable and dangerous.”

Uranium glass is also known as canary glass due to this common canary-yellow color.
Uranium glass is also known as canary glass due to this common canary-yellow color. COURTESY OF DAN AND LISA SAWYER/THE_GLOWING_GLASS_GUY_

Prior to World War II, and well before its potential for energy or weaponry was recognized, uranium was commonly used as a coloring agent in everything from plates, glasses, and punch bowls to vases, candlesticks, and beads. Uranium glass mosaics existed as early as 79 AD.

Although uranium glassware does register on a handheld Geiger counter, the radiation amounts are considered negligible and on par with radiation emitted from other everyday items such as smoke detectors and cell phones. In response to the school evacuation, 50 scientists signed a letter stating that Fiestaware “is among the most benign radioactive materials commonly found in the home” and applauding the student for his curiosity.

Collector Chelsea Lopez's butter dish, shown under a black light and without it.
Collector Chelsea Lopez’s butter dish, shown under a black light and without it. COURTESY OF CHELSEA LOPEZ/GIRL.MEETS.GLASS

Broughton says that people in his field hunt for uranium-containing Fiestaware all the time. “It’s pretty, and it’s a great check source,” he says. By that, he means that having a Fiestaware plate, a reliable source of radiation, is handy for making sure your radiation-detection meter is working. And It’s not just nuclear scientists that get excited about uranium glass. For some depression-era glassware collectors, the only color that matters is glow-in-the-dark.

Dan and Lisa Sawyers’ interest in radium glass began when they were scouring the shores of Lake Superior for fluorescent sodalites, unremarkable-looking gray rocks that contain minerals that glow under UV light. While combing the beach with a blacklight at night, they found a strange piece of sea glass that glowed under UV light. They were initially puzzled, until they discovered it was uranium glass. They’ve been hooked ever since.

The Sawyers began searching through thrift stores and antique shops for any items that fluoresced under a blacklight. Uranium glass items are readily available online, but they say it is more fun to find them “in the wild.” They’ve bought intricately carved serving dishes, kitschy souvenir cups, glowing marbles, and, one of their personal favorites, a bird-shaped salt dip. When I asked Dan if he gets weird looks when poking around shops with a black light, he says, “Yes, at times, but it depends where I shop.” Some in-the-know antique stores have blacklight displays. At another, Dan says, he shined a blacklight and watched the entire store light up. The owner immediately marked up those items’ prices.

Dan and Lisa Sawyer's cabinet of uranium glass.
Dan and Lisa Sawyer’s cabinet of uranium glass. COURTESY OF DAN AND LISA SAWYER/THE_GLOWING_GLASS_GUY_

Dan says places like the Salvation Army and Goodwill are gold mines—or uranium mines—for the stuff. “Kids are inheriting grandma’s old glassware and it goes straight to Goodwill.” If you have inherited any yellow or green antique glassware, there’s a good chance it glows.

Some collectors hunt uranium glass using Geiger counters. “The higher the radiation count, the more they like it,” says Dan. But he’s mainly into the glow. He’s also intrigued by how everything seemed to have its own dish in the early 1900s. He’s found a whipped-topping uranium glass dish with a matching spoon and a dish specifically for mayonnaise with a matching flat-bottomed spoon. “I can’t imagine what place settings would have looked like back then with all this green glass sitting out,” says Dan.

The Sawyers have accumulated more than 200 pieces of uranium glass, yet say their collection will probably wind up back in circulation at a thrift store someday. “What’s the chance one of our three kids will want this stuff shipped across the country?” says Dan. “Very doubtful.”

A uranium glass teacup and saucer under ultraviolet light.
A uranium glass teacup and saucer under ultraviolet light. PANTHER MEDIA GMBH / ALAMY

Uranium glass fell out of production in the United States during World War II when all uranium use was restricted to nuclear-weapons development. After the war, says Phil Broughton, it was no longer the cheapest green colorant available, and the amount of paperwork required to work with uranium in the United States dissuaded most glassworkers. He knows of uranium glassblowers in Germany, England, and New Zealand, but they mainly create glass art rather than glassware sets.

Increased awareness and alarm over the dangers of radiation, says Broughton, also gave rise to a radiation-safety principle called ALARA, an acronym meaning As Low As Reasonably Achievable. “Although the amount of uranium you’ll leach out of a uranium glass is pathetically small,” he says, “as a general rule, [you] don’t uptake radioactive material you don’t have to do.” In fact, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency recommends not eating or drinking out of uranium glassware at all.

“If people want to collect uranium glass and Fiestaware, that’s fine, it’s the radium-containing products that we’d really prefer people don’t collect,” says Broughton. Unlike uranium glass, these items are highly radioactive and harmful. As a health physicist, he feels it is part of his job to make sure the public understands the difference. As for uranium glass, he says, there’s much to appreciate. “It’s green, it looks awesome under UV light, and since it’s effectively crystal, really good artists can make some gorgeous works out of it.”

https://www.atlasobscura.com/

5/17/2021

Ouranopolis

 

Ouranopolis (Anne et Patrick Poirier): exploration d’une bibliothèque

J’ai découvert le travail d’Anne et Patrick Poirier en 1978, lors de la fascinante exposition Domus Aurea présentée au Centre Georges Pompidou. J’ai suivi ensuite les différentes étapes de leur archéologie de la mémoire, de leur cartographie des mondes intérieurs, avant de les rencontrer à l’automne 1995 à Los Angeles, où nous avons bénéficié d’une année de scholarship au Getty Research Institute, qui se trouvait encore situé dans un immeuble de Santa Monica, à deux pas du rivage du Pacifique.

Une grande amitié est née entre nous, nourrie par une commune passion pour l’archéologie et les bibliothèques, pour les lieux de mémoire et de savoir. Leur univers, leurs créations m’ont toujours donné beaucoup à réfléchir et à rêver, et j’ai assisté, pendant cette année californienne, à la conception et à la matérialisation d’Ouranopolis.

Comme l’expliquent Anne et Patrick Poirier, ils ont construit « cette Bibliothèque – Musée idéale, vaste bâtiment elliptique et volant, sorte d’ovni, capable de s’envoler vers d’autres mondes avec sa moisson de mémoire, au moindre signe de catastrophe. Ouranopolis se présente donc comme un objet très pur, suspendu dans l’espace. »

Connaissant ma passion pour l’antique bibliothèque du Musée d’Alexandrie, Anne et Patrick m’ont nommé bibliothécaire et gardien d’Ouranopolis. Tâche immense et fascinante qui m’a permis d’explorer cette archive aérienne de tous les savoirs, de toute la mémoire du monde, des arts et de la pensée, des rêves et de l’imaginaire.

Nous avons alors entamé une correspondance (par email) déployant le fil fictif de mes déambulations et de mon travail dans cette architecture, peut-être qu’un jour nous en ferons un livre à trois mains…

Comme le soulignent Anne et Patrick, « de l’extérieur, presque rien n’est visible. Mais le visiteur attentif remarquera de minuscules hublots tout autour de ce vaisseau spatial, et en collant son oeil à ces petits orifices munis de lentilles, il découvrira l’intérieur des quarante vastes salles qui composent ce Musée – Bibliothèque ».

Cette immense architecture dans laquelle j’ai eu l’occasion de circuler en rêve est organisée selon le principe des théâtres et des palais de la mémoire, découpés en une multitude de lieux, de cases, d’étagères, de salles, où l’on pouvait ranger les souvenirs et les idées, les images et les sons, les livres et les savoirs.

Dans certaines galeries, les fragments de statues de marbre venus d’une Antiquité oubliée s’alignent à perte de vue, attendant les archéologues qui sauront les assembler.

Bien des secteurs de cette immense Bibliothèque restent à explorer et dissimulent sans doute des trésors insoupçonnés: rouleaux de papyrus ou de soie, lamelles de bambou et tablettes d’argile, lourds codices de parchemin, correspondances manuscrites et livres imprimés, fichiers .epub et .pdf encore lisibles sur des écrans archaïques à la luminosité évanescente.

Ouranopolis, cette utopie de la mémoire, est pour moi, depuis 1995 l’un des archétypes des lieux de savoir:  immense Musée – Bibliothèque, elle est aussi une architecture mentale, une carte cognitive et sensible, une matérialisation du cerveau, à moins qu’il ne s’agisse de la mémoire d’un ordinateur défiant l’éternité.

Dans mon travail d’historien des bibliothèques, d’explorateur des mondes lettrés, Ouranopolis est une invitation à la réflexion, un mythe profond et sublime, une énigme à déchiffrer, proche à certains égards du monolithe noir de 2001 l’Odyssée de l’Espace.

Je rêve d’une édition numérique des Lieux de savoir dont l’interface reposerait sur cette architecture.

Images publiées avec l’accord d’Anne et Patrick Poirier

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