The Ecological Sensibility: Between Ruskin and Banham: Bart Decroos

The Ecological Sensibility:
Between Ruskin and Banham

Bart Decroos
Supervisor Prof. Lara Schrijver

Thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Architecture
Faculty of Design Sciences | Antwerp, 2023
Faculty of Design Sciences
The Ecological Sensibility:

Between Ruskin and
Banham
PhD thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Architecture at the

University of Antwerp to be defended by Bart Decroos.
Supervisor:
Prof. Lara Schrijver
Doctoral jury:
Prof. Greet De Block (chair)
Prof. Françoise Fromonot
Prof. Kristien Hens
Prof. Bruno Notteboom
Prof. Antoine Picon
Antwerp, 2023
Disclaimer
The author allows the consultation and copying of parts of this work for personal use. Further reproduction or
transmission in any form or by any means is strictly forbidden without the prior permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents 3
Acknowledgements 7
English Summary 9
Dutch Summary 11
Introduction: What We Talk about When We Talk about Ecology 13
Nature, Materiality, Technology 15
From Environmental Crisis to the Anthropocene and Back 20
From the Present to the Past and Back (Into the Future) 21
An Ecological Sensibility? 25
Towards An Ecological Sensibility? 27
The Posthuman 28
1.2.1 Nature 30
1.2.2 Materiality 32
1.2.3 Technology 32
Ecological Critiques 33
1.3.1 Deep Ecology 35
1.3.2 The Gaia Hypothesis 35
1.3.3 Ecofeminism 36
Re-affirming the Modern 38
1.4.1 Sustainable Development 38
1.4.2 Ecomodernism 39
Ruskin and Banham 40
Between Ruskin and Banham 43

John Ruskin 44
Reyner Banham 45
From Ruskin to Bauhaus (and Banham) 47
Between Ruskin and Banham 50
The Ecological Sensibility
Nature 53
Architecture and Nature 54
The Invention of Nature 56
3.2.1 Picturesque Misery 58
3.2.2 The Essence of Nature 63
3.2.3 Imitating Nature 66
The Disappearance of Nature 71
The Return of Nature 78
Forgetting Nature 86
Materiality 87
A Renewed Materialism 88
Regimes of Materiality 91
Material Vitalism 94
4.3.1 Vital Beauty 98
4.3.2 Between Ethics and Aesthetics 100
4.3.3 A Pathetic Fallacy? 102
Modern Material Truth 105
Hairy Materials 109
Technology 115
Between Thinking and Making 117
The Two Cultures 119
Purification 122
The Mechanical Sensibility 124
Architecture as Technology 129
Technological Textility 131
Against Efficiency 133
5.7.1 Sacrifice 135
5.7.2 Excess 137
A Technological Sacrifice? 139
Time 141
Temporal Collapse 142
Between Nostalgia and Futurism 144
4
Table of Contents
The Golden Stain of Time 147

The Immediate Future 149
Returning to the Future 154
Time Is (Not) a Circle 156
A Deep Present 159
Towards a Politics of Vitality 163

Nature, Materiality, Technology (Reprise) 165
A Politics of Vitality? 166
Bibliography 169
List of images 181
Biography 183
Publications 185
5
Acknowledgements
If ecology teaches us anything, it is that things never exist in a vacuum. Instead, they grow
and develop in relation to other things, people, and beings. Likewise, this dissertation is
the result of many direct and indirect interactions, with people I met long before I ever
thought of doing doctoral research and with people who guided me during the process.
Here, I would like to acknowledge and thank those people, because without them this
dissertation would have never existed in the first place.
First and foremost, I want to thank Lara Schrijver, formally my supervisor, but who
became so much more over these past years. It is because of her unwavering belief in me
from the very start that I was able to develop this project. Our many conversations over
the years about the research itself as well as about larger theoretical debates, mutual
interests, and personal preoccupations have not only helped me to grow as a researcher
and writer, but as a person as well.
I also want to thank the members of my doctoral committee, Greet De Block and Bruno
Notteboom, with whom I discussed my research extensively along the way and whose
insights often revealed things in my own writing I had not seen before. Additionally, I also
want to thank the other members of the doctoral jury, Françoise Fromonot, Kristien
Hens, and Antoine Picon. The discussions we had during the preliminary defense as well
as at other moments helped me to push the arguments of this dissertation further. I also
want to thank the Research Foundation – Flanders (FWO) for their confidence in me as
a researcher and granting me the PhD fellowship I needed to do my work.
Looking back, it is difficult to see where exactly the path began that led me here, but one
of the decisive moments would be my training at Sint-Lucas, where several teachers
encouraged me to look at architecture differently, and to reflect critically on the world and
myself. I want to explicitly thank Alice De Smet, teacher and mentor at the time, with
whom I have had critical conversations over the years. Her many book recommendations
– sometimes in the shape of unexpected postal deliveries at my door – led me on a journey
through literature and philosophy, for which I am immensely grateful.
After my graduation as an architect, I found a home at the Flanders Architecture Institute
for some years. There, I was given the space to further develop my views on contemporary
architecture through the many projects I developed with my colleagues. I want to thank
Bart Tritsmans, Kristýna De Schryver, Ilse Degerickx, and many others for the
wonderful collaborations we did. I also want to thank Christoph Grafe, director at the
time, who not only gave me the trust and confidence to take on certain projects I did not
know I was capable of, but whose enduring friendship over the years has helped me to
become the person I am today. Around the same time, I also started writing my first
articles for A+ Architecture in Belgium and it is thanks to the editorial guidance of Pieter
T’Jonck and Lisa De Visscher, that I first learned what it means to write architecture
criticism.
My views of what architecture can or should be were further expanded by my collaboration
with the Ghent-based office architecten de vylder vinck taillieu, where debates with Jan
De Vylder, Inge Vinck, and Jo Taillieu, as well as with many colleagues there, helped me
to see things differently. Of these colleagues I want to explicitly mention Max Kesteloot,
for our unexpected collaborations, both within and outside of the office, and Laura
Muyldermans, for our on-going conversation about all things architecture and life.
I also want to thank all of my colleagues at OASE Journal for Architecture, where I have
been an editor for several years now. The very first issue I worked on was OASE 100, for
which I collaborated with Véronique Patteeuw and whose guidance taught me what it
meant to be an editor. This experience only deepened over the years in collaboration with
the other editors and led to my involvement in OASE 112. The theme of this specific issue
– ‘Ecology & Aesthetics’ – closely relates to my doctoral research and indirectly sharpened
my own arguments. I want to thank my co-editors Kornelia Dimitrova, Sereh Mandias,
and Elsbeth Ronner for the many discussions we had during this process. I also want to
thank D’Laine Camp, managing editor of OASE, who edited the final text of this
dissertation and whose critical comments gave the argument a linguistic precision.
Doing doctoral research can be a lonely task sometimes, but I had the luck to work
alongside several other researchers, who shared the same struggle with me. The support
and understanding I found in their company proved to be invaluable, for which I would
like to explicitly thank Selin Geerinckx and Laura Meulemans, who accompanied me
during my first few years, and Ionas Sklavounos and Jelle Angillis, who were there during
these last few years. I also want to thank Eireen Schreurs for the insightful and
motivational talks along the way.
While many of these people have helped me to develop my arguments, my thinking, and
my writing, this dissertation would have never been possible in the first place without the
emotional support of my friends and family, who frequently checked in to see ‘if I was
still alive’. I want to thank all of them for their patience, their willingness to listen, and for
all of the comfort and distractions I sometimes desperately needed. I want to thank my
parents especially, who have supported me unconditionally throughout my entire life and
whose love has made it possible for me to arrive at this point today. Finally, I also want to
thank Ilke Cop, who burst into my life precisely at the time I was struggling the hardest to
finalize this dissertation. Her loving presence and intellectual insights were crucial to bring
this project to a good end.
Thank you.
8
English Summary
Contemporary architecture seems to be increasingly described as sustainable, circular, re-

usable, environmentally friendly or carbon hostile, as being recycled, upcycled,
downcycled and recycled once more, and coloured in shades of green no one even knew
existed. Indeed, most of the words we use to describe architecture today seem to have
shifted in a new direction – in the direction of ‘ecology’. Yet, it is not always clear what
such ecological notions in architecture mean. The above terms are often used
interchangeably, and even in ways that lead to opposite outcomes.
Drawing from contemporary posthuman theory, this dissertation proposes the notion of
an ‘ecological sensibility’ to describe this general re-orientation of architectural discourse
today. The roots of this developing sensibility are traced back to two defining moments in
Western modern history: the Romantic response to industrialization and scientific
progress in the nineteenth century, and the rise of environmentalism and techno-
optimism in the second half of the twentieth century. To do so, it takes the work of John
Ruskin (1819-1900) and Reyner Banham (1922-1988) to navigate the theoretical notions
of nature, materiality and technology, around which this ecological sensibility seems to
revolve.
As such, this dissertation demonstrates two things. On the one hand, while ecological
debates in architecture might appear as something new, the themes of nature, materiality,
and technology around which they revolve run deep in modern architectural history. Yet,
on the other hand, it also demonstrates how the way we understand these notions does
seem to be changing. Throughout much of modernity, these themes have been understood
within strict binary oppositions: in short, nature in opposition to the human, the material
in opposition to the immaterial, and technology in opposition to the organic.
Today, however, these binary oppositions are actively being questioned and approached
from more hybrid perspectives. Tracing these notions throughout modern architecture
history, especially in the work of Ruskin and Banham, it becomes clear that the modern
binaries through which they were framed were perhaps always already untenable, and that
things have always been entangled with each other. The questions with which Ruskin and
Banham struggled as well as their peers, remind us of the impossibility of holding on to
the modern insistence on such strict binaries. Instead, a contemporary ecological
sensibility revolves around the hybridization of these themes. What emerges from this is a
politics of vitality that might illuminate our contemporary struggle with the environmental
crisis.
Dutch Summary
Hedendaagse architectuur lijkt steeds vaker beschreven te worden als duurzaam, circulair,
herbruikbaar, milieuvriendelijk of koolstofneutraal, als gerecycled, geupcycled,
gedowncycled en nog eens gerecycled, en gekleurd in groentinten waarvan niemand het
bestaan vermoedde. De meeste woorden die we tegenwoordig gebruiken om architectuur
te beschrijven lijken inderdaad in een nieuwe richting te zijn verschoven - in de richting
van 'ecologie'. Toch is het niet altijd duidelijk wat dergelijke ecologische begrippen in de
architectuur betekenen. Bovenstaande termen worden vaak door elkaar gebruikt, en zelfs
op manieren die tot tegengestelde uitkomsten leiden.
Dit proefschrift, dat put uit hedendaagse posthumanistische theorie, stelt de notie van een
‘ecologische sensibiliteit’ voor om deze algemene heroriëntatie van het hedendaagse
architectuurdiscours te beschrijven. De wortels van deze zich ontwikkelende sensibiliteit
gaan terug tot twee bepalende momenten in de moderne westerse geschiedenis: de
romantische reactie op de industrialisatie en wetenschappelijke vooruitgang in de
negentiende eeuw en de opkomst van vele milieubewegingen en een techno-optimisme in
de tweede helft van de twintigste eeuw. Hiervoor wordt het werk van John Ruskin (1819-
1900) en Reyner Banham (1922-1988) gebruikt om de theoretische noties van natuur,
materialiteit en technologie te navigeren, waar deze ecologische sensibiliteit om lijkt te
draaien.
Zodoende demonstreert dit proefschrift twee dingen. Aan de ene kant lijken ecologische
debatten in de architectuur misschien iets nieuws, maar de thema's natuur, materialiteit
en technologie waar ze om draaien zijn diep geworteld in de moderne
architectuurgeschiedenis. Aan de andere kant laat het wel zien hoe de manier waarop we
deze begrippen begrijpen lijkt te veranderen. Gedurende een groot deel van de moderniteit
werden deze thema's begrepen binnen strikte binaire tegenstellingen: kort gezegd, de
natuur tegenover de mens, het materiële tegenover het immateriële en technologie
tegenover het organische.
Vandaag worden deze binaire tegenstellingen echter actief in twijfel getrokken en vanuit
meer hybride perspectieven benaderd. Als we deze noties doorheen de moderne
architectuurgeschiedenis volgen, vooral in het werk van Ruskin en Banham, wordt
duidelijk dat de moderne tegenstellingen waarbinnen ze werden gekaderd misschien altijd
al onhoudbaar waren en dat de dingen altijd al met elkaar verstrengeld zijn geweest. De
vragen waarmee zowel Ruskin en Banham als hun tijdgenoten worstelden, herinneren ons
aan de onmogelijkheid om vast te houden aan dergelijke moderne tegenstellingen. In
plaats daarvan draait een hedendaagse ecologische sensibiliteit om de vermenging van
deze thema's. Wat hieruit naar voren komt is een zogenaamde politiek van vitaliteit die
onze hedendaagse strijd met de milieucrisis zou kunnen verhelderen.
12
What We Talk about When We
Introduction:
Talk about Ecology
No matter which architecture magazine you open nowadays, or which architecture

exhibition you visit, which lecture you attend, or anyplace else where contemporary
architecture is debated, it seems like every other project is described as sustainable,
circular, reusable, environmentally friendly or carbon hostile, as being recycled, upcycled,
downcycled and recycled yet again, and coloured in shades of green no one even knew
existed. Indeed, the way we talk about architecture today, the words we use and the
concepts we refer to for the most part seem to have shifted in recent years in a new
direction, which I will call, for now, that of ‘ecology’. While this term seems to have been
inflated with all kinds of meanings and has become a container term for all kinds of
agendas, in its broadest sense it still serves as an arrow, a direction, a suggestion of what
kind of questions and issues have become central to much of recent discourse in
contemporary architecture.
To illustrate this, let us look at some recent architecture journals, the medium that often
captures clearly what is current at a given moment. For example, in the anglophone sphere:
in the Fall of 2019, the 47th issue of the American journal Log was titled ‘Overcoming
Carbon Form’, which claims to ‘[reconceive] architecture’s role in climate change, away
from sustainability and solutionism and toward architecture’s formal complicity and
potential agency in addressing the climate crisis’.1 Or take issue 1459 of the long-standing
British journal The Architectural Review, published in October 2022 and simply titled
‘Energy’, which proposes that ‘recognising that architecture is formed from the fuel we
extract to create and sustain it could be a transformative way of thinking about our built
environment’.2 From this starting point, the issue ‘seeks to make visible the often obscured
links between buildings and the energy sources they are built from, and around’. In the
German-speaking world, something similar can be seen, such as the summer issue of
Detail in 2022, titled ‘Grüne Städte’ or ‘Urban Green’, which focused on so-called ‘green
cities’, featuring projects like Stefano Boeri’s tree-covered ‘Trudo Tower’ in Eindhoven or
Sou Fujimoto’s hotel extension in Maebashi, Japan, completely covered in grasses, plants
and trees.3 The 250th issue of the German journal ARCH+, published in December 2022,
was titled ‘The Great Repair’ and focused on practices of reparation, as a counterpoint to
‘capitalist modernity, with its emphasis on innovation, growth and progress, its economic
1
‘Overcoming Carbon Form’, Log 47 (2019).
2
‘Energy’, Architectural Review 1495 (2022).
3
‘Grüne Städte’, DETAIL (June/August 2022).
system based on consumption, use and waste, and the ruthless exploitation of natural
resources that goes with it, [which] has enshrined a throwaway mentality in our minds:
everything is replaceable’.4 In the francophone sphere, there is the important journal
l’Architecture d’aujourd’hui, of which the 453rd issue ‘Construire Local’, published in
February 2023, asked the question of what it means to ‘build local . . . at a time of
widespread shortage of resources and building materials’. The editors asked this question
‘because it is understood: to reduce a carbon footprint, reduce greenhouse gas emissions,
in short fight against global warming, it is necessary to build as close as possible to selected
resources, within the framework of short circuits’.5 Or, closer to home, there is also the
112th issue of the Dutch-English journal OASE, dedicated to ‘Ecology & Aesthetics’, which
argues that ‘in these first decades of the twenty-first century, architecture’s complicity in
the environmental crisis has become difficult to further ignore, and as cultural production,
the question whether architecture can and should contribute to the need for what might
be called an “ecological culture” is becoming increasingly present as well’.6 These are but
a few examples from recent years, which indeed demonstrate the increased attention to
ecological questions, and in which words such as ‘climate change’ and ‘the climate crisis’,
and a need for ‘sustainability’, ‘green architecture’, ‘ecological practices’, ‘circular
economies’, ‘carbon-neutrality’ and so on proliferate. Moreover, these editorials are often
driven by a rhetoric of urgency, suggesting that ecological questions offer a chance for
architecture to fundamentally renew itself, of which it is assumed that this is also highly
necessary. In short, and at the risk of slightly exaggerating things, it seems that architecture
in the twenty-first century will have to be ecological, or it will not be architecture.
The problem, however, is that it is not always clear what all of these ecological notions,
concepts, questions or issues mean. The proliferation of a lot of technical terms often
seems more confusing than illuminating and a lot of these terms pop up in different
contexts with different uses and outcomes. This results in a certain ‘murkiness’ when it
comes to the topic of ecology, as noted, for example, by architecture theorist Peg Rawes in
the introduction to her Relational Architectural Ecologies.7 More importantly, perhaps,
while the language with which such ecological issues are described and discussed suffers
from a certain sense of confused complexity, the way such discourse translates into the
material practices and projects of contemporary architecture often seems even more
unclear, or, at least seems to produce widely diverging results. Let us have a look at such
projects, too, and for the purpose of this manuscript, let us look at three very different
examples that seem to advance the three major themes around which, I argue, much
ecological questions revolve: the use of natural elements in the work of Stefano Boeri, the
4
‘The Great Repair’, ARCH+ 250 (2022).
5
‘Construire Local’, L’Architecture d’aujourd’hui 453 (2023).
6
Bart Decroos et al., ‘Ecology & Aesthetics’, OASE Journal for Architecture 112 (2022): 3.
7
Peg Rawes, ‘Introduction’, in Relational Architectural Ecologies: Architecture, Nature and Subjectivity, ed.
Peg Rawes (London: Routledge, 2013), 1–16.
14
Introduction: What We Talk about When We Talk about Ecology
importance of materiality in the practice of BC Architects & Materials, and the reliance on
technology in the projects of Bjarke Ingels Group (BIG).
Nature, Materiality, Technology

First, the widely published Bosco Verticale project in Milan, Italy, by Italian architect
Stefano Boeri, completed in 2014. In recent years, Boeri has made a name with his ‘vertical
forests’, of which the Bosco Verticale was the pilot project (Figure 1). The idea is rather
simple: a seemingly conventional tower complex with housing, offices and retail space, but
covered in greenery, and more precisely, covered with actual trees. The claim Boeri makes
is that in light of the environmental crisis, society, and thus architecture, too, needs to
reconnect with nature – which is a common idea in environmentalist circles.8 The modern
division between spaces of culture and spaces of nature – both ideological and physical –
needs to be undone and we, as human beings, need to recognize our place within the so-
called ‘web of life’ again. The Bosco Verticale enacts such thinking in quite a literal way:
the building is presented as both architecture and nature, building and forest, at the same
time. As Boeri states: ‘The Vertical Forest is the prototype building for a new format of
architectural biodiversity which focuses not only on human beings but also on the
relationship between humans and other living species.’9 Even stronger, human beings
come second, as the architect claims the project is a ‘home for trees that also houses
humans and birds’.10 Much can be said about the validity of these claims: that the presence
of the trees seems more decorative than ecological, since a collection of potted plants does
not make for an actual forest, which needs a much higher level of biodiversity, one that is
lacking here; or that it is not architecture (and thus humankind) that is projected back into
nature, but rather the opposite, that nature is appropriated into an architectural structure,
suggesting that human beings are still in control of where and how nature is allowed to be
– a very modern position, still. Yet, aside from such criticisms, the project and its
popularity do demonstrate an increased sensitivity to the question of nature and a desire
to reconnect with what we seem to have lost and are increasingly losing in real time. In a
generous reading, the Bosco Verticale can be seen as an honest attempt to – although at
perhaps too small a scale to make an actual difference beyond the symbolic – restore some
kind of connection between culture and nature, while a more critical reading might
interpret the project as another example of greenwashing, in which nothing fundamentally
8
See for example Jaboury Ghazoul, Ecology: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2020).
9
‘Vertical Forest | Milan’, Stefano Boeri Architetti (blog), accessed 14 August 2023,
https://www.stefanoboeriarchitetti.net/en/project/vertical-forest/.
10
‘Vertical Forest | Milan’.
15
changes but the veneer of ecological discourse and aesthetics serves as a cover to build yet
another development project.
Figure 1: Bosco Verticale, Milan, Italy, Stefano Boeri Architetti, completed in 2014 (photography by Paolo
Rosselli).
A different approach to ecological questions can be found in the practice of the Belgium-
based BC Architects & Studies, of which the name already suggests a more expanded
approach to architecture. Beyond the mere design and construction of buildings, BC has
also set up a practice of material recycling and production, in which they use the waste of
other construction sites, such as the earth that is often dug up and discarded as waste, to
make rammed earth bricks, blocks and entire constructions. In the Fort V project, for
example, an educational centre inside a former warehouse, built in 2015 in Edegem,
Belgium, BC built a simple box with arched windows out of rammed earth blocks made of
local clay, finished with ‘hempcrete’ for insulation (Figure 2). The 19,000 blocks were
produced in a three-week workshop with volunteers, while the hempcrete was installed
during another workshop of two weeks. While the design is a rather modest but adequate
proposal, it is clear that for BC, the process of building is as important as the final result,
if not more. As the architects state: ‘[Fort V] reflects this educative and ecological approach
16
through a radically sustainable and participative architecture.’11 While the building serves
its function, ecological questions are addressed in the practice of making it, which is not
only about questioning the usual processes of material extraction and production, but also
about the people involved, the collaboration and education with local participants,
architects and non-architects, to recover a sense of craftsmanship and knowledge, and to
educate themselves and others in doing so.
Figure 2: Fort V, Edeghem, Belgium, BC Architects & Studies, completed in 2018 (photography by Thomas
Noceto).
By contrast, finally, one of the major international firms that has also been advancing an
explicit ecological agenda is the Danish Bjarke Ingels Group, known as BIG. In 2019, BIG
completed their CopenHill Energy Plant and Urban Recreation Center in Copenhagen,
which has two functions: on the one hand, it is a waste incinerator that produces electricity,
on the other, the roof features a ski slope – an unexpected combination, indeed (Figure 3).
The project exemplifies what Ingels once described in a TED talk in 2011 as ‘hedonistic
sustainability’, which he differentiates from other ecological approaches that he finds too
11
‘Fort V | Bc-As’, accessed 14 August 2023, https://bc-as.org/projects/fort-v.
17
moralizing.12 Instead, as he also stated in an interview in 2018, sustainable architecture

should be:
. . . ecologically but also economically profitable, and where the outcome doesn’t
actually force people to alter their lifestyle to have a better conscience. They can
live exactly the way they want, or even better because the world and the city are
designed in such a way that they can actually do so.13
To achieve this, Ingels relies on technological solutions, meaning that he – and other firms
like BIG – look at environmental problems as technical ones, to be fixed with technology,
while our ways of living and inhabiting the planet are free to continue as they are now. The
combination of an energy plant and a ski slope is meant to demonstrate how ‘fun’
sustainability can be. Much can – and will, later on – be said about this type of approach
to environmental problems, but a brief look at the office of BIG as a whole, which
collaborates mainly with billionaire investors, gentrifying real estate developers and
politicians like Jair Bolsonaro, already suggests that such an approach mostly favours the
vested interests of the status quo, while the problems we are facing are largely structural
and might require challenging that status quo – something from which such ‘fun’
architecture only detracts. Aside from such a critical reading, however, the project
demonstrates how ecological questions are often still understood as one of many technical
aspects architecture needs to consider, and to be solved by experts and technological
solutions, rather than as a central design concern.
In short, while the above examples all claim to have some sort of ecological agenda, what
is important here is how they demonstrate the different directions such agendas go in. In
the case of the Bosco Verticale, ecological concerns translate into an aesthetic staging of
nature, and of symbolically suggesting a way to reconnect with it. In the case of BC
Architects & Studies, ecological concerns are instead understood as questions of material
extraction and production, as well as a (re)discovery of craft knowledge. And in the case
of BIG, ecological concerns are addressed as technical problems, for which solutions can
be invented. In summarizing them this way, what also becomes clear is how different
responses to ecological questions have their roots in much older, historical debates: the
Bosco Verticale seemingly evokes a Romantic worldview in which human beings and
nature are reconnected, a sentiment that dates back to at least the late eighteenth century
in response to industrialization. In the case of BC Architects & Studies, there is a renewed
interest in low-tech craftsmanship and local production, echoing nineteenth-century
debates on the role of the artisan within increasingly industrialized societies. And, by
12
TEDxEastSalon - Bjarke Ingels - Hedonistic Sustainability, 2011, accessed 14 August 2023,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogXT_CI7KRU.
13
Eliza Jordan, ‘Bjarke Ingels on Achieving Sustainability Through Info-Driven Design’, Whitewall, 18 July
2018, accessed 14 August 2023, https://whitewall.art/design/bjarke-ingels-achieving-sustainability-info-
driven-design.
18
contrast, BIG instead seems to reaffirm a very modern agenda, which has become rather
problematic in recent years, given its contemporary association with a perhaps naïve or all
too optimistic trust in industry and progress. As such, these examples are of course not
chosen at random: they are here to illustrate the overall idea behind this manuscript. The
way architecture today seems to address ecological questions largely relies on these older
historical debates, which are often not made explicit or even acknowledged. In what
follows, I will argue that there are three main themes that run through ecological questions
today and which the above examples illustrate, namely the themes of nature, materiality
and technology, to which I will return again and again throughout this manuscript. And
the way these themes are addressed relies heavily on inherited ideas about them, which are
deeply embedded in modern architecture history. Moreover, as I will argue in the next
chapter, these three themes are often framed within binary oppositions: whether
architecture does or does not belong to nature, whether materials are passive objects or
active agents in processes of construction, and whether technology is or is not opposed to
craftsmanship. But before diving into these three themes more deeply in the next chapter,
I first need to briefly address the terminology that will be used throughout this manuscript
and clarify a little more what we talk about when we talk about ecology.
Figure 3: CopenHill Energy Plant and Urban Recreation Center, Copenhagen, Denmark, Bjarke Ingels
Group, completed in 2019 (photography by Dragoer Luftfoto).
19
From Environmental Crisis to the Anthropocene and

Back
As the reader may have noticed, in the above text I have mostly used the term
‘environmental crisis’, in contrast to ‘ecological crisis’, ‘global warming’, ‘climate change’,
‘Climate Emergency’, ‘Sixth Mass Extinction Event’, ‘Anthropocene’ and so on. All of these
terms proliferate in debates on the environmental crisis today, and often without much
nuance or deliberation. Each of these terms has its own uses and histories and thus has
different implications and meanings. The reason why I have used, and will continue to use,
the term ‘environmental crisis’ is because it seems to me to describe our current situation
in the broadest way possible, indicating what is at stake. Let me briefly unpack most of
these terms to be more precise.
The term ‘environmental crisis’ echoes the rise of environmentalist movements from the
1960s and 1970s, a major moment in the development of a widespread consciousness of
problems that had already been happening for a long time.14 In common usage, it describes
the fact that there is something called the ‘environment’, something out there, beyond
human society, that has reached a state of crisis, a turning point, in the sense that things
are shifting and have become unstable, with major consequences for both human and non-
human beings.15 At the time, in the 1960s and 1970s, the focus largely lay on multiple
separate environmental crises, which were unfolding locally. But now it is important to
realize that these are not separate events, but part of a broader problem, and can be seen
as symptoms of how the environment in general – that is, the global or planetary
environment as such – is changing in all kinds of ways. By the 2000s, in large part due to
American presidential candidate Al Gore and American director Davis Guggenheim’s
popular documentary An Inconvenient Truth, the focus in public discourse seemed to have
shifted mostly towards the problem of global warming.16 While oceanic acidification, soil
degradation, air pollution, plummeting insect populations and so on also became more
acute, the problem of global warming became the central focus, as it acts as a multiplier on
all of these other problems. Due to political manoeuvring and PR stunts, both well-
intended and maliciously propagated, the term ‘global warming’ at some point seemed to
have morphed to some extent into ‘climate change’, which, as a term, seems to suggest a
less acute problem, as if the planet isn’t necessarily warming and thus threatening most
life, but merely ‘changing’, suggesting that life on this planet merely needs to change and
14
See for example Ghazoul, Ecology: A Very Short Introduction.
15
As the English-American philosopher Timothy Morton remarks, the word ‘environment’ is a slippery
one, especially today: ‘Environment, the upgrade of Nature, is fraught with difficulty. This is ironic,
since what we often call the environment is being changed, degraded, and eroded (and destroyed) by
global forces of industry and capitalism. Just when we need to know what it is, it's disappearing.’ See
Timothy Morton, The Ecological Thought (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 10.
16
An Inconvenient Truth (Paramount Classics, 2006).
20
adapt as well. Another shift has taken place in public discourse in recent years, in which
the term ‘climate change’ is again receiving a more urgent implication, namely in the
reformulation of the ‘Climate Emergency’ – capitalized. This term was mostly popularized
in public debates by activist groups such as Extinction Rebellion, to signal the urgent
nature of the problem while also suggesting a political approach: to treat it as an emergency
situation, similar to the reorganization of societies in times of war.17 However, the term
still foregrounds, or even at times reduces, the problem to a question of the climate. While
we might technically still be able to reduce carbon emissions and avoid the warming or
changing of the global climate to some extent, other problems like the ones mentioned
above would still remain. Aside from these popular terms, there are also more technical
and academic terms found in current debates, such as the ‘Sixth Mass Extinction Event’,
which names the widespread disappearance of all kinds of lifeforms from a geological
perspective, compared to the five other such events in the history of this planet.18 The term
‘Anthropocene’ also refers to a geological perspective on the current situation and,
paradoxically, foregrounds human impact on the geological record while it is often used
in contexts where anthropocentrism is questioned and criticized – something I will return
to in the next chapter.19 One last remark relates to the – what seems to me – erroneous use
of ‘ecological crisis’. If we understand ‘ecology’ as a word to refer to the interconnectedness
of things with other things – as it was originally coined by zoologist Ernst Haeckl in 1866
in a biological sense – then it makes little sense to speak of an ecological crisis, as if these
connections are in danger, on the contrary.20 It is not the ecological relations that are in
crisis, but what we call the environment, precisely because we are connected, and thus, in
turn, human societies are in crisis as well. And while we are living in an environmental
crisis, we need to address ecological questions, which means that we need to think about
the inevitable connections between human actions and the world we inhabit.
From the Present to the Past and Back (Into the Future)
The present manuscript is the result of five years of research. I started this research in
October 2018, with the observation that contemporary ecological debates in architecture
were in need of a more thorough investigation. At the time – and to some extent this is
still the case – ecological questions were seen as something new to the field, even external
to it, while at the same time they were mostly framed in a technocratic perspective.21 In
17
Extinction Rebellion, This Is Not a Drill: An Extinction Rebellion Handbook (London: Penguin, 2019).
18
Elizabeth Kolbert, The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History (New York: Henry Holt, 2015).
19
Paul J. Crutzen and Eugene F. Stoermer, ‘The “Anthropocene”’, Global Change Newsletter 41 (2000): 17–
18.
20
Timothy Morton, Dark Ecology: For a Logic of Future Coexistence (New York: Columbia University
Press, 2016).
21
See, for example, Peg Rawes, ‘Introduction’.
21
architectural practice, this mostly meant and still means that ecological questions are
reduced to technological problems, to be solved by engineers rather than being addressed
as a fundamental part of the design question. In architecture discourse, too, ecological
questions are reduced to matters of energy and materials, in the quantitative sense. Yet, I
had a hunch that such questions needed a more thorough investigation, including from a
cultural perspective.
The basic idea of my research was to do two things: on the one hand, it seemed necessary
to expand contemporary ecological debates in architecture by connecting them to other
discourses, outside of the field of architecture, most notably to what I will describe in the
next chapter as posthuman discourses. In doing so, it became possible to reframe
ecological issues as broader cultural questions, rather than mere technical problems. The
result of this reframing was the appearance of three dominant themes around which
ecological debates seem to revolve: nature, materiality and technology. On the other hand,
it also seemed necessary to trace the roots of these contemporary ecological questions
throughout modern architecture history and to demonstrate how they have long-standing
precedents of debate. This made it possible to demonstrate how much of the contemporary
debate revolves around inherited ideas on the themes of nature, materiality and
technology, which are often not acknowledged. In short, the research project consisted of
a widening and a deepening – a widening of the perspective towards posthuman discourses
and a deepening of the perspective to include architecture’s own disciplinary history. As a
result, we might look with new eyes at the questions facing us today, which prompt us to
reconsider much of our assumptions with which we still act in the world.
The manuscript has been written in the same way as the research was conducted over these
past five years.22 This can be described as a circular movement: from the present, to the
past, and back again to today, even into the future. Specifically, this means that, as we have
seen above, the manuscript started out with an overview of the present situation in
contemporary architectural practice and discourse. To get a grasp on the murkiness of this
situation, a broader perspective is needed, which will be addressed in Chapter 1, titled ‘An
Ecological Sensibility’. There, I will argue that the present confusion is characteristic of
an emerging cultural sensibility. Additionally, I will expand the perspective towards so-
called posthuman discourses, which help in defining the already mentioned, dominant
themes around which this ecological sensibility revolves, namely, nature, materiality and
technology. What is this thing we call nature? How do we deal with material relations
between human beings and such nature? And what is the role of technology, which has
22
Over the years, my research into these questions has been published in various books and journals. See,
for example, Bart Decroos and Lara Schrijver, ‘“Give Me Some Wiggle Room”: How to Feel at Home in
the Gap Between Design, Building and Decay’, in Spaces of Tolerance, ed. Igea Troiani and Suzanne
Ewing (London: Routledge, 2021), 45–62. I also edited an issue of OASE dedicated to these questions,
see Bart Decroos et al., OASE Journal for Architecture 112 (Rotterdam: OASE foundation, 2022). At the
end of this manuscript, a full list of my publications can be found.
22
both the potential for solutions and is the source of many problems at the same time?
These questions often seem to be caught up in historically inherited binaries: nature is
commonly defined as that which is not human, outside of us; materiality is often
considered as inert and passive, as opposed to the active agency of humans; and
technology, as conceived within the (over-)industrialized conditions of contemporary
societies, seems to be opposed to craftsmanship. From this broader perspective, I will then
look back to the history of architecture, specifically the work of Ruskin and Banham. As I
will argue in Chapter 2, ‘Between Ruskin and Banham’, these two figures can be
understood as a historical unit, centred on the question of industrialization and modernity,
but who take opposing views on the matter, largely exemplifying the binaries I just
mentioned. In Chapters 3, 4 and 5, I will then stage a conceptual dialogue between Ruskin
and Banham, by conducting a close reading of their writings, tracing the themes of
‘Nature’, ‘Materiality’, and ‘Technology’. Specifically, I will focus on how their
arguments, written in different historical contexts from today, nonetheless prefigure
contemporary debates on ecology, by referring to contemporary authors, most notably
Timothy Morton, Jane Bennett and Bruno Latour, as well as a whole range of others, where
necessary. The ambition here is twofold: on the one hand, to plausibly argue how
contemporary debates often rehash historical arguments, which need to be recognized to
move beyond our current situation. On the other hand, in the writings of Ruskin and
Banham I will also identify moments where the modern binaries mentioned collapse,
which is where contemporary authors are brought in, to further conceptualize these
collapsing binaries. In Chapter 6 on ‘Time’, then, I will connect these three themes with
the dimension of time and demonstrate what is fundamentally at stake in the emergence
of an ecological sensibility: a shift in the temporal perception of the world we live in now,
as opposed to the linear time of modernity. Here, the themes of nature, materiality and
technology appear not as separate categories, but as different manifestations of this
temporal dimension. Finally, in Chapter 7, I will formulate some concluding thoughts on
a ‘Politics of Vitality’, to promote further debate on how to act according to this emerging
ecological sensibility, both in architecture and in general.
While this research draws from a whole range of sources, from the theory and history of
architecture as well as from posthuman discourses found in philosophy and sociology, it
is nonetheless a work of architecture theory, first and foremost. Yet, as is often the case in
architecture, things inevitably get entangled with other things. As such, architecture here
appears as a privileged field to investigate things that are happening in our contemporary
society at large. Moreover, while I borrow from other disciplines such as philosophy and
sociology to make an argument in architecture theory, the findings might be relevant to
those other fields, too. And finally, while the argument largely pertains to theory, it also
has consequences for architecture criticism: it suggests how we might need to look
differently at contemporary architectural projects and practices. As such, the manuscript
is perhaps also a demonstration of how ‘ecological thinking’ operates: a mode of thought
23
that does not isolate, but rather looks for connections, across different disciplines, scales
and time.
24
An Ecological Sensibility?
This shift towards ecological questions in architecture culture is of course not an isolated
phenomenon, but part of a wider cultural shift. For example, in 2005, American
environmentalist Bill McKibben criticized the art world for its lack of engagement with
the topic of climate change in his essay ‘What the Warming World Needs Now Is Art,
Sweet Art’.23 In recent years, however, the topic of the environmental crisis has become
more present in the arts, for example in the work of Icelandic-Danish artist Olafur
Eliasson, whose Ice Watch installation (2014) explicitly tried to offer a direct and tangible
experience of climate change (Figure 4).24 In literature, too, the attention has partly shifted
towards such topics, with the birth even of a new genre, described as ‘cli-fi’ or climate
fiction, a term attributed to American novelist Dan Bloom, who coined it in 2007.25
Prominent so-called cli-fi authors include the novelists Kim Stanley Robinson, Richard
Powers and Barbara Kingsolver, who write novels in which the theme of climate change
or environmental crisis is not merely a backdrop, but an active element of the narrative.
Likewise, in cinema climate change is becoming increasingly present as a narrative
device.26 While science fiction has long addressed themes of environmental disaster, from
Soylent Green (1973) to Snowpiercer (2014), the theme can now be seen in more
mainstream films as well, from The Day After Tomorrow (2004) to Don’t Look Up (2021).
Despite these developments, however, Indian novelist and writer Amitav Ghosh argues in
his book The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable that there is
something fundamentally incompatible between narrative fiction and climate change,
since they operate at different scales:
All of this makes climate change events particularly resistant to the customary frames
that literature has applied to “Nature”: they are too powerful, too grotesque, too
dangerous, and too accusatory to be written about in a lyrical, or elegiac, or romantic
vein.27
23
Bill McKibben, ‘What the Warming World Needs Now Is Art, Sweet Art’, Grist, 22 April 2005, accessed
8 November 2023, https://grist.org/article/mckibben-imagine/.
24
Madeleine Bunting, ‘The Rise of Climate-Change Art’, The Guardian, 2 December 2009, accessed 8
November 2023, https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2009/dec/02/climate-change-art-earth-
rethink.
25
Rodge Glass, ‘Global Warning: The Rise of “Cli-Fi”’, The Guardian, 31 May 2013, accessed 8 November
2023, https://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/may/31/global-warning-rise-cli-fi.
26
See for example Mark Bould, The Anthropocene Unconscious: Climate Catastrophe Culture (New York:
Verso Books, 2021).
27
Amitav Ghosh, The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable (Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press, 2016), 33.
Figure 4: Ice Watch, London, United Kingdom, Olafur Eliassion, 2014 (photography by Martin Argyroglo).
Indeed, our struggle to grasp the reality of something as all-encompassing as the

environmental crisis causes our political, social and economic modes of life to remain
fundamentally unchanged, which Ghosh describes as a state of ‘derangement’. Instead,
Ghosh argues, we should invent new modes of storytelling, not only to be able to
understand what is happening and how it could be different, but to feel it as well. The
above examples are steps in that direction and, as Welsh culture critic Raymond Williams
argued, the emergence of new genres of artistic production are often indicative of the
emergence of a new sensibility.28 In this chapter, therefore, I will argue that what is
happening in the field of architecture as well as in culture in general is the emergence of
exactly such a new kind of sensibility – an ecological sensibility. In short, the
environmental crisis is challenging a number of the fundamental assumptions on which
much of modern culture has been built, but that are becoming increasingly untenable. As
a result, such an emerging ecological sensibility, despite its current confusion and
28
Similar to the term ‘sensibility’ being used here, Raymond Williams used the term ‘structures of feeling’
to describe the experience of a changing present, as opposed to descriptions of ‘culture’ or ‘the social’,
which are always already established and thus in the past. See Raymond Williams, Marxism and
Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977), 128–35.
26
contradictions, is perhaps first and foremost a challenge to the modern worldview within
which overindustrialized societies operate.
Towards An Ecological Sensibility?

If historical moments can be described in terms of a certain sensibility, which is here in
short understood as an ‘attitude of mind’,29 then we are perhaps witnessing the emergence
of an ‘ecological sensibility’ today. One might argue that the very notion of ‘sensibility’ is
determined by an ontology of evasion, since, once it is described it stops being immediately
sensible, but instead becomes rationally legible. Yet, some aspects can be named and it is
in the tension between those explicit elements that the lived experience of a certain
sensibility becomes detectable. In his Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society,
Williams – famous for his development of the perhaps even vaguer notion of ‘a structure
of feeling’ – traces the term ‘sensibility’ back to the middle of the eighteenth century.
Originally, he observes, the word described ‘a social generalisation of certain personal
qualities, or, to put it another way, a personal appropriation of certain social qualities’.30
More simply, at the time it functioned in a similar way as the word ‘awareness’ functions
today (‘not only consciousness but conscience’), and in its stronger variation as ‘the ability
to feel’.31 As such, it overlapped partly with the word ‘sentimentality’, as ‘a conscious
openness to feelings, and also a conscious consumption of feelings’.32 While the word
‘sentimentality’ received a rather negative connotation during the nineteenth century, the
word ‘sensibility’ survived and by the twentieth century, it became the unifying word to
describe ‘a whole activity, a whole way of perceiving and responding, not to be reduced to
either “thought” or “feeling”’.33 As such, the word became closely associated with the arts:
‘For an important period, sensibility was that from which art proceeded and through
which it was received.’34 Although the term may have faded from active discussion by the
middle of the twentieth century, now, in the context of both a political and theoretical
questioning of binary thought patterns, we seem to be in need of a renewed vocabulary
that can address the space in between binary oppositions, including the one between the
rational and the emotional, the abstract and the lived. By using the term ‘sensibility’ here
in the context of an ecological reorientation of cultural production, I want to emphasize
how this contemporary reorientation is not only a matter of political discourse and
29
This definition is borrowed from Reyner Banham’s use of the term ‘sensibility’, which will be further
addressed in chapter 6. See Reyner Banham, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age (London: The
Architectural Press, 1960), 99.
30
Raymond Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2015 [1976]), 219.
31
Williams, 219.
32
Williams, 219.
33
Williams, 220.
34
Williams, 220.
27
academic theories, but also impacts the quality of daily life in overindustrialized societies,
where people’s everyday emotions, actions and thoughts are increasingly affected by
ecological questions. And, following Williams, the arts – or more specifically, here,
architecture – perhaps offers a privileged site to investigate the emergence of such a more
general ecological sensibility.
What is fundamentally at stake today is a questioning of the condition of many
contemporary overindustrialized societies, a condition that has long been known as
‘modernity’. While this is a complex term with various uses in various fields, in general
one of the recurring features of modernity is the centrality of the human being, its
anthropocentrism, and its separation from everything else in the world, usually described
as nature.35 In recent years, however, a heterogeneous collection of theorists, writers, artists
and others have started questioning such anthropocentrism and, especially in the context
of ecological thinking, it is now deemed important to recognize the interconnectedness of
things and beings, in which no one is more central than any other. This broad questioning
of the anthropocentrism of the modern worldview can especially be found in what is
usually referred to as posthuman theory, in the sense of going beyond the human as the
sole measure for things. And indeed, in posthuman theory, the themes of nature,
materiality and technology appear again and again, since these concepts are traditionally
marked by a sharp binary opposition between what is human and what is not. As such, a
brief understanding of posthuman arguments will help to grasp what is shifting in the
emergence of an ecological sensibility.
The Posthuman
As Italian philosopher Rosi Braidotti and Slovakian curator Maria Hlavajova write in their
Posthuman Glossary, the posthuman can be defined as ‘a field of enquiry and
experimentation that is triggered by the convergence of post-humanism on the one hand
and post-anthropocentrism on the other’.36 While humanism can be traced back to the
anthropocentric discourses on individualism and rationalism of the Enlightenment, the
term posthumanism is used to refer to a mix of philosophy, literature, art and science
fiction that questions the autonomy of the human individual. As such, the heterogeneous
group of authors and artists associated with the posthuman share an interest in the porous
edges of what is described as the human, foregrounding its non-human constitution and
thus opening towards non-human perspectives.
35
See for example Bruno Latour, We Have Never Been Modern (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard
University Press, 1993).
36
Rosi Braidotti and Maria Hlavajova, Posthuman Glossary (London: Bloomsbury, 2018), 1.
28
More specifically, as Italian curator Giovanni Aloi and American theorist Susan McHugh
write in their introduction to Posthumanism in Art and Science: A Reader, central to
posthumanism is the refusal of ‘hierarchical dualisms through which people once
separated and elevated themselves from “the other” in its many permutations’, and instead
‘the posthuman unravels through heterogeneous assemblages that not only shift
intellectual and political baselines but also transform the very terms of creative and ethical
practice’.37 Methodologically, this results in cross-disciplinary formations that combine
bioinformatics, multispecies ethnography and poststructuralist theory, among other
things. Looking back from this perspective, the influential 1985 essay A Cyborg Manifesto
by American philosopher Donna Haraway appears as foundational for the field. In her
essay, Haraway proposes the image of the cyborg as a human-animal-machine hybrid that
emerges from the remnants of humanist philosophy but evades the clear-cut categories of
the natural and the artificial, the physical and the immaterial, the organic and the
technological.38
The questioning of modern binary hierarchies is also what marks the fashionable term ‘the
Anthropocene’, which has become a central point of discussion in much posthuman
discourse. The term refers to the idea that humankind has now become a ‘major geological
force’ with the scientific and technological power to transform the entire planet on an
unprecedented scale.39 The term has various uses in contemporary literature: it originated
to indicate the destructive force human activity had become, disrupting entire ecosystems
through material extraction and pollution, and leaving behind a geological record of these
activities. At the same time, it also suggests how interwoven humankind has become with
the natural world, and perhaps always has been, undermining clear distinctions between
nature and culture. But the term has also been criticized for its anthropocentrism, for the
suggestion that, indeed, human beings have the power to shape the entire planet, which
may lead us towards a ‘good Anthropocene’ according to some optimistic authors.40 In
addition, the term has also been criticized for its generalization: it is not humankind as
such that has impacted the natural world to this extent, but rather a select group of human
beings at the control buttons of colonial, racist and capitalist systems, for which the term
‘Plantationocene’ has been proposed by, among others, authors such as Haraway.41 As an
alternative, Haraway has also suggested the term ‘Chthulucene’ to describe a different
37
Giovanni Aloi and Susan McHugh, eds., Posthumanism in Art and Science: A Reader (New York:
Columbia University Press, 2021), 2.
38
Donna J. Haraway, ‘Manifesto for Cyborgs: Science, Technology, and Socialist Feminism in the 1980s’,
Socialist Review 80 (1985): 65–108.
39
Paul J. Crutzen and Eugene F. Stoermer, ‘The “Anthropocene”’, Global Change Newsletter 41 (2000): 17–
18.
40
John Asafu-Adjaye et al., ‘An Ecomodernist Manifesto’, An Ecomodernist Manifesto (blog), 2015,
accessed 8 November 2023, www.ecomodernism.org.
41
Donna Haraway, ‘Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin’,
Environmental Humanities 6, 1 (2015): 159–65.
29
approach to living on this planet, foregrounding multispecies collaboration as opposed to

human-centred domination. Or maybe it is not even human beings themselves, but a
specific economic system, namely capitalism, that can be seen as the origin of the
destructive forces that have ravaged the planet, for which the substitute term
‘Capitalocene’ has been put forward by authors such as American historian Jason W.
Moore.42
Whatever interpretation or critique of the Anthropocene one adheres to, the questions
seem to remain the same: should (modern) human beings assume a more modest position
in the web of life of the natural world, or are they indeed the exception and capable of
mastering it? Should the material world be seen as a network of active agents beyond our
reach, or do we still live in some kind of predictable universe that can be calculated and
controlled? And to what extent is technology inevitably bound up with notions of such
control, or is a different kind of technics possible, which collaborates rather than
dominates?
Of course, these questions are incredibly broad and perhaps impossible to answer in any
straightforward way, but they do describe the discomfort that drives the emergence of an
ecological sensibility that can be found in contemporary society, and in the context of this
manuscript they will also steer the interrogation of Ruskin and Banham that I will conduct.
Before we get there, however, let us take a brief look at how these questions are dealt with
in contemporary theory, specifically in the work of three authors that each have dealt at
length with one or more of these questions, and are exemplary of what kind of questions
are being asked in contemporary posthuman theory.
1.2.1 Nature
One of the contemporary theorists who has engaged widely and deeply with the notion of
nature is English-American philosopher Timothy Morton. Once described by The
Guardian as the ‘philosopher prophet of the Anthropocene’,43 already a brief look at their
bibliography gives an idea of the extent that the concept of nature has been problematized
in their work: from the ecocritical approach in Ecology Without Nature (2007) and the
environmental theory of The Ecological Thought (2010) to the end-of-the-world
philosophy in Hyperobjects (2013), the speculative theory in Dark Ecology (2016), the eco-
Marxism in Humankind (2017) and the popularization of ecological theory in Being
Ecological (2018). In all of these books, Morton presents variations of a basic idea, namely
42
Jason W. Moore, Anthropocene Or Capitalocene? Nature, History, and the Crisis of Capitalism (Oakland:
PM Press, 2016).
43
Alex Blasdel, ‘“A Reckoning for Our Species”: The Philosopher Prophet of the Anthropocene’, The
Guardian, 15 June 2017, accessed 8 November 2023,
https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/jun/15/timothy-morton-anthropocene-philosopher.
30
that the ideological notion of ‘nature’ should be understood as a stumbling block for
effective ecological action.
Morton traces the development of our contemporary understanding of nature back to the
Romantic period, as they write in Ecology Without Nature: ‘Nature, practically a synonym
for evil in the Middle Ages, was considered the basis for social good by the Romantic
period.’44 In contrast to industrialization, nature came to embody all that was lost to the
world of the machines in which human beings since have dwelled. As such, nature became
inaccessible, removed from human societies, as they write in Dark Ecology: ‘The ecological
value of the term Nature is dangerously overrated, because Nature isn’t just a term – it’s
something that happened to human-built space, demarcating human systems from Earth
systems.’45 Yet, the concept is riddled with contradictions, they argue:
Since the Romantic period, nature has been used to support the capitalist theory of
value and to undermine it; to point out what is intrinsically human, and to exclude
the human; to inspire kindness and compassion, and to justify competition and
cruelty.46
While human society, especially the (over-)industrialized type, may appear to have been
separated from the natural world, at the same time it heavily relies on that world, not only
in the material sense, but to ideologically define what is human.
As such, Morton’s work can be characterized as posthuman in the sense that they
incessantly problematizes many of the ideological binaries on which much of the modern
worldview has been built. The distinction between nature and culture, a main feature of
modern societies, completely unravels in their writing, both from a historical perspective
and in contemporary ecological questions. Yet, as Morton’s work demonstrates, for now,
we cannot seem to think about ecology without resorting to some version of nature, which
they present as a thoroughly artificial category that needs to be deconstructed at every turn.
Exploding the idea of ‘Nature’ – as they often capitalize it to indicate its artificial
construction – proves to be a fruitful exercise in thinking about ecological questions on a
more fundamental level. As such, their work has been especially useful for contemporary
artists and curators, with people like Hans Ulrich Obrist, Philippe Parreno and Olafur
Eliasson describing their writings as a ‘toolbox’ with which to address the current
situation.47
44
Timothy Morton, Ecology without Nature: Rethinking Environmental Aesthetics (Cambridge,
Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2007), 15.
45
Timothy Morton, Dark Ecology: For a Logic of Future Coexistence (New York: Columbia University
Press, 2016), 58.
46
Morton, Ecology without Nature: Rethinking Environmental Aesthetics, 19.
47
Blasdel, ‘“A Reckoning for Our Species”: The Philosopher Prophet of the Anthropocene’.
31
1.2.2 Materiality
Similar to such deconstruction of the notion of nature, contemporary theory has also
witnessed a renewed interest in the role of matter, in which various post-human theorists
have explored the notion of ‘material agency’. This turn towards materiality has resulted
in what is often described as ‘new materialism’. As British theorist Diana Coole and
American theorist Samantha Frost write in the introduction to their edited volume that
gives an overview of such recent developments: ‘Foregrounding material factors and
reconfiguring our very understanding of matter are prerequisites for any plausible account
of coexistence and its conditions in the twenty-first century.’48 The basic move underlying
this development is indeed to attribute a sense of agency to matter and, in doing so, to
dismantle or, at least, question the causal relationship between the active – and usually
human – subject and the passive – usually non-human – object. Instead, objects have come
to be seen as active participants on their own within the complex of relations between
human beings and the world.
Perhaps one of more popular books on the topic in recent years is Vibrant Matter: A
Political Ecology of Things by American philosopher Jane Bennett, which was picked up
widely, again especially in the art world, celebrating a newfound engagement with messy
matter after the triumph of twentieth-century abstraction and conceptualization. Bennett
is concerned with the agency of matter, with the reciprocal relationships human beings
can develop with their environments. In her book, she tries to understand the inevitable
call that goes out to us from the material world. To develop such a theory of ‘vital
materialism’, she largely draws from poststructuralist thought – from Foucault to Deleuze
and Derrida – arguing that there is a theory of materialism to be found there, but different
than the historical materialism that places human beings at the centre.49 Instead, as she
explicitly emphasizes, her project is an ontological one, not epistemological, in which she
tries to give a language to matter so that we might see how things exert force, and that we
might even feel that force. Fundamentally, Bennett tries to dismantle the conventional
distinctions between living and non-living things: ‘One moral of the story is that we are
also nonhuman and that things, too, are vital players in the world.’50
1.2.3 Technology
Finally, one of the contemporary authors whose work has shown a persistent commitment
to the theme of technology is of course the late French philosopher Bruno Latour. His
work, though incredibly varied and ranging from philosophy to sociology and
48
Diana Coole and Samantha Frost, eds., New Materialisms: Ontology, Agency, and Politics (Durham: Duke
University Press, 2010), 2.
49
Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010).
50
Bennett, 4.
32
anthropology, from history to architecture theory and art curation, can perhaps be
described as a continuous questioning of modernity, in which technology is a central
concern. In a well-known early essay from 1991, Latour argues that technology ‘is society
made durable’.51 This statement refers to the idea that nothing in society, as in the world
in general, can be stable or durable without the help of non-humans. In other words, a
purely ‘social’ world, according to Latour, can only exist as heterogenous networks
comprised of humans and non-humans, social facts as well as technologies. What produces
stability is thus the way in which these usually separate categories are assembled together,
or folded, into fixed situations, stabilized by technology. Such a technological stabilization,
however, often hides the fact that human and non-human agencies intermingle, and his
major contributions to the development of actor-network theory (ANT) were aimed at
revealing the way in which the social is always pervaded by the natural, the material and
the technological.52 This is then one of the major questions Latour’s work confronts us
with in the context of this manuscript: If modernity considered technology as a mere
instrumental set of practices to engage with and control the world around us, what kind
of role does technology acquire within an ecological sensibility that acknowledges
collaboration instead?
I mention these three authors here briefly as exemplary figures questioning the topics of
nature, materiality and technology, as they demonstrate the logic according to which this
manuscript will proceed. Throughout the text, they will reappear where necessary, to
identify similar arguments already present in the work of Ruskin and Banham, and will
serve as points of reference to identify what we can learn from these two figures to
contribute to ecological debates today.
Ecological Critiques
Of course, the emerging ecological sensibility that we are witnessing today does not come
out of nowhere. At least since the 1960s, there has been a growing awareness of
environmental issues, which has produced all kinds of ecological critiques of the
anthropocentric modern worldview, on which the abovementioned posthuman authors
also build. Moreover, the history of Western environmentalism in a very general sense is
perhaps as old as Antiquity, where Greek and Roman poets already professed their love
for nature. Similarly, various medieval and Renaissance authors celebrated the natural
world, and the Romantic response to industrialization explicitly projected a vision of a
return to nature, to escape the illnesses of modern society. But it was probably not until
51
Bruno Latour, ‘Technology Is Society Made Durable’, in Sociology of Monsters: Essays on Power,
Technology and Domination, ed. John Law (London: Routledge, 1991), 103–31.
52
See, for example, Latour, We Have Never Been Modern.
33
the second half of the twentieth century that something developed that we would now
describe as environmentalism proper. In the 1960s and 1970s, several things happened at
the same time: there were a number of important publications that discussed how both
humankind and the natural world were under threat, there were several large-scale and
widely mediatized environmental disasters around the world that fuelled a sense of anxiety
in the general population, and several environmentalist organizations were founded
during these years that continue to weigh on the debates to this day.
The examples are well-known: there was Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring in 1962 about
declining bird populations as a result of insecticide pollution. In 1968, Paul Ehrlich and
Anne Howland Ehrlich published The Population Bomb, popularizing the controversial
Malthusian idea of overpopulation. There was the oil spill off the coast of Santa Barbara in
1969, which in turn inspired the first Earth Day on 22 April 1970. Greenpeace was founded
in 1971, while the more radical Earth First! was founded a decade later in 1980. In between,
in 1972, the Club of Rome published its famous Limits to Growth report, addressing the
tension between an economic system of infinite growth on a planet with finite resources.
And by the end of the 1980s, in 1987, the Brundtland Commission published the report
Our Common Future, popularizing the notion of ‘sustainability’ as a possible political and
economic paradigm to address the unfolding environmental crisis.
In the context of these latter decades of the twentieth century, the word
‘environmentalism’ has come to refer to a concern about the environment, usually linked
to specific environmental issues or disasters, like the ones that occurred at the time. By
contrast, the word ‘ecology’ has come to refer to a more general perspective, in which the
world appears as a set of relations, rather than discrete things. The latter word itself in the
strict sense refers to a branch of the scientific field of biology founded in the mid-
nineteenth century. In recent decades, however, it has increasingly become intertwined
with political and ideological agendas, and has developed a more diffuse meaning to
include the activities of naturalists, poets, organic farmers, birdwatchers, academics,
researchers and activists, eventually referring to a wider, cultural view on the world we live
in.53 In the latter decades of the twentieth century, various perspectives were formulated
to understand and critique the increasingly problematic relations between modern
societies and the environment. I want to briefly mention three of them here as examples,
because the following types of ecological thought set out a spectrum of the ways in which
modernity has been critiqued in the past from an environmentalist perspective, which to
some extent still structures the debate today, namely deep ecology, the Gaia hypothesis
and ecofeminism.
53
See for example chapter 7 ‘Ecology in Culture’ in Ghazoul, Ecology: A Very Short Introduction.
34
1.3.1 Deep Ecology

Perhaps the most radical form of ecological thinking is the discourse of deep ecology, a
term coined in 1973 by Norwegian philosopher Arne Naess. In short, Naess and his
followers view the biosphere not as something that is made up of discrete entities, but as a
whole of interconnected and interdependent beings that work together to constitute that
which we call nature. While this may not seem to be such a provocative view, deep ecology
also emphasizes a radical egalitarianism, in which all organisms have inherent value,
derived from their partaking in the larger whole. As such, deep ecologists have always
rejected mainstream environmentalism, which still prioritizes human welfare above the
rest and is mostly concerned with environmental disasters in as far as they might threaten
human society. Over time, deep ecology has shown itself to be a fundamentally reactionary
type of ecological thinking, which ultimately blames human civilization as a whole for the
environmental crisis and proposes a reduction of the human population to a fraction of its
current size as a remedy. For example, as recent as 2011, in Deep Green Resistance, the
prominent American writer Derrick Jensen, along with his co-authors Aric McBay and
Lierre Keith, argues that ‘a truly sustainable number would be somewhere between 300
and 600 million’.54 To do so, they try to convince their readers of the necessity of inducing
‘widespread industrial collapse, beyond any economic or political systems’, in order to
eliminate most of human life and hand the planet back to the so-called animal kingdom.
It is indeed industrialization that is often considered as the main culprit, although at times
deep ecologists also suggest that ‘the fall’ occurred with agriculture, projecting the hunter-
gatherer model as the only ‘natural’ way of life.55 While this might seem like an extreme
case, the idea that humanity is a ‘virus’ and that the world would be better off without its
presence seems to resurface in popular culture again and again, and can be understood as
a symptom of the despair and pessimism people feel in the face of the ongoing
environmental crisis.56
1.3.2 The Gaia Hypothesis

The Gaia hypothesis was formulated in the 1970s by James Lovelock, an English
atmospheric chemist, and Lynn Margulis, an American evolutionary biologist. As the
54
Aric McBay, Keith Lierre, and Derrick Jensen, Deep Green Resistance: Strategy to Save the Planet (New
York: Seven Stories Press, 2011), 210.
55
For example, Timothy Morton at times flirts with deep ecology when they criticize the agricultural
revolution as being the operating system of humankind’s exploitation of the nature world, which he
sums up with the term ‘agrilogistics’. See Morton, Dark Ecology: For a Logic of Future Coexistence.
56
Especially at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic in March 2020, the sentiment of human beings being
‘the virus’ proliferated in the public sphere. For a critique of such a sentiment, see Jennifer Johnson, ‘We
Are Not the Virus’, Verso, 27 March 2020, accessed 8 November 2023, https://www.versobooks.com/en-
gb/blogs/news/4622-we-are-not-the-virus.
35
word Gaia indicates, Lovelock and Margulis tried to formulate a perspective on the planet
in which everything and everyone was viewed as part of a larger whole. The basic idea is
that Earth can be understood as being alive, in the sense that it is ‘a self-organising
adaptable entity derived from the interactions of organisms with each other and their
geological, marine, and atmospheric environments’.57 This vision of Earth as a living
organism called Gaia has since spread throughout popular culture and has come to
represent a holistic approach that goes beyond the typical reductionist approach of
scientific research, which isolates the phenomena it studies. Additionally, the idea of a
living Gaia also suggests an approach that goes beyond merely mechanistic interpretations
of the world, which led to the birth of the field of Earth system science.58 At the same time,
Gaian thinking also led to various metaphysical and spiritual interpretations, which go
beyond Lovelock and Margulis’s original intentions. Since the 1970s, Lovelock has
published widely about the Gaia hypothesis, emphasizing that it is not teleological, instead
relying on Darwinian thought and arguing that the self-regulating processes of Gaia have
no purpose to sustain life, but that life is sustained, nonetheless. Whichever way it is
interpreted, the ideological image of Gaia (along with the literal image of planet Earth, as
seen in the popular photograph The Blue Marble that was taken in 1972 by the crew of
Apollo 17) embodies the idea that we are an integral part of a larger whole, based on
interdependent relations.
1.3.3 Ecofeminism
Ecofeminism is a type of feminism that connects with political ecology and employs
feminist frameworks to analyse the relationship between human beings and the natural
world. The term ‘ecofeminism’ was originally coined by French writer Françoise
d’Eaubonne in her 1974 book Le Féminisme ou la mort. In these essays, d’Eaubonne
demonstrated how the suppression of women and the suppression of nature are entangled
and rely on similar social structures.59 Ecofeminism has been developed by activists and
authors all over the world, and in many different ways, but they are nonetheless connected
through similar concerns. As scholars Greta Gaard and Lori Gruen outline in their 1993
essay ‘Ecofeminism: Towards Global Justice and Planetary Health’, there seem to be
various explanations for the separation between the human and the natural world, which
is understood as a patriarchal problem.60 For some ecofeminists, this separation can be
57
Ghazoul, Ecology: A Very Short Introduction, 208.
58
The birth of Earth system science is usually traced back to 1983, when NASA established the Earth
System Science Committee (ESSC). For one of the earliest contributions to the field, see NASA Advisory
Council and United States, Earth System Science Overview: A Program for Global Change (Washington
DC: National Aeronautics and Space Administration, 1986).
59
Françoise d’Eaubonne, Feminism or Death (London: Verso, 2022 [1974]).
60
Greta Gaard and Lori Gruen, ‘Ecofeminism: Toward Global Justice and Planetary Health’, Society and
Nature 2 (1993): 1–35.
36
traced back to the mechanistic conception of the natural world as a result of the scientific
revolution, in which all things are seen as dead and inert resources. For others, it is the
result of the rise of patriarchal religions, as a result of a shift from goddess-worshipping
cultures to male deities, that shifted the perspective from an immanent divinity found in
the sacredness of nature to a hierarchical structure with a ‘sky god’ at the top, and who
created nature for human beings to use. Other critiques target the popular but erroneous
interpretation of evolutionary development, in which the man is portrayed as stronger, as
a result of the hunt, while the woman is claimed to be ‘naturally’ weaker, and thus
supposedly inferior. Still others target the ideological dualist hierarchies between self and
other, as, for example, in conceptualizations of ‘nature/culture, man/woman, white/non-
white, human/non-human animal, civilized/wild, heterosexual/homosexual,
reason/emotion, wealthy/poor etc.’, in which both nature and women are always
configured as ‘other’.61 Finally, other ecofeminists also draw from Marxist critiques of
capitalism and its inherent need for exploitation, destruction and instrumentalization of
natural resources and animals as well as certain groups of people. As such, ecofeminism,
while focusing on the similarities between the exploitation of both women and nature,
based on patriarchal structures, relies on intersectional frameworks of analysis to address
the environmental crisis.
From deep ecology to the Gaia hypothesis to ecofeminism, it is clear that in recent history
various ways of thinking about the ecological relations between human beings and the
natural world have already been developed. Aside from both the historical and
contemporary specificities of these discourses, what they here demonstrate is the range
within which ecological questions are debated. While deep ecology advances the view that
human beings should drastically limit their presence on this planet, if not disappear
altogether, the Gaia hypothesis instead posits that human beings are an intrinsic part of
the puzzle, although some kind of balance may indeed have been disturbed, while
ecofeminism instead claims that it is the patriarchal ideology of the modern world that
threatens both certain groups of human beings and the environment. Fundamentally,
however, in varying degrees of radical politics, these responses challenge the foundation
of human supremacy over the natural world – which is nothing less than a challenge to
modernity itself. Not surprisingly, then, modernity – especially in its manifestation of a
liberal democracy combined with industrial capitalism – has responded with its own type
of ecological thought.62
61
Gaard and Gruen, 4–5.
62
Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man (New York: Perennial, 1992).
37
Re-affirming the Modern

Following the environmental activism of the 1960s and 1970s, the political establishment
of modern societies saw the need for its own response to the unfolding environmental
crisis, a response that has become known as ‘sustainable development’. It is important to
briefly note that this is not exactly the same as ‘sustainability’ in general, which is a notion
that can be traced back to the eighteenth century, when Saxon administrator Hans Carl
von Carlowitz applied the German word Nachhaltigkeit to forestry, to describe the long-
term responsible use of a natural resource in his work Sylvicultura oeconomica.63 Of course,
the idea of long-term responsible use is part of sustainable development too, but as a
political and economic concept, the way it was developed over the past decades, it has
received a more specific definition, which, by now, is often assumed as primary in
discussions about sustainability in general, resulting in a conflation of two historically
distinct concepts.
1.4.1 Sustainable Development

In 1980, the International Union for Conservation of Nature published its World
Conservation Strategy, one of the first policy documents to include a short chapter on the
concept of ‘sustainable development’, in which guidelines are proposed to reconcile
economic development with conservation.64 While the report was not widely read, in 1987
the United Nation’s Brundtland Commission published its report Our Common Future,
which further developed and popularized the notion of sustainable development, giving it
the definition that is still prevalent today: ‘Sustainable development is development that
meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to
meet their own needs.’65 The way this definition is then further interpreted, is by focusing
on ‘three pillars’: human, social and economic development, which are supposed to go
together. However, as history has shown since then, the idea of sustainable development
as it has been adopted in politics worldwide seems first and foremost concerned with
economic development and, thus, is quite literally an attempt to merely ‘sustain’ things as
they already are. As Morton sums it up diplomatically: ‘What exactly are we sustaining
when we talk about sustainability? An intrinsically out-of-control system that sucks in grey
63
Hans Carl von Carlowitz, Sylvicultura Oeconomica, Oder Haußwirthliche Nachricht und Naturmäßige
Anweisung Zur Wilden Baum-Zucht (Leipzig, 1713).
64
International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources, United Nations Environment
Programme, and World Wildlife Fund, World Conservation Strategy: Living Resource Conservation for
Sustainable Development (Morges: IUCN, 1980).
65
World Commission on Environment and Development, Our Common Future (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1987).
38
goo at one end and pushes out grey value at the other.’66 In architecture, therefore, the
discourse on sustainability has mostly resulted in a whole range of new and highly
marketable building technologies to solve problems of energy and materials, while
avoiding more fundamental questions about, for example, economic growth as such.
Despite best intentions, the idea of sustainable development seems to have amounted to
not much more than a new market for global capitalism to exploit, and as the
environmental crisis worsens, it is no surprise that the discourse on sustainability is
radicalizing as well – into something that in recent years has become known as
‘ecomodernism’.
1.4.2 Ecomodernism
In April 2015, a collective of 18 scientists, activists and scholars published a pamphlet titled
An Ecomodernist Manifesto. The manifesto started with the recognition that humanity
must limit its impact on the environment but rejected the idea that in order to do that,
human societies should ‘harmonize’ with nature. Rather than seeing the Anthropocene as
a recipe for disaster, the manifesto proposed to conceive of a ‘good Anthropocene’,
affirming that this should indeed be ‘the Age of Humans’.67 In line with such optimism,
the manifesto proposed to drop the goal of ‘sustainable development’, that is the idea that
the growth of human societies should remain within the limits of what nature can offer,
and suggested that we can instead keep such growth by minimizing humanity’s footprint
through technological innovation, aimed at using natural resources more intensively. In a
perhaps surprising conclusion, the authors argue that economic growth is even necessary
to preserve the environment. As they write:
Intensifying many human activities – particularly farming, energy extraction,
forestry, and settlement – so that they use less land and interfere less with the
natural world is the key to decoupling human development from environmental
impacts. These socioeconomic and technological processes are central to economic
modernization and environmental protection. Together they allow people to
mitigate climate change, to spare nature, and to alleviate global poverty.68
In short, and in contrast to the critique of modernity often found in ecologist circles, the
authors of the manifesto instead argue with full conviction in favour of more modernity –
a so-called ‘triumphalist modernity’. The manifesto gained widespread attention and has
been appreciated for its optimism and hope in human agency but has simultaneously
received widespread criticism for its uncritical celebration of modernity and for what
66
Timothy Morton, Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology After the End of the World (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 2013), 113.
67
Asafu-Adjaye et al., ‘An Ecomodernist Manifesto’, 6.
68
Asafu-Adjaye et al., 7.
39
ultimately reads as a defence of the industrial-capitalist status quo. Aside from the
technical debates on the feasibility of such techno-optimism, what the ecomodernist
agenda proposes is ultimately a reaffirmation of the anthropocentrism of the modern
project: the idea that human beings have somehow transcended the realm of nature from
which they came, as an exception in the animal kingdom, and fitted with the ability for
rational thought they are uniquely positioned to become the caretakers of the planet, not
merely a part of it. Since the publication of this manifesto, many political actors around
the world have embraced the discourse of ecomodernism to argue in favour of more
development, more industry and more economic growth.
Ruskin and Banham

To summarize: as knowledge of the environmental crisis (both in its localized disasters as
in its global impact) has spread throughout society since at least the 1960s,
overindustrialized societies have seen the rise of environmental activism and ecological
critiques from all kinds of directions and in all kinds of fields. These developments have
not remained isolated, but have in recent years been further developed in contemporary
theory, explicitly so in what we might describe as posthuman discourses. But perhaps more
importantly, the dissemination of scientific knowledge about what is happening to the
world around us, to the environment, has also resulted in widespread cultural discomfort,
in which simple actions such as eating meat or taking an airplane, which at some point
were evident features of modern life, have become problematic. Even the most die-hard
climate change denier has become conscious of the controversial nature of such actions in
daily life – which is exactly what the denial focuses on. This generalized sense of a changing
attitude between modern society and the environment we live in can be described as a new
kind of sensibility: an ecological sensibility. Such a sensibility largely revolves around our
relation to the natural environment, the materials with which we have built and continue
to build our societies, and the effects of technological innovations, which now often seem
more of a problem than a solution – in short, nature, materiality and technology. As such,
these themes inevitably permeate the architecture discourse and practice as well. Despite
the confusion sketched out in the previous chapter, fundamentally, the debate on
environmentalism in architecture seems to largely revolve around these three topics too.
It is not my intention to go through these contemporary debates here, however, instead I
want to trace the historical development of these three major themes in modern
architecture history, to shed light on the background out of which contemporary debates
emerge, and by which they are still to some extent structured. Specifically, I will focus on
two moments in the past two centuries since the Industrial Revolution, and will largely
base my discussion on the work of two figures who were deeply involved in the debates at
the time, both within the field of architecture and in society in general. On the one hand,
I want to focus on the middle of the nineteenth century, when the legacy of Romanticism
40
became a mainstream bourgeois ideology, precisely at a time the large-scale impacts of

industrialization on both human beings and the natural environment became visible. On
the other hand, I want to focus on the post-war years in the middle of the twentieth century
and onwards, the moment when the machine, which until that moment had remained a
distant thing for the general populace, started to infiltrate most households and people
were getting increasingly entangled with technology everywhere. Representative for these
two moments are two men, who lived a century apart but occupied similar positions in
their respective periods. Both Londoners, both formally educated, both writers, critics and
eventually professors, and both intimately engaged with the architectural production of
the time. I am of course referring to John Ruskin and Reyner Banham.
41
In the previous chapter, I tried to give an idea of a changing cultural sensibility in the face
of the environmental crisis – an ecological sensibility revolving around the themes of
nature, materiality and technology. As posthuman theory reminds us, modern culture has
largely developed through the enforcement of strict binaries that run through these three
categories: for the modern mind, nature is opposed to human society and culture, the
material world is understood as a passive reservoir of resources as opposed to human
agency, and technological control is opposed to the supposed organic manipulations of
pre-modern craft. Not surprisingly, these notions run through modern architecture
history as well, but perhaps with some nuances. Since the very construction of a building
requires an engagement with the messiness of the world, in which nature and culture,
matter and intentionality, and technology and craft inevitably become entangled, these
modern binaries are not as easy to maintain, despite attempts to do so. Two authors that
seem to have engaged with these topics at length are John Ruskin (1819-1900) and Reyner
Banham (1922-1988), the figures I will use as guides in this manuscript to navigate such
topics.
Not only have these two figures developed extensive arguments revolving around these
three notions, they have done so from two very different, even opposite perspectives, two
perspectives that seem to hybridize in our contemporary ecological sensibility today, I
would argue. As I have mentioned in the previous chapter as well, debates on
environmental issues often come down to a polarization between some variation of
Romanticism, on the one hand, which argues on behalf of nature in the broadest sense and
seems to exhibit a tendency to return to a moment in time when things were still ‘whole’.
And, on the other, some kind of Futurism in the broadest sense, which argues on behalf of
modernity and seems to believe we can still solve things with enough technological
progress and control. This tension can also be found in the work of Ruskin and Banham,
with the former having been received in architecture history as a nostalgic conservative,
whose work largely revolves around Romantic versions of nature while criticizing the
effects of industrialization in the nineteenth century. By contrast, Banham has been
received in architecture history as a ‘champion of Futurism’, exhibiting a large interest and
belief in technological progress and embracing its effects on architecture culture, as
opposed to what he perceived as an inherited Ruskinian conservatism of the architectural
establishment at the time.69 Yet, again, while these figures have been canonized as such,
returning to the original texts of these respective authors shows that things are not that
69
Nigel Whiteley, Reyner Banham: Historian of the Immediate Future (Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press,
2002), 201.
binary, and that their arguments often extend into different directions too, making room
to interpret things differently. Moreover, in today’s environmental crisis, the binary
opposition of Romanticism and Futurism, of conservatism and progress, is not as clear-
cut anymore either. The notion of nature is not merely a nostalgic one, but a concern for
the future. Technology is not simply a vector of progress anymore, but often seen as the
source of many problems. And the way we engage with the material world seems to change
depending on how we understand these two former categories.
From a strictly historiographical point of view, it might make little sense to place two
figures from two very different historical periods together. However, this manuscript is
not really a historical argument, rather it is a theoretical and slightly speculative argument
on how today’s ecological debates seem to revolve around inherited ideas associated with
these three notions, which were largely shaped over the past two hundred years since the
start of industrialization, and which these two figures have theorized extensively. By
approaching them as two theoretical figures, whose arguments are resurfacing in
contemporary debates, together they help to shed light on what we are talking about when
we talk about ecology. At the same time, while these two figures lived in two different
periods, as I will argue below, they do form an extended historical unit, and have also been
received in architecture history as such. Moreover, despite their historical and theoretical
differences, there are also certain similarities that connect the two across time, putting
them closer to each other than we might expect. But before going into all of that, let us
briefly remind ourselves of how these two figures are conventionally understood.
John Ruskin
In his ‘critical biography’ of John Ruskin, published in 2015, English historian Andrew
Ballantyne describes how Ruskin ‘tried to bring wonder and an appreciation of beauty to
the lives of the working classes in the new industrial towns’.70 In addition, Ballantyne
observes, Ruskin ‘decried mechanization and railways, and loved craftsmanship’, while ‘he
praised art that had good moral character, taking for granted that artists would strive for
a flawless technique’.71 As such, Ballantyne argues, in a time of industrialization, Ruskin
played ‘the role of the nation’s conscience’.72 Ruskin was indeed largely a representative of
the establishment at the time, having been born as an only child in a bourgeois family in
London, and having grown up surrounded by artists such as J.M.W. Turner and Samuel
Prout. As a result, the Ruskin family spent much time travelling the European continent,
in search of the Picturesque sights these painters had painted, grounding Ruskin firmly in
70
Andrew Ballantyne, John Ruskin (London: Reaktion Books, 2015), 8.
71
Ballantyne, 8.
72
Ballantyne, 11.
44
a Romantic tradition while teaching him to draw and paint natural scenery extensively as
well. Even though his fascination for nature was largely the result of this artistic
background, it also provoked an interest for the at the time developing fields of geology
and botany, on which he would later write as well. Indeed, Ruskin was a prolific writer,
and his topics ranged from art and architecture to literature, education, ornithology,
geology, botany and even political economy. In general, he is perhaps best known for his
magnum opus, the five volumes of Modern Painters, which he wrote and published
between 1843 and 1860 and which dealt with art theory and history. At the same time, he
wrote two influential treatises on architecture, one titled The Seven Lamps of Architecture,
published in 1849, and a three-volume work titled The Stones of Venice, published between
1851 and 1853, both of which mainly dealt with Gothic architecture. The second volume
of the latter also contained the chapter ‘The Nature of Gothic’, in which Ruskin formulated
an influential critique of industrialization that was later reprinted as a separate publication
by William Morris’s Kelmscott Press in 1892. I mention these publications here because
they will the main primary sources for this manuscript when it comes to Ruskin’s theories,
but they are but a tip of the iceberg, as the collection of Ruskin’s publications is hard to
fully oversee. While Ruskin remains a key point of reference in modern architecture
history, his work is often reduced to his defence of the Gothic, but his publications were
widely read, even by the general population. Moreover, as the first Slade Professor of Fine
Art at Oxford University (he was appointed in August 1869), Ruskin’s pupils would
include people such as Oscar Wilde, who would also be heavily affected by Ruskin’s ideas.
It is no overstatement to argue that Ruskin shaped an entire generation of artists and
architects, who would go on to employ his ideas in their own work. This is but a brief
suggestion of who Ruskin was and what he did, and throughout this manuscript I will
return again and again to his life and work, which will not only help me formulate my own
arguments but will also give a more thorough idea of what Ruskin wrote.
Reyner Banham
Banham is a of course different story. He was born in Norwich, England, to a working-
class family, a background that would shape his work. He was trained as an engineer at the
Bristol Aeroplane Company, where he worked for the most part of the Second World War
and would witness highly damaged planes return from the continent, an experience that
would equally affect his work. In 1949, Banham went to study at the Courtauld Institute
of Art in London, where he studied under Siegried Giedion and Nikolaus Pevsner, among
others, and of which the latter would become his doctoral supervisor. In the 1950s,
Banham worked for the Architectural Review, became involved with the Independent
Group, and by 1960, he published his first book, based on his thesis, Theory and Design in
the First Machine Age, which would become a standard work of reference for a whole
generation of architects. From then on, Banham’s output would be prolific: for example,
45
in 1966, he published The New Brutalism: Ethic or Aesthetic?, in 1969 The Architecture of
the Well-Tempered Environment, and in 1971 Los Angeles: The Architecture of the Four
Ecologies – all books that would be widely read and have become major contributions to
the history of modern architecture. In between, Banham got involved with the London-
based Archigram, learned to drive a car and started to travel to the United States. Over the
course of his career, he would teach at the Bartlett School of Architecture in London (1964-
1976), the State University of New York Buffalo (1976-1980), and in the 1980s at the
University of California in Santa Cruz. During all of this, Banham would still regularly
write and publish articles in journals like New Statesman and New Society, totalling
between 750 and 1,000 articles over his life.73 In short, as historian Richard J. Williams
observes in his recent monograph Reyner Banham Revisited (2021): ‘If you care about the
architecture of the modern movement, or Brutalism, or Pop Art, or post-war industrial
design, you will undoubtedly have read fragments of Banham: he is ubiquitous in the
literature on those things.’74
It is difficult to really characterize Banham in one specific way, as he developed different
personas over the years. In Williams’s monograph, a chapter is dedicated to most of these
personas: the futurist, the new brutalist, the autophile, the environmentalist, the Angeleno,
the desert freak and the connoisseur of ruins. Yet, there are certain themes that return
nonetheless, and it is perhaps easier to describe what Banham was opposed to, as historian
Nigel Whiteley does in the introduction to his monograph Reyner Banham: Historian of
the Immediate Future (2002):
. . . first, a vehement opposition to any parochialism of value (usually associated
with a call for national identity or Englishness); second, a comprehensive rejection
of revivalism or architectural historicism; and, third, a deeply unsympathetic
attitude to preservation and the conservation lobby. All of these positions were
justified in terms of a commitment to modernity and progress.75
Indeed, what runs through Banham’s work over the years, sometimes explicitly, sometimes
in the background, is a rather positivist belief in progress and technology, and much of
what he wrote had to do with questioning to what extent technology affected culture,
architecturally and in general. Again, this is but a brief assessment of Banham here, since
I will return again and again to his work in more detail to develop my own arguments, but
which will give a better insight into Banham’s work as well.
73
Richard J. Williams, Reyner Banham Revisited (London: Reaktion Books, 2021), 17.
74
Williams, 17.
75
Nigel Whiteley, Reyner Banham: Historian of the Immediate Future, 11.
46
From Ruskin to Bauhaus (and Banham)

Despite the apparent contrasts between Ruskin’s work in the nineteenth century – and the
broader context of the Gothic Revival at the time – and the Modern Movement, several
authors have observed before how there is an almost straight line connecting both. Already
in 1936, when the dust had not yet completely settled on the maturation of modernist
architecture, Pevsner observed such a continuity, when he claimed in his Pioneers of
Modern Design that:
. . . the history of artistic theory between 1890 and the First World War proves the
assertion on which the present work is based, namely, that the phase between
Morris and Gropius is an historical unit. Morris laid the foundation of the modern
style; with Gropius its character was ultimately determined.76
While Pevsner limited himself to merely mentioning Morris, it is difficult to think of
Morris without associations to Ruskin, who influenced him greatly. And indeed, Banham,
following his mentor, would later make a similar claim in his Theory and Design in the
First Machine Age, but go as far as to acknowledge Ruskin explicitly: ‘The human chain of
Pioneers of the Modern Movement that extends back from Gropius to William Morris,
and beyond him to Ruskin.’77 However, this observation is made in a paragraph on the
changing attitude towards the machine around the turn of the twentieth century and is
preceded by an important qualification:
Under these changed circumstances, that barrier of incomprehension that had
stood between thinking men and their mechanised environment all through the
nineteenth century, in the mind of Marx as much as in the mind of Morris, began
to crumble. Men whose means of moving ideas from place to place had been
revolutionised at their writing desks by the typewriter and the telephone, could no
longer treat the world of technology with hostility or indifference, and if there is a
test that divides the men from the boys in say, 1912, it is their attitude to Ruskin.
Men whose view of the aims of art and the function of design were as diverse as
could be, nevertheless united in their hatred of ce deplorable Ruskin.78
The very last sentence of this quote demonstrates Banham’s efforts to distance himself
from Ruskin and his legacy, efforts that would not always succeed, as we will see later on
when discussing Banham’s writings on the New Brutalism. In addition, the full quote also
suggests what is at stake: while Ruskin was a vehement critic of industrialization and
Banham a champion of technological progress, they are nonetheless connected as two sides
76
Nikolaus Pevsner, Pioneers of Modern Design: From William Morris to Walter Gropius (Harmondsworth:
Penguin, 1974 [1936]), 39.
77
Banham, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age, 12.
78
Banham, 11–12.
47
of the same coin. They sit at opposite ends of the same process unfolding over time, with
seemingly opposite attitudes, but facing similar questions, although in different terms
dictated by the different historical conditions that they lived in. While Ruskin responded
largely to the effects of early industrialization on the practice of making architecture,
Banham found himself in a fully developing consumer culture, and focused instead on the
products delivered by technological progress. Yet, they are united in their questioning of
the ‘mechanized environment’. And while Banham here observes the historical process
from Ruskin to Gropius, today, we might include Banham as well in this historical unit,
since his early work was an attempt to further theorize the project of the Modern
Movement to its logical conclusion. However, as Banham suggests, between Ruskin and
Gropius, something fundamental did change – something to do with the figures of the
artisan and the machine.
Banham does not offer a satisfying explanation for this change, he merely remarks that
‘the precious vessel of handicraft aesthetics that had been passed from hand to hand, was
dropped and broken, and no one has bothered to pick up the pieces’.79 However, while
Ruskin’s resistance against the machine can indeed be read as an aesthetic argument – as
I will discuss in the chapter on ‘Materiality’ – fundamentally it was also an argument on
labour. What really changed was a change in the understanding of labour as life, as Ruskin
would have it, and labour as a means to an economic end, as the Moderns would see it.80
And while Banham seems to gloss over Marx in the above statement, it is precisely the
difference between Ruskin and Marx that clarifies things here.
In the context of industrialization in the nineteenth century, Ruskin and Marx are often
mentioned as the two main authors to have formulated far-reaching critiques of this
development. Yet, Ruskin is often considered to be the rather naïve precursor to Marx,
whose economic theories had more credibility than the religiously inspired ones of
Ruskin.81 In architecture theory, the differences between Ruskin and Marx have often been
reduced to their respective positions on the importance of ornament.82 For Ruskin,
ornament was fundamental to architecture, for various reasons, but mainly because it was
the result, even proof, of human agency in the laborious construction of architecture. For
Marx, however, ornament was superfluous, as it required unnecessary labour from
workers during construction. Underneath these opposite understandings of ornament
thus lies a different conception of the notion of labour. As Morris sums it up for Ruskin in
the preface to the Kelmscott Press’s publication of The Nature of Gothic:
79
Banham, 12.
80
See Anirudh Sridhar, ‘From Ruskin to the Automation: What Happened?’, Carlyle Studies Annual 32
(2017): 155–78.
81
Sridhar, 158.
82
Sridhar, 159.
48
For the lesson which Ruskin here teaches us is that art is the expression of man's
pleasure in labour; that it is possible for man to rejoice in his work, for, strange as
it may seem to us to-day, there have been times when he did rejoice in it.83
Indeed, ‘pleasure in labour’, the joy with which something was made, was perhaps Ruskin’s
primary concern, as he wrote in The Seven Lamps of Architecture: ‘I believe the right
question to ask, respecting all ornament, is simply this: was it done with enjoyment, was
the carver happy while he was about it?’84 By contrast, Marx did not think of labour as
something that could be enjoyable. On the contrary, labour was to be minimized, which is
why the machine was welcomed with open arms. In his 1956 ‘Speech at the Anniversary
of The People’s Paper’, discussing the apparent contradictions of his time, he observed:
‘Machinery gifted with the wonderful power of shortening and fructifying human labour,
we behold starving and overworking it.’85 In other words: for Ruskin, labour was to be
celebrated, as a sign of life, while for Marx, labour was merely a means to an economic
end, something that should be limited as much as possible, for which the machine was a
welcome tool. But rather than following Ruskin, it was the latter Marxist approach to
labour that was taken up by later generations of architects.
Already in perhaps one of the most famous and foundational texts of modern
architecture’s development towards functionalism, ‘Ornament and Crime’ (1913), Adolf
Loos echoes the Marxist interpretation of labour in relation to ornament: ‘Ornament
means squandered manpower and thus squandered health. It has always been so.’86 And
along with this approach to labour, the machine was welcomed too. For example, already
in 1888, when C.R. Ashbee started the Ruskin-inspired Guild and School of Handicraft, he
explicitly stated: ‘We do not reject the machine. We welcome it. But we desire to see it
mastered.’87 This sentiment would persist for decades, as, for example, Gropius would also
write in his 1935 essay The New Architecture and the Bauhaus:
But in the last resort mechanization can have only one object: to abolish the
individual’s physical toil of providing himself with the necessities of existence in
order that hand and brain may be set free for some higher order of activity.88
83
William Morris, ‘Preface to The Nature of Gothic by John Ruskin’, in News From Nowhere and Other
Writings, ed. Clive Wilmer (Cambridge: Proquest, 2011).
84
John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, vol. VIII
(London: George Allen, 1908), 218.
85
Karl Marx, ‘Speech at Anniversary of The People’s Paper’, Marxists.org, accessed 8 November 2023,
https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1856/04/14.htm.
86
Adolf Loos, ‘Ornament and Crime’, in Ornament and Crime: Selected Essays (London: Penguin, 2019),
87–94: 91.
87
As quoted in Rudolph Rosenthal and Helena L. Williams Ratzka, The Story of Modern Applied Art (New
York: Harper, 1948), 15.
88
Walter Gropius, The New Architecture and the Bauhaus (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1965 [1935]), 33.
49
In short, rather than turning artisans into extensions of the machine, as Ruskin interpreted
industrialization, the moderns accepted the machine as a possible ally in the liberation of
workers, through the alleviation of labour. And with the acceptance of the machine, the
Ruskinian ‘vessel of handicraft aesthetics’ was indeed dropped and broken, and replaced
with an aesthetics of utility. As Loos also argues in his essay ‘Chairs’ (1898), ‘the degree of
usefulness, together with harmony with the other parts, is what we call pure beauty.’89 And
while he is discussing works of art in relation to nature, what else is this but a description
of a machine as well? In short, while there was an explicit recognition of the influence of
Ruskin and Morris on the Modern Movement, such an influence was not straightforward,
but became inverted on the topic of the machine. By the 1950s, then, at the time Banham
started writing about architecture, the acceptance of the machine had reached its
completion, and as we will see later on, Banham completely embraced its presence.

The above-described historical connection between Ruskin and the Modern Movement,
and Banham’s further development of the Modern Movement’s ideas, demonstrates how
Ruskin and Banham were both dealing with a similar phenomenon, despite being a
century apart: industrialization. Yet, they sat at opposite ends of the historical unfolding
of this process: Ruskin witnessed how industrialization started to change the rather
conservative world he grew up in, while Banham witnessed how it seemed to reach its
fulfilment in the consumer culture of post-war Europe, when machines were present in
most households and everywhere you looked in public life. While Ruskin resisted the
changes brought about by industrialization, and modern society in general, Banham
enthusiastically, and perhaps at times naïvely, celebrated them. As such, Ruskin has often
been described as a conservative, resisting progress and change, while Banham profiled
himself as a radical progressive, even trying to contribute to such progress and change.
Such an orientation in terms of conservatism and progressivism has perhaps to do with
the vector of technology: as a notion, it is often associated with moving forward, in the
form of invention and innovation, leading modern societies into the future. Yet, in today’s
environmental crisis, such a simplistic association between technology and progress has
become problematic to a certain extent. Much of the technological innovations of the past
are now revealed to have also damaged and destroyed the natural world we live in,
jeopardizing the very future it promised us. At the same time, while modernity seems to
have unquestionably accepted the idea that the future is something we should want,
looking at today’s predictions for the future, especially how the environmental crisis will
worsen over the coming decades and increasingly endanger both human and non-human
89
Adolf Loos, ‘Chairs’, in Ornament and Crime: Selected Essays (London: Penguin, 2019), 77–81: 78.
50
life on this planet, the future now appears to be something we want to avert instead. A lot
of technological innovation today is therefore aimed at the opposite: at postponing such
disastrous future scenarios and trying to hold on to what we still have.
I will develop this argument in more depth in the chapter on ‘Time’, but I would argue
that, today, it is not easy to distinguish between conservativism and progressivism, or
between nostalgia and futurism anymore. As such, Ruskin and Banham are perhaps not as
easy to oppose in today’s debates anymore either, we might rather need to hybridize them
as theoretical figures. This manuscript will attempt to do exactly this: to theorize our
contemporary ecological sensibility, I will stage a conceptual dialogue between these two
theoretical figures, in which I will try to demonstrate how the binary oppositions they
embody as an extended historical unit is no longer tenable, and how the binary oppositions
that mark the three major themes of nature, materiality and technology around which their
work revolves are no longer tenable either. The work of Ruskin and Banham both propose
to think along such binary lines as well as they also demonstrate where such thinking falls
short. As such, retracing the historical roots of contemporary ecological debates in
architecture in their work might help us to think through some of the pressing questions
of today and give us a deeper understanding of what it would mean to think and feel
ecologically.
51
Nature
Let us start with the obvious question: What is nature?

‘Any full history of the uses of nature,’ wrote Welsh cultural critic Raymond Williams,
‘would be a history of a large part of the history of human thought.’90 Indeed, the question
of nature runs deep in Western history, not only because of what it presumably is on its
own, but also what it in turn tells us about ourselves, whether we belong to it or not. As
British philosopher Kate Soper observes: ‘Nature is that which Humanity finds within
itself, and to which it in some sense belongs, but also that from which it seems excluded in
the very moment in which it reflects upon either its otherness or its belonging.’91 Yet, the
concept of nature is difficult, if not impossible, to pin down – it is a ‘mille-feuille of
meanings’, as American historian Lorraine Daston writes:
It can refer to everything in the universe (sometimes including and sometimes
excluding human beings), to what is inborn rather than cultivated, to the wild rather
than the civilized, to raw materials as opposed to refined products, to the
spontaneous as opposed to the sophisticated, to what is native rather than foreign,
to the material world without divinity, to a fruitful goddess, and a great deal else,
depending on epoch and context.92
As such, the term not only functions to define what something is, but also to define what
something is not, to distinguish between things, to categorize them.
Despite such complexity, in the modern period, as French philosopher Bruno Latour
reminds us, it has become increasingly important to distinguish between what is natural
and what is human, and to rigidly define both categories. But as Latour also reminds us,
this attempt is an enduring exercise that relies on a constant ‘purification’, to keep out any
hybrid entities – which of course inevitably arise.93 As such, there is perhaps nothing
natural about nature: it is an artificial construction, whose varying definitions over the
course of history have served various goals and agendas. As I quoted English-American
philosopher Timothy Morton earlier already:
Since the Romantic period, nature has been used to support the capitalist theory of
value and to undermine it; to point out what is intrinsically human, and to exclude
90
Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society, 166.
91
Kate Soper, What Is Nature? Culture, Politics and the Non-Human (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 49.
92
Lorraine Daston, Against Nature (Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2019), 7.
93
See Latour, We Have Never Been Modern.
the human; to inspire kindness and compassion, and to justify competition and
cruelty.94
As such, Morton instead argues for an ‘ecology without nature’, treating the term with
suspicion and viewing it as an ideological stumbling block that prevents effective ecological
action.95
Despite its many meanings, and as Soper suggested above, one of the general tensions
within which the concept of nature is caught is the question of whether human beings are
part of it or not. While this seems like a simple binary categorization, it runs across many
different perspectives, usually complicating the question more than elucidating it. It is not
simply a matter of a modern worldview on the one hand, which views nature as something
outside of human society, and a Romantic worldview on the other, which argues that we
should return to it, having indeed become estranged from it. Instead, even within the
modern mind, there is a tension between the idea that human beings have transcended
their natural origins through science and technology, and scientific insights into the
natural processes to which our very own bodies belong. Similarly, for the Romantic mind,
human beings have indeed become estranged from nature and supposedly might need to
return to it in one way or another, but by arguing as such, the Romantic worldview
effectively confirms that human beings can be understood as something other than nature.
The mere use of the word ‘nature’ opens up a pandora box of different and contradicting
definitions, which refuse to be pinned down definitively. Not surprisingly then, given its
proliferating presence over time, the question has left its mark on the history of
architecture as well.
Architecture and Nature

In architecture, the question of what nature is and whether human beings belong to it or
not is often understood as the question of whether architecture, the act of building, is or
can be seen as a part of nature too. Especially since the beginning of the modern period,
in which architecture has been increasingly organized along rationalized and
industrialized modes of production, the relation between architecture and nature (or its
absence) has become more and more problematic. In this sense, in his Words and Buildings
(2000), in the lemma on ‘nature’, English architecture historian Adrian Forty opens with
the observation of how ‘for most of the last five hundred years “nature” has been the main,
94
95
See Morton, Ecology without Nature: Rethinking Environmental Aesthetics.
54
Nature
if not the principal category for organizing thought about what architecture is or might
be.’96
In the description that follows, Forty traces a sprawling collection of different definitions
of and approaches to the notion of ‘nature’ throughout modern architecture history and
its relation with the discipline. He observes how nature is variously interpreted as a source
of beauty, regarded as the origin of architecture, serves as a model for imitation, invoked
to justify artistic license, seen as embodying the political idea of freedom, is understood as
a construct of perception, is used to justify art as a ‘second nature’, is the antidote to
culture, is rejected in favour of technology and is understood as an ecosystem. Taken
together, Forty observes how these ten, perhaps somewhat artificially defined, historical
interpretations largely fall into two categories, which can be distinguished as:
. . . those that propose that architecture is like nature, in that it follows the same laws
or imitates it, and those that say that architecture is nature – that in so far as man
and woman are objects of nature, architecture’s providing them with shelter or
symbolic expression makes it a natural product, in the same way that speech is.97
In other words, in architecture we find the same binary opposition as in modern culture
in general: various attempts have been made to project architectural construction as an
extension of the natural environment, but at the same time, architecture has also often
been perceived as being opposed to nature, as an artificial construction distancing human
dwelling from the natural environment.
In this chapter I will trace how, since the onset of industrialization, people like Ruskin
attempted to project architecture back into nature, arguing that modern society was at risk
of losing touch with the world in which they lived. In the work of Banham, however, we
find the opposite position, an attempt to view architecture as the means with which the
natural environment is made fit for human inhabitation, to the point where nature
becomes part of such artificial construction and disappears. In such a conventional
reading, Ruskin appears as the defender of nature while Banham appears to want to get
rid of nature altogether, but as I will demonstrate, it is perhaps the opposite: Ruskin’s
arguments thoroughly artificialize what he called nature, while Banham is perhaps the one
who took nature – in its broadest and perhaps undefinable sense – seriously on its own
terms. As such, the usual opposition between the natural and the artificial is turned on its
head: what is often claimed to be natural is often a thoroughly artificial construct, while
the artificial is often more real than what is claimed to be natural. In the context of the
environmental crisis, in which the construction industry is seen as complicit in destroying
96
Adrian Forty, Words and Buildings: A Vocabulary of Modern Architecture (London: Thames & Hudson,
2004), 220.
97
Forty, 220.
55
the natural environment, revisiting these positions reminds us that we should be

suspicious of anyone claiming to speak on behalf of nature.
The Invention of Nature

A simple Google search for the term ‘nature’ generally yields images of green and
mountainous landscapes, filled with forests and wildly growing vegetation, adorned by
meandering streams of clear water with small or large waterfalls, filled with birds flying
overhead, insects buzzing all around and wildlife passing by under the shadows of the
trees. These images feel familiar to the modern mind, not only because we have seen them
countless times in the pictures of friends and family on holiday or in advertisements for
both budget and luxury holidays that promise a detox from the stress and noise of the
urban environments in which a lot of us live. But also because these images are over two
centuries old: even in their updated contemporary versions, they are still roughly the same
images of ‘nature’ that were invented around the turn of the nineteenth century by
Romantic landscape painters as John Constable or J.M.W. Turner (Figure 5). As English
art historian Kenneth Clarke observed before, landscape painting was ‘the chief artistic
creation of the nineteenth century’ and it firmly shaped the modern conception of what
nature looks like, which still shapes our perception of it today.98 Specifically, Romantic art
relied on the categories of the Beautiful, the Picturesque and the Sublime to portray and
aestheticize natural landscapes in various ways, with varying degrees of anthropocentrism.
And especially the aesthetic conventions of the Picturesque seem to have defined what we
imagine when we hear the word ‘nature’.
As a small reminder, in its conventional definition, the Picturesque appeared in the
eighteenth century, as a middle ground between the Beautiful and the Sublime. As such, it
was meant as an alternative to the use of symmetric compositions and ideal proportions,
instead favouring irregularities and rugged textures, but not to the point that these would
become overwhelming and seemingly threaten human presence. In other words, its
paradox is that it is the careful composition of the unconstrained, the deliberate attempt
to capture casual informality, the precise portrayal of the imprecise, of harmless ruination
and minor decay, of the soft passing of time, of things coming and going at walking speed.
Or, in its most famous definition by English artist William Gilpin, given in his An Essay
on Prints (1768), it is ‘a term expressive of that peculiar kind of beauty, which is agreeable
in a picture’.99 And it is indeed through pictures that nature has been largely defined.
98
Kenneth Clark, Landscape into Art (Boston: Beacon Press, 1961 [1949]), xvii.
99
William Gilpin, An Essay on Prints, 1768.
56
Nature
Figure 5: St Maurice, J.M.W. Turner, 1826-1827 (illustration in Samuel Roger’s Italy: A Poem, 1830).
The Picturesque tours organized by Gilpin in the 1790s were invented as a challenge to the
more classical Grand Tours of Italy and Greece, and they inspired countless proto-tourists
at the time to go see and appreciate the English countryside instead, its undulating
landscapes filled with fields and forests, dotted with sheep and cattle, a rustic farm here
and there, the hard and rough labour of peasants that from afar looks almost idyllic, and
the occasional ruin of what looks like the remains of a medieval castle or pavilion. Such
so-called Picturesque hunters did not just travel at random, on the contrary, they were
consciously ‘hunting’ for the sight of paintings, of places that looked like paintings, and
for which, to appreciate these sights even more, some of them carried a so-called ‘Claude
Glass’ in their pockets, named after the French, seventeenth-century landscape painter
Claude Lorrain.100 This was a curved piece of brown-tinted glass that, when standing with
your back to the landscape, would reflect and distort the sight into proportions and colours
reminiscent of the paintings that had motivated these hunters to go out of the door in the
first place. In this sense, the Picturesque is still very much alive today, although in an
100
Arnold Berléant, ‘Aesthetic Sensibility’, in Ambiances [online], 30 March 2015.
57
updated way. The laborious travelling has been smoothed out by cheap air travel and the
Claude Glass replaced by Instagram filters, but the desire to go see the same sights someone
else already saw, projected through pictures in popular and social media, persists.
Taking some distance from the historical debates, and for the purpose of this text, we
might rely on different, and more contemporary terms. Here, I would like to think of the
Beautiful, in its idealized harmony, as a thoroughly anthropocentric aesthetic experience,
placing the human observer firmly in the centre of the world, while the Sublime, on the
other hand, appears as a radically non-anthropocentric aesthetic experience, that which
overwhelms and surpasses human intention or presence. The Picturesque, then, is the
attempt to put the human back into the non-human, to stabilize the instability between
humanity and the surrounding world. And that is where it becomes problematic: as it
propagates an image of harmony between human beings and the natural world, it tends to
essentialize such relations with all of the ‘miserable’ consequences such essentialization
usually has.
3.2.1 Picturesque Misery

The way the Picturesque plays a role in the invention and construction of what we call
nature, can explicitly be seen in the work of Ruskin, along with the problems it tries to
cover up. Ruskin was born in 1819 and while the Picturesque might have been a radical
aesthetic notion at the end of the eighteenth century, by the time Ruskin grew up, it had
become an established, bourgeois taste.101 The Ruskin family lived and breathed the
Picturesque sensibility. Not only did John James Ruskin have landscape painters as close
friends, such as J.M.W. Turner and Samuel Prout, with whose work the young Ruskin
grew up, they also engaged in frequent travels through Europe to go see the actual sights
that inspired the work of these painters. Ruskin’s fondest memories, as he recounts in his
diaries, are of his travels by horse and carriage through the European landscapes, especially
the mountains of the Alps.102 These travels took place in a post-Napoleonic Europe, at a
time when nation-states were being built and the idea of national identities flourished, a
context that further shaped Ruskin’s experiences.
It is in the first essays of Ruskin that the themes of the Picturesque, of the landscapes he
saw, and the upcoming nationalism would converge. The pseudonym under which he
published them, ‘Kata Phusin’, which means ‘according to nature’, announced the agenda
for his writings, as did the full title of the book: The Poetry of Architecture; or, The
Architecture of the Nations of Europe Considered in its Association with Natural Scenery
and National Character. As the subtitle indicates, Ruskin sought to conflate human-made
101
Ballantyne, John Ruskin, 26.
102
58
Nature
dwellings with national characteristics and environmental conditions, from a Picturesque

perspective in which things fit aesthetically together as they would in a painting. Indeed,
in Ruskin’s writings, the Picturesque is revealed as an attempt to fit human activities within
non-human environments, neither separate from nor overwhelmed by them, but in
accordance with each other, even supporting each other. As Ruskin writes in the
introduction:
Of all embellishments by which the efforts of man can enhance the beauty of natural
scenery, those are the most effective which can give animation to the scene, while the
spirit which they bestow is in unison with its general character.103
The essays take us on an embellished, literary trip along the sights that Ruskin himself
encountered: to the cottage architecture of England, France, Switzerland and Italy, and to
the villa architecture around Windermere and Lake Cuomo (Figure 6). His aim was to
establish a standard of good taste in architecture, in the same way an art critic would do
for the general public in relation to art, and the standard of good taste he pursued was an
architecture that connected ‘climate, country and people’. For example, in the first essay,
Ruskin contrasts the English cottage with the French one, in which he attributes the
difference between both quite simply to the landscape in which they each sit:
England is a country whose every scene is in miniature. Its green valleys are not wide;
its dewy hills are not high; its forests are of no extent or, rather, it has nothing that
can pretend to a more sounding title than that of ‘wood.’ . . . The English cottage,
therefore, is equally small, equally sheltered, equally invisible at a distance.104
By contrast, Ruskin writes:
France is a country on a large scale. Low, but long, hills sweep away for miles into
vast uninterrupted champaigns; immense forests shadow the country for hundreds
of square miles, without once letting through the light of day; . . . The French cottage,
therefore, is on the same scale, equally large and desolate-looking.105
Beyond such a presumed and perhaps rather comically straightforward equation of
landscape and architecture, climate and cottage, or environment and dwelling, Ruskin
examines the specific architecture of both cottages in relation to a generalized, and often
stereotyped, characterization of the countries to which they belong. He observes how ‘the
principal thing worthy of observation in the lowland cottage of England is its finished
neatness’,106 which he explains by stating that:
103
John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, vol. I
104
Ruskin, I:13–14.
105
Ruskin, I:14.
106
Ruskin, I:12.
59
England is a country of perpetually increasing prosperity and active enterprise; but,

for that very reason, nothing is allowed to remain till it gets old. Large old trees are
cut down for timber; old houses are pulled down for the materials; and old furniture
is laughed at and neglected. Everything is perpetually altered and renewed by the
activity of invention and improvement. The cottage, consequently, has no
dilapidated look about it; it is never suffered to get old; it is used as long as it is
comfortable, and then taken down and rebuilt; for it was originally raised in a style
incapable of resisting the ravages of time.107
By contrast, Ruskin says: ‘There is a general air of nonchalance about the French peasant’s
habitation, which is aided by a perfect want of everything like neatness.’108 Why? Because
. . . the French cottage . . . is just such as we should have expected from the disposition
of its inhabitants; its massive windows, its broken ornaments, its whole air and
appearance, all tell the same tale of venerable age, respected and preserved, till at last
its dilapidation wears an appearance of neglect.109
These generalizing comparisons continue for a while, until finally, Ruskin concludes:
Thus, we have shown that, while the English cottage is pretty from its propriety, the
French cottage, having the same connexion with its climate, country, and people,
produces such a contrast of feeling as bestows on it a beauty addressing itself to the
mind, and is therefore in perfectly good taste.110
The other essays continue in the same vein, retracing Ruskin’s travels across the continent
and portraying different architectures as the extension of their inhabitants’ characters,
their culture and their environment. More importantly, however, this argument sets the
scene for Ruskin to condemn the mixing and moving of these supposedly typical cottages
to other places. For example, at the time of his writing, a number of architects had been
constructing Swiss chalets in London, a prominent one being the chalet in Regent’s Park,
which Ruskin condemned as being completely out of place and out of taste. While the
chalet might look like a Swiss chalet, without Swiss inhabitants, without a Swiss landscape
and without a Swiss climate, this is not a Swiss chalet, he concludes. At times Ruskin seems
to make sense, at others the argument appears to be stretched to the point of caricature,
but what is important here is that in these writings, a direct line can be drawn between the
conventions of the Picturesque, which reduce the world to an aesthetic image of minimal
and non-threatening differences, straight to an essentializing perspective that reduces
climate, country and people to a stabilized and homogeneous totality. At best, Ruskin’s
thought exhibits a sensitivity for relational wholes, in which a Swiss chalet is anything but
107
Ruskin, I:14.
108
Ruskin, I:13.
109
Ruskin, I:15.
110
Ruskin, I:17.
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Swiss if it doesn’t sit in the Swiss landscape, built through Swiss construction practices and
conventions, and imbued with the traditions of Swiss culture. At its worst, it is a static view
of the world in which the whole is fixed and unable to move – with just a small step towards
fixing the people who might inhabit these cottages in their place as well, reduced to cultural
stereotypes, unable to change.
Figure 6: Swiss Cottage, printed in The Poetry of Architecture, John Ruskin, 1837.
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Eventually, this is exactly what happens in Ruskin’s celebrated text ‘The Nature of Gothic’,
in which he sets out his arguments on craftsmanship in relation to Gothic architecture, to
which I will return later on, in the chapter on ‘Technology’. Here, I want to observe how,
with the best intentions, Ruskin formulates a defence of the humanity of craftsmen, which
he sees threatened by industrialization, but in doing so, he resorts to a certain paternalizing
idealization of the people who constructed the Gothic cathedrals of Northern Europe. In
Ruskin’s Picturesque perspective, the Gothic appears as a natural extension of the northern
‘savage’ environment – ‘this look of mountain brotherhood between the cathedral and the
Alp’ – built by human beings who were equally as ‘savage’ – ‘creatures of ungainly shape
and rigid limb, but full of wolfish life; fierce as the winds that beat, and changeful as the
clouds that shade them’ – thus conflating architecture, people and climate into one
harmonious whole.111 Over time, however, Ruskin himself would start to feel uneasy with
such a constrained view of the world. On one of his travels later on, Ruskin visited the
region around Amiens, and wrote in his diary on 12 May 1854:
All exquisitely picturesque, and as miserable as picturesque. We delight in seeing the
figures in the boats pushing them about the bits of blue water in Prout's drawings,
but, as I looked today at the unhealthy face and melancholy, apathetic mien of the
man in the boat, pushing his load of peats along the ditch, and of the people, men
and women, who sat spinning gloomily in the picturesque cottages, I could not help
feeling how many suffering persons must pay for my picturesque subject, and my
happy walk.112
As miserable as picturesque . . . What Ruskin discovers here is the not so pleasant, often
ordinary reality underneath the aesthetic surface of Picturesque representation, which
would not let go of him anymore. For example, six years later, in the final volume of his
Modern Painters, published in 1860, Ruskin would describe a perfectly Picturesque scene
of ‘a little valley of soft turf’ that is crossed by a winding river, ‘a clear brown stream,
drooping into quicker ripple as it reaches the end of the oval field’, but, he writes, we
suddenly stumble on ‘the carcase of a ewe, drowned in the last flood’, which ‘lies nearly
bare to the bone, its white ribs protruding through the skin, raven-torn’, while further
down the stream, we see ‘a man fishing, with a boy and a dog – a picturesque and pretty
group enough certainly, if they had not been there all day starving’, since we can see how
the dog’s ribs ‘are nearly as bare as the dead ewe’s; and the child’s wasted shoulders, cutting
his old tartan jacket through, so sharp are they.’113 As Ruskin intends in this paragraph of
111
John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, vol. X
(London: George Allen, 1908), 186–88.
112
John Ruskin, Diaries, ed. Joan Evans and John H. Whitehouse, vol. II (Oxford: Clarendon, 1956), 493.
113
John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, vol. VII
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writing, the idyllic image of the Picturesque scene he evokes starts to completely fall apart
once the material reality underneath its aesthetic appearance comes to the fore.
While Ruskin’s travels with his parents followed the footsteps of late-eighteenth century
Picturesque hunting, later in his life Ruskin found himself confronted with the uneasy
implications of such a mere aestheticizing approach to the world. The essentializing
tendencies to project a harmonious relationship between human beings and nature
obscures the simple reality that nature can be quite brutal, and that it often is anything but
harmonious. Only seen from a distance, through the frame of a painting or a camera, does
the natural world attain its pleasing character. Ruskin would continue to struggle with the
Picturesque throughout his entire life, often distinguishing between a ‘surface Picturesque’
and a ‘noble’ one. Ultimately, what is important here is to note the fact that an
aestheticization of the natural world always runs the risk of idealizing a state of nature, in
which things have not yet been disrupted by modern human activities but are still in their
proper place, still whole – a view commonly described as ‘holism’.
In his critique of such holism, Morton observes:
As well as being a major ecological ideology, holism constitutes the ‘feel’ of
nationalism – ‘we’ are interconnected in a whole greater than the sum of its parts.
. . . Organisms are politically all-important, and yet they are easily sacrificed for the
sake of the greater whole.114
To some extent, this is indeed what Ruskin discovered: that the lives of actually existing
beings, human or otherwise, is made to confirm to the overall aesthetic picture,
disregarding their own individual needs or wants. It is a logic that defines nationalism as
much as Picturesque projections of nature, and it is therefore no coincidence that Ruskin
conflates both here too.
3.2.2 The Essence of Nature

While the Picturesque became an established, bourgeois taste around the time national
identities were being shaped, it is perhaps no surprise that a similar sentiment resurfaced
over a century later, in the second half of the twentieth century, around the time such
national identities had run their course and the world seemed to have become a
McLuhanesque ‘global village’.115 In this context of increased global displacement, certain
architecture discourses turned towards the question of place and how to retain, or
rediscover, the specificities of the local. Perhaps one of the more prominent authors to
114
115
Marshall McLuhan, The Gutenberg Galaxuxy: The Making of Typographic Man (Toronto: University of
Toronto Press, 1962).
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address these questions was Norwegian architecture theorist Christian Norberg-Schulz,

who in the 1970s imported the philosophical discourse of Heideggerian phenomenology
into architecture theory in order to argue in favour of a so-called ‘genius loci’, or spirit of
place.
Norberg-Schulz drew extensively from Heidegger’s arguments on dwelling, formulated in
his famous text Bauen Wohnen Denken (1951). The rather abstract fourfold Heidegger
discusses there (‘By a primal oneness the four – earth and sky, divinities and mortals –
belong together in one.’116) is transformed by Norberg-Schulz into four more concrete
themes: the topography of the Earth’s surface, the cosmological light and the sky as natural
conditions, human-constructed buildings, and the religious, symbolic and existential
meanings in the cultural landscape.117 Relying on this architectural interpretation of the
Heideggerian fourfold, Norberg-Schulz criticizes the loss of place in the modern world:
Lost is the settlement as a place in nature, lost are the urban foci as places for
common living, lost is the building as a meaningful sub-place where man may
simultaneously experience individuality and belonging. Lost is also the relationship
to earth and sky. Modern buildings exist in a ‘nowhere’; they are not related to the
landscape and not to a coherent, urban whole, but live their abstract life in a kind of
mathematical-technological space which hardly distinguishes between up and
down.118
Norberg-Schulz’s argument addresses the modern world as a whole, abandoning an all too
simplistic return to nature, given the proliferation of urban environments. Yet, the spectre
of nature, or better the spectre of a Picturesque nature, haunts the argument. Even though
the concept of genius loci has become a classic in modern architecture theory, from the
very start Norberg-Schulz was criticized for his traditional and even nostalgic
tendencies.119 This becomes obvious in the examples Norberg-Schulz employs in his main
book on the subject, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (1979), which
emphasize traditional architecture and town centres connected to natural landscapes and
largely lack urbanized environments, except to criticize them. In addition, the book relies
on extensive visual imagery to support the argument, but as other authors have noted, the
use of this imagery is highly staged. In Norberg-Schulz’s argument, the genius loci of a
place seems to rely on a visual harmony, not unlike the Picturesque paintings of the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, in which landscapes and architecture resonate
116
Martin Heidegger, ‘Buiding Dwelling Thinking’, in Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. Albert Hofstadter
(New York: Harper & Row, 1971 [1951]), 149.
117
See Gunila Jivén and Peter J. Larkham, ‘Sense of Place, Authenticity and Character: A Commentary’,
Journal of Urbanism 8, 1 (2003).
118
Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli,
1979), 190.
119
Jivén and Larkham, ‘Sense of Place, Authenticity and Character: A Commentary’, 70.
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aesthetically. As, for example, the Spanish artist and architect Jorge Otero-Pailos
remarked, Norberg-Schulz’s argument ‘presumed a universal and ahistorical subject who
learned through picturing, irrespective of the local topography he or she confronted’.120
Indeed, Norberg-Schulz’s concept of genius loci seems to rely on an ahistorical
understanding of place. In the words of Australian historian Harriet Edquist:
If there is a genius loci, how is it manifested? For Norberg-Schulz it would appear to
manifest itself directly to the human consciousness. It is, at base, an idealist and
essentialist notion, an appeal to a ‘cosmic reality’ which because ‘natural’ can
therefore be directly apprehended.121
Aside from any further possible debates about Norberg-Schulz’s specific argument, his
work is exemplary of a certain recurring tendency that looks towards nature or the natural
to address the ills of modern society. If late eighteenth-century Romanticism was a
response against industrialization, the late twentieth-century defence of ‘place’ is a
response against globalized space. Yet, it is the very question of place that might be
problematic in the first place. It presupposes a stable ground, preferably embedded in a
natural environment, in which human beings are at home – a supposition that might never
have been the case. As Morton writes: ‘Our notions of place are retroactive fantasy
constructs determined precisely by the corrosive effects of modernity. Place was not lost,
though we posit it as something we have lost.’122 The idea of a return to nature, both as a
Romantic desire and a Picturesque aesthetic, or even as a phenomenological experience, is
based on the idea of a harmonious natural whole that was disturbed. Yet, isn’t nature, as
even Darwin observed, fundamentally disturbed? The popular legacy of Darwinism
projects a certain logic into natural evolution, as if there is a plan unfolding according to
a ‘survival of the fittest’. It is noteworthy that this sentence, the one most often cited in
relation to Darwinian thought, was not written by Darwin himself, but added to the
manuscript by his editor to suggest a teleological drive underneath evolution,
undermining Darwin’s radical idea that nature has no purpose, no plan, no order, no
whole – which was unacceptable at the time and still, all too often, seems to be
unacceptable.
Significantly, the projection of a supposed order into nature shows itself in the very word
ecology, as Italian philosopher Emaneule Coccia observes. Derived from the Greek oikos,
the word literally means ‘the science of the household’, as if nature is a big house in which
every species has its own room. Coccia writes:
120
Jorge Otero-Pailos, ‘Photo[Historio]Graphy: Christian Norberg-Schulz’s Demotion of Textual History’,
Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 66, 2 (2007): 238.
121
Harriet Edquist, ‘Genius Loci’, Transition (1988): 80.
122
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First of all, this image is the heart of all patriarchy. Ecology does not realize this,
but it continues to be in essence a patriarchal mythology, regardless of all the efforts
made by eco-feminists. In antiquity as today, the house is a space in which a series
of objects and individuals respect an order, a disposition that aims at the
production of a utility and that is subject to the power of an individual. To say that
life on the planet is a great house means that it respects that order and that each
element that composes it produces a form of utility by virtue of that order.123
More strongly, even, Coccia argues that the metaphor of the household is derived from the
concept of private property: this is my home in the world, that is yours, and while we can
be good neighbours, we should not trespass. At a distance from fields like ecology and
biology, the idea of a natural order that has been disturbed marks most critiques of
modernity, from Ruskin’s Poetry of Architecture to Norberg-Schulz’s genius loci. This is,
however, a stabilized version of nature, an essentialized one, and an aesthetic one, which
is projected retroactively. In such a perspective, nature appears as an artificial construct,
as a fantasy to return to.
3.2.3 Imitating Nature

Since Picturesque pictures of nature are so deeply ingrained in the cultural consciousness
of the modern mind, it is often difficult to look further than such an aestheticized,
essentialized and artificial framing of the natural. Yet, parallel to the Picturesque, a
different understanding of nature persists, which not only flourished in the nineteenth
century against the backdrop of the scientific study of nature’s processes, as in the work of
Ruskin, but stretches back to at least Antiquity, and is often described as organicism.
The term itself carries complex histories in various fields, from philosophy to politics,
biology and art history. It is primarily the latter version that is important here, but before
addressing it, a brief reminder of the broader philosophical idea might be useful.
Organicism as a philosophical term is often used to refer to the idea that the world should
be viewed as alive, similar to an organism, in contrast to reductionist and mechanical
understandings of it. The problem organicist architecture in the broadest sense has, is the
apparent disconnection between the aliveness of the natural world and the seeming inertia
of man-made buildings, especially those constructed through industrialized practices. If
human beings are part of the aliveness of the natural world, how can we then understand
architectural constructions as similarly alive?
123
Emanuele Coccia, ‘Ecology and Home’, Triennale, 25 August 2020, accessed 8 November 2023,
https://triennale.org/en/magazine/coccia-virus.
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One of the main studies on organicism as it developed in the nineteenth century is

Organicism in Nineteenth-Century Architecture (1994) by Dutch art historian Caroline
Van Eck. As she writes:
Organicism is based on the conviction, generally held in artistic theory from
antiquity to the end of the nineteenth century, that art should imitate nature, not
with the aim of producing perfectly faithful copies but with the aim of creating the
illusion of life, of conferring the qualities of living nature upon the products of man,
in the hope of effectuating the metamorphosis of dead matter into living being.
Since such metamorphosis will never be complete, we have to content ourselves
with the use of metaphor: to speak of architecture as if it were part of living nature,
shared her qualities of organic growth and unity, and could copy her methods.124
It is indeed this tension between the attempt to render architecture as equally alive as the
natural world and its failure to truly grow by itself that Ruskin encountered, which led him
at times to abandon earlier arguments on a Picturesque projection into nature – especially
in his first architectural treatise The Seven Lamps of Architecture.
Contrary to appearances, Ruskin was not really interested in Gothic architecture as a mere
style, in the way his contemporary Pugin, for example, was. And indeed, while The Seven
Lamps of Architecture was published as an architectural treatise, it does not contain a
conventional overview of the Gothic, which might have been organized along
chronological or stylistic lines, nor does it even attempt to be a systematic study of it,
revealing underlying principles or rules, as treatises might be expected to do. Instead, it is
a passionate, religious, moralizing text that presents medieval architecture, and especially
the Gothic, as the only ‘good’ architecture, based on a series of values rather than
architectural characteristics. Throughout the book, Ruskin employs the metaphorical
figure of the lamp as a way of discussing the underlying values of architecture, of which he
discerns seven, and which shine with different levels of intensity in each building –
sacrifice, truth, power, beauty, life, memory and obedience. The reason why ‘nature’ is not
listed – which we are here interested in, after all – is simply because the references to nature
can be found throughout the entire text, underlying most of these lamps. This
omnipresence of nature is already visible by simply looking at the fourteen drawings he
included in the publication, and for which, in the first edition, Ruskin apologises for ‘the
hasty and imperfect execution of the plates’,125 a situation he would improve in later
editions, as these were crucial to the argument (Figure 7). The drawings show fragments
of buildings that Ruskin encountered, from Salisbury to Rouen and Venice, buildings of
Gothic architecture, in which the columns rise towards the sky as do trees, their capitals
overgrown with leaves, from which the ribs of the vaults above branch out along the curved
124
Caroline van Eck, Organicism in Nineteenth-Century Architecture: An Inquiry into Its Theoretical and
Philosophical Background (Amsterdam: Architectura & Nature, 1994).
125
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, VIII:4.
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line of a swallow’s flight, or in the way the stem of a flower bends in the wind. . . Indeed,
my generic attempt at metaphorical writing here is perhaps a bit too superficial, but it is
this kind of naturalist language – though in a much more sophisticated version – that
Ruskin employs at various turns in the text. While the seven lamps themselves make no
direct reference to nature, the language with which Ruskin writes overflows with
comparisons to and analogies with the natural world, which is continuously invoked as
the standard against which to judge to what extent architecture confirms to this or that
lamp.
As he writes in ‘The Lamp of Power’, for example: ‘An architect should live as little in cities
as a painter. Send him to our hills, and let him study there what nature understands by a
buttress, and what by a dome.’126 However, the architect, and architecture, is not to merely
copy nature, as he writes in the ‘Lamp of Beauty’:
She is not to imitate directly the natural arrangement; she is not to carve irregular
stems of ivy up her columns to account for the leaves at the top, but she is
nevertheless to place her most exuberant vegetable ornament just where Nature
would have placed it, and to give some indication of that radical and connected
structure which Nature would have given it.127
Architecture should not build trees of stone, of course, but it is to mimic the underlying
logic of nature’s beauty in its own construction – which, sometimes, does actually include
carved ornaments of ‘irregular stems of ivy’ on her columns, as the drawings in the book
demonstrate. Indeed, Ruskin further writes, ‘all beauty is founded on the laws of natural
forms’, even though ‘forms are not beautiful because they are copied from Nature; only it
is out of the power of man to conceive beauty without her aid’.128
Reading the text, there is some ambiguity to what extent Ruskin argues for a conceptual
rather than a formal imitation of nature, but what is clear is that architecture is not nature
itself, it is not simply an extension of it, rather, it is like nature, or supposed to be like
nature. In other words, the construction of stone buildings, which in the modern mind is
a cultural activity using inert and passive matter, is supposed to mimic, literally or
figuratively, the active life and growth of natural plants and trees. This is indeed a different
argument than the Picturesque portrayal of human beings and their dwellings as intrinsic
parts of the natural landscape. Here, instead, Ruskin suggests a parallel between nature
and architecture, but without collapsing both into one and the same thing. This is also the
Romantic mind at work: human beings have been separated from Nature, and to
compensate we need to seek refuge in its image. Architecture needs to represent Nature,
because we, human beings, do not belong to it (anymore):
126
Ruskin, VIII:136.
127
Ruskin, VIII:151.
128
Ruskin, VIII:141.
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Figure 7: Ornaments from Rouen, St Lo and Venice, printed in The Seven Lamps of Architecture, John
Ruskin, 1849.
69
We cannot all have our gardens now, nor our pleasant fields to meditate in at
eventide. Then the function of our architecture is, as far as may be, to replace these;
to tell us about Nature, to possess us with memories of her quietness, to be solemn
and full of tenderness, like her, rich in portraitures of her; full of delicate imagery
of the flowers we can no more gather, and of the living creatures now far away from
us in their own solitude.129
While the above paragraph does evoke a Picturesque image of nature, architecture is not
projected into it, but called upon to re-create it. This is a rather strange position for Ruskin,
since it echoes the modern position of a strict separation between natural and human
affairs, yet he relies on religious arguments to develop his position – a position that Van
Eck describes as ‘religious organicism’.
Aside from Ruskin’s argument on how architecture itself should or should not imitate
nature, it is perhaps first and foremost his own language, the registers in which he writes,
that give the impression that Gothic architecture is like nature. As Van Eck observes: ‘In
Ruskin’s descriptions of the Gothic, architecture comes alive through the choice of
descriptive verbs: it springs into spires, wreathes itself into the semblance of flowers, or
coils into a staircase.’130 And while it might appear that this is Ruskin’s attempt to somehow
remedy the gap between architecture and nature, van Eck suggests a slightly different
ambition. According to her, Ruskin’s metaphorical language was intended as ‘a theological
justification for his love of the art’, an attempt to ‘transfer the religious emotion, previously
reserved for the worship of God and his creation, to works of art’.131 To which she
concludes: ‘By speaking of art as if it were nature, he makes it part of the work of God.’132
Religiously-driven or not, what Ruskin argues for here is an architecture outside of nature,
one that had been separated from the natural world, and to whom the only nature available
was in mimetic representation. This is not the nature of a Picturesque landscape that
immediately surrounds the building, since many of the Gothic’s motifs and ornaments
refer to both generic and imagined types of vegetation. Instead, Ruskin’s argument for
representing the ‘radical and connected structure’ of nature, can be read in the
etymological sense of the word: from the Latin natura, birth. Gothic architecture, in
Ruskin’s religious organicism, represents the desire that we, human beings, fallen from
nature, might give birth to a living world ourselves, a creation that springs forth from our
hands and seemingly lives on. And despite Ruskin’s religious agenda or his Romantic
affinities, this is fundamentally a Promethean, modern dream: to master the powers of the
gods and (re-)create the world ourselves. So, while the Picturesque produces an artificial
129
Ruskin, VIII:411.
130
Van Eck, Organicism in Nineteenth-Century Architecture: An Inquiry into Its Theoretical and
Philosophical Background.
131
Van Eck.
132
Van Eck.
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version of nature in which human beings belong, organicism instead produces an artificial
version of nature explicitly created by human beings. It seems as if by invoking the concept
of nature, architecture becomes even further removed from the actual, existing natural
world. Perhaps we can arrive closer to it by taking the opposite route, by forgetting about
nature altogether.
The Disappearance of Nature

While the environmentalism of the 1960s and 1970s often invoked holist fantasies of a
Picturesque nature that was being destroyed, at the same time, as we saw in the previous
chapter, these decades also saw the birth of more generalized technocratic approaches to
nature, in which the natural world – including human beings – became understood as a
system of interconnected relational processes, as, for example, with the development of
the field of Earth system science. Against the backdrop of such developments, a number
of architecture theorists also started to expand and revise their definitions of architecture
beyond the singular object, adopting a much wider perspective based on contextual
relations. One of the more radical books at the time could be Banham’s Los Angeles: The
Architecture of the Four Ecologies, published in 1971. While Banham did not directly
engage with ecological theory, he was very much aware of both environmental sciences
and their translation into architecture, such as, for example, in the work of Buckminster
Fuller. The use of the word ‘ecology’ in the subtitle of the book echoes such broad views,
but for Banham it was a matter of defining such a notion in architectural terms,
abandoning the biological or scientific connotations it might have had elsewhere.
The radical move Banham made with this book was twofold: on the one hand, Banham
wanted to understand the city of Los Angeles on its own terms, rather than measured
against outdated and conservative urban principles derived from European cities. On the
other, this also led him to develop a much wider perspective on architecture, which went
far beyond the isolated building, instead including the entire landscape in which the city
had developed, its histories, infrastructures, topographies, and social and economic
dynamics. To some extent, one might even say Banham went looking for the ‘genius loci’
of Los Angeles, its specific characteristics, but without the insistence on a natural essence,
instead recognizing its fully artificial existence. Banham saw Los Angeles as a thoroughly
dynamic and ever-changing thing, in which distinctions between culture and nature, city
and landscape, completely collapsed (Figure 8).
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Figure 8: The view south from Griffith Park, printed in Los Angeles: The Architecture of the Four Ecologies,
Reyner Banham, 1971.
The book was part of a broader and more long-standing engagement with the city. In 1965,
Banham visited the city for the first time, funded by the Graham Foundation to participate
in a symposium hosted by the Urban Design Department at the University of California,
and in 1968, he worked on a series of four radio talks, one of which focused extensively on
Los Angeles, and of which the texts that were published in the BBC’s literary magazine The
Listener would become the basis for Los Angeles: The Architecture of the Four Ecologies.
Following the publication, in 1972, the BBC released a film titled Reyner Banham Loves
Los Angeles, in which Banham himself, as the title emphasizes, declares his great love for
the city. The opening scene shows Banham arriving in Los Angeles, walking out of the
airport and crossing a busy street to find his way to a rental car. In voiceover, he introduces
himself, and poses the question the film sets out to answer: ‘You might wonder what I’m
doing in Los Angeles, which makes a nonsense of history and breaks all the rules.’ To
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which he provocatively adds: ‘Well, I love the place with a passion that goes beyond all
reason.’133
While Banham’s turn towards the United States was largely the result of an interest in what
he perceived as the technological superiority of American architecture at the time, the city
of Los Angeles specifically appeared to Banham as a prime example of what a ‘post-urban,
radical city for the Second Machine Age’ might be.134 In line with the Futurist principles
that Banham ascribed to, the dynamic character of the city presented a challenge to
traditional architecture history, with its focus on static, singular, and long-lasting
buildings. Instead, here, to understand the city, one had to approach it on its own terms,
that is, from a more dynamic and moving position, an embodied perspective of the kinetic
experience that defined the city as an ongoing process. In the words of British architecture
theorist Anthony Vidler, Banham approached Los Angeles with ‘a freeway model of
history’135 – and that is to be taken quite literally.
After his first visit, in 1966, Banham took up driving lessons and obtained his driving
license by the end of the same year. If he was to take the city of Los Angeles seriously, as
an environment defined by flows rather than objects, he needed to be able to navigate its
freeways, to observe it through the tinted frame of a windshield – ‘To read Los Angeles in
the original’,136 as Banham put it himself. (This rite of passage, however, came at a personal
price: ‘But you’ve spoiled everything by learning how to drive,’ Banham observed when he
received his license. ‘People who rave on about technology are supposed to know nothing
about it.’137)
Banham’s engagement with Los Angeles allowed him to further explore his definition of
architecture as a ‘fit environment for human activities’, which he had developed in the
1960s in writings such as the book The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment,
and famous essays like ‘A Home Is Not a House’ and ‘The Great Gizmo’, in which
mechanical services and technological devices play a central role. While these writings
were still part of Banham’s search for an architecture autre and operated on the level of the
building, in which he opposed a European, monumental approach focused on outward
form to an American, anti-monumental approach focused on what he described as a
‘standard-of-living-package’, Los Angeles allowed him to take this approach to a wider
scale and focus on whole ‘ecologies’ instead.
133
Reyner Banham Loves Los Angeles (BBC Films Production, 1972).
134
Whiteley, Reyner Banham, 225.
135
Anthony Vidler, Histories of the Immediate Present: Inventing Architectural Modernism (Cambridge,
Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 1987), 169.
136
Reyner Banham, Los Angeles: The Architecture of the Four Ecologies (London: The Penguin Press, 1971),
23.
137
Reyner Banham, A Critic Writes: Essays by Reyner Banham, ed. Mary Banham et al. (Berkely: University
of California Press, 1996), 123.
73
While Banham never associated himself directly with any of the environmentalist
movements of the 1960s and 1970s, his shift towards the city as an environment can still
be read against the background of a growing awareness that things are more
interconnected than had been assumed up until then. To realize his ‘freeway model of
history’ in Los Angeles, including all the congestion, noise and air pollution, he thus
borrowed terminology from the environmentalist movements and set out to analyse the
city as an ecosystem in its own right, prominently appropriating the term ‘ecology’ in the
subtitle of the resulting study. Although there is not much in the book that we would
conventionally associate with ‘ecological’ thought in the environmentalist sense, Banham’s
work does exemplify an expanded view on things: rather than studying architecture in
isolation, he was interested in a more relational approach, which could account for the
interplay between ‘geography, climate, economics, demography, mechanics and
culture’.138 While it thus might seem ironic that Banham’s turn towards ‘ecology’ coincides
with his work on one of the, at the time, largest metropolises in the world, this was exactly
the point. Banham was not interested in a Picturesque nature, but in a total environment,
which could just as well be urban.
Following the subtitle, the book is mainly structured around what Banham calls the ‘four
ecologies’ of Los Angeles: Surfurbia (the string of beach cities along the Pacific coast),
Foothills (‘foothill ecology [is really all about] narrow, tortuous residential roads serving
precipitous house-plots that often back up directly on unimproved wilderness’139), The
Plains of Id (the ‘great service area feeding and supplying the foothills and beaches’140), and
Autopia (the freeways and their flows of car traffic). In these chapters, Banham gives an
overview of each of these distinct environments, relating the geological history of the
Greater Los Angeles basin to the omnipresence of surfboards and human-made
constructions such as Craig Ellwood’s Hunt House; from Angel Flight’s funicular railway
and the lightly curving roads of Beverly Hills to the earth forms created by ‘mountain
cropping’, which consists of scraping away the mountain until you have a horizontal
surface to build on, and which produces continuously crumbling cliffs; the agricultural
history of land division to twentieth-century urban sprawl along endless grids and the
characteristic ‘dingbat’ as a minimal form of multifamily residential unit; and the history
of Los Angeles’s railway infrastructure to its current freeway network (especially the
interchange linking the 10 and 405 freeways, which he considered a true work of art) and
the Angeleno culture of automobility.
Whatever personal agendas Banham was advancing with this book on Los Angeles at the
time (exploding conventional architecture history, challenging distinctions between high
and low culture, finding alternatives for the traditional and paternalistic English town
138
Banham, Los Angeles: The Architecture of the Four Ecologies, 24.
139
Banham, 99.
140
Banham, 173.
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planning at home141), what we are interested in here is the underlying perspective that the
notion of ecology proposes – and often also its limits. As noted, Banham’s ecological
approach has little to do with an environmentalist agenda, instead his notion of ecology
should be understood in machinic terms, similar to the perspective of the systems theories
that were being developed at the time. Perhaps most significantly, and from an
environmentalist perspective after all, the Limits to Growth report of the Club of Rome,
which was published in 1972, the same year as Reyner Banham Loves Los Angeles was
released, employed systems theory to develop its argument on the limits of a growth-based
society. The whole argument of the report drew from computer models developed by
American MIT computer engineer Jay Wright Forrester, the founder of the field of ‘system
dynamics’. His two major books Urban Dynamics and World Dynamics were an attempt
to model the complex interactions between world economy, population growth and
ecology, and were illustrated with his characteristic complex diagrams that schematize
these interactions. Without going too far into the specifics of these theories, what these
diagrams ideologically exemplify is a worldview that does not distinguish between the
natural and the human, the social and the material, but maps out all of these different
factors as if they were parts of a single machine.
In contemporary terms, the machinic ecologies of such system theories can be seen to
operate within a so-called flat ontology, similar to later theories such as actor-network
theory. It might be a step too far to characterize Banham the Angeleno as a Latour avant
la lettre, but his work on Los Angeles does exhibit a similar emphasis on relations (defined
by action) rather than on the actors on their own. As others have noted, the problem with
such an approach is that, at its most extreme, the parts become subservient to the whole,
replaceable even, as long as the system as a whole keeps running.142 Put differently, and
again in contemporary terms, while much of ecological theory is focused on dismantling
nature-culture binaries, here we find the downside of such disappearance: the natural loses
its defence against the cultural – and thus against the industrial, the consumptive, the
extractive.
If this seems like an over-interpretation of Banham’s work, that is because it probably is.
But at the same time it does help to clarify why Banham remained ever-optimistic about
Los Angeles, and failed to condemn some of its problematic aspects, for which he was
criticized at the time as well. Such neglect was not a coincidence, but a side-effect of his
interest in the machine as a whole. For example, the year Banham visited the city for the
first time, in 1965, was also the year of the so-called Watts riots, which profoundly
destabilized the city and drew international attention to elements of racial segregation and
141
See for example Chapter 6 ‘Expendable Icons and Softer Hardware’ in Whiteley, Reyner Banham, 308–
61.
142
See for example Chapter 3 on ‘Subscendence’ in Morton’s Humankind, where they formulate the
conceptual alternative to such totalizing holism. Timothy Morton, Humankind: Solidarity with Non-
Human People (New York: Verso Books, 2017).
75
discrimination embedded in its urban structure. In the book, on the one hand, there is not
a single reference to these events, while the film, on the other, does open with Banham
visiting the Watts neighbourhood, a scene in which he vaguely points out the area where
these events happened, only to move on quickly to the local peculiarity of the Watts towers.
Additionally, despite the self-proclaimed ecological approach, Banham’s treatment of
actual environmental problems is similarly lacking, both in the book and the film. While
Banham enthusiastically embraced the machinic ecology of Autopia, the city had a well-
known reputation for air pollution and smog. Not only did Banham downplay this reality
– suggesting that it was no worse than London – he even celebrated its presence. In the
closing scene to the BBC film, Banham takes us on a drive towards the ocean to enjoy ‘one
of the most famous and best-loved sights in all of Los Angeles’: the sunset (Figure 9). The
voice-over of the film concludes:
That view of the sunset is a like a symbol for all Romantic aspirations of our city,
we have named everything from bars to boulevards after it. God gave us the sun
and the ocean, but the colours come mostly from the fumes and pollution that we
ourselves pump into the atmosphere every day. Enjoy it, the best of it doesn’t last
long.143
To which Banham himself, driving along in his rented car, exaggerates even more:
That moment when the sun goes down beneath the Western Ocean [sic], because
she’s got nowhere else to go, that great moment of plastic fluorescent spectacle, the
sun going down in man-made splendour, that really is, to all us lovers of Los
Angeles, the greatest exit line any city could ever have.144
Of course, Banham was no stranger to provocation, and these last lines of the film could
easily be interpreted as a tongue-in-cheek reference to Los Angeles’s bad reputation. As
British architecture theorist Nigel Whiteley observed in his monograph Reyner Banham:
Historian of the Immediate Future (2002): ‘To an extent he is overstating his case in order
to counter the usual criticisms, often repeated without direct evidence, that the freeway
system was a polluting, frustrating, extended traffic jam which brought out aggression and
fueled alienation.’145 To which Whiteley adds that, despite the possibility of ironic
exaggeration, Banham can nonetheless be justifiably criticized for writing about the
freeway ‘from the restricted point of view of relatively affluent, mobile, independent, solo,
white-collar-professional, alert, fulfilled, (usually white) males.’146 This leads Banham to
generalizing statements, for example how Angeleno drivers ‘are relaxed and well-adjusted
characters without an identity problem in the world, for whom the freeway is not a limbo
143
Reyner Banham Loves Los Angeles.
144
Reyner Banham Loves Los Angeles.
145
146
Whiteley, 234.
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of existential angst, but the place where they spend the two calmest and most rewarding
hours of their daily lives.’147 Which perhaps touches upon the core limitation of Banham’s
ecological, systems-theoretical approach: he appeared in Los Angeles as an outsider, a
visiting scholar at best, a tourist at worst. And it was only from this distanced position as
an outsider that he could approach and take in the city without a priori judgements about
its pollution or social injustice. Indeed, with a driver license in his pocket and the
fluorescent sunshine at his back, cruising along the freeways at a leisurely speed, Banham
saw Los Angeles ‘in the original’, on terms dictated by the city itself, terms he was not
interested in changing.
Figure 9: Sunset, screencap taken from Reyner Banham Loves Los Angeles, dir. Julian Cooper, 1971.
147
Banham, Los Angeles: The Architecture of the Four Ecologies, 222.
77
Banham’s work on Los Angeles has rightly been praised for expanding the field of
architecture, widening the scope of architecture history and theory while transforming its
methods, and for breaking down conservative and traditional barriers between high and
low culture, between architecture and its environment. I would argue, however, that
Banham’s appropriation of an ecological perspective without nature – and perhaps even
without a Picturesque nature – loses its ability to condemn actual environmental problems,
as the world is cast as a machinic assemblage in which the connections between its parts
are interpreted relationally and the parts themselves become expendable as long as the
whole keeps running. The vaguely-defined ‘ecology for architecture’ that Banham
proposes in the title of the conclusion of the book is therefore perhaps the opposite of
Ruskin’s Picturesque: while Ruskin placed architecture (and its inhabitants) as
essentialized elements within the broader natural landscape, here, by contrast, Banham
situates the natural environments of Los Angeles – its beaches, its hills, its plains – as part
of the city, appropriated by human society. Without any distinction between the natural
and the cultural, whatever is left of nature is simply absorbed into the machine, as but
another part of the ecological system as a whole.
The Return of Nature

Despite attempts to fully rationalize nature as systemic ecologies, something always seems
to escape. Is this not what characterizes the environmental crisis, the observation that
things are out of control, always seem to go beyond climate models and other calculations?
Even Banham, with his incessant talent to analyse, would eventually admit to the fact that
something is out there, not in the extra-terrestrial sense, but very terrestrial indeed.
It is perhaps one of Banham’s most iconic photographs: the English professor of
architecture history, aged 58, in full Western mode, with a Stetson hat, bolo tie, cowboy
boots, but instead of a horse, he is riding a foldable Moulton bike across the dried-up bed
of the Silurian Lake in the Mojave Desert (Figure 10). The photo was shot in 1980 by Los
Angeles-based English photographer Tim Street-Porter and stages Banham’s self-
proclaimed persona as a ‘desert freak’. But what was Banham, the neo-Futurist champion
of the Modern Movement, pop-culture aficionado, and high-tech enthusiast, doing in the
desert?
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Nature
Figure 10: Reyner Banham cycling on the Silurian Dry Lake, California, 1981 (photography by Tim Street-
Porter).
In February 1968, ‘in that high season of pop culture’, Banham drove up to Las Vegas, ‘to
enjoy and photograph the lights’.148 Returning to Los Angeles the next morning, Banham
made an impromptu stop just south of Baker, for breakfast and fuel. Upon switching off
the engine and stepping out of the car, Banham reports to have been overwhelmed by
‘silence, heat and light’.149 This unexpected and unplanned bodily experience was the start
of an increasing fascination with the environment of the desert, a fascination that would
culminate in the publication of one of his lesser-known works, Scenes in America Deserta,
published over a decade later in 1982.
The book is perhaps Banham’s most direct engagement with any natural environment.
While most of his work largely focused on architecture and urbanism, in the desert he
found himself suddenly confronted with an entire landscape. Such a confrontation
inevitably carries the echoes of eighteenth-century philosophical debates on the aesthetic
categories of natural beauty, which Banham had since long disregarded as old-fashioned
and irrelevant in the context of the Machine Age. As he writes in the introduction of the
148
Reyner Banham, Scenes in America Deserta (London: Thames & Hudson, 1982), 7.
149
Banham, 5.
79
book: ‘On First Setting Foot . . . [the desert] brings me hard up against my inner self, and
forces me to ask what are, for me, difficult questions; like, what is the nature of natural
beauty?’150 The way Banham deals with these questions is, on the one hand, by falling back
on the rather conventional art-historical reflex of demonstrating that such beauty is always
a cultural construct, while on the other questioning if such a position is enough to truly
grasp the impact the desert had on him.
Indeed, in art-historical mode, which is the mode in which most of the book operates,
Banham attempts to present the desert as a cultural object, which he could then interpret.
As American-British art historian Richard J. Williams summarizes in his recent Banham
biography:
This was a vital theme throughout the book: that the desert was not a void, despite
its etymology, the Latin desertus, literally meaning ‘left waste’. Instead, the desert was
full of life, particularly human life, and at a certain level it existed because of, rather
than in spite of, human activity.151
In the introduction, Banham indeed admits that it would be impossible for him to see the
desert as anything but a human construct – or rather, that his engagement of the desert
would inevitably be distorted by the cultural frame through which he would approach it.
A note in Banham’s personal archives at the Getty outlines the intention of the book in its
early stages:
It will be the deserts as seen – but not seen by innocent eyes; as a Briton I am heir to
a powerful literary tradition, back through Doughty’s Arabia Deserta to the rolling
rhetoric of the King James Bible that colours all perceptions of deserts wherever they
may be. Englishmen carry a private desert in their heads against which other deserts
are measured.152
In addition, there was also the technological mediation of encountering the desert, as he
rather exaggeratedly observes in the introduction of the book:
. . . for my own affluent generation of tourists, those cultural filters are also physical
facts, one in front of each of our eyes. We see sunny places by courtesy of Zeiss,
Bausch & Lomb, Correna, Sundym and Polaroid, and we see just as much of the
brilliant scene and its colors as their products – balanced forgotten on our noses –
permit us to see.153
This remark is made in a discussion of the quality of light in the desert, which Banham
describes as being reminiscent of ‘Monet’s seascapes and haystacks, of open-air Van Goghs
150
Banham, 18.
151
Williams, Reyner Banham Revisited, 180.
152
Williams, 179.
153
Banham, Scenes in America Deserta, 6.
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and middle-period Cezannes’,154 but it also echoes the fact that most of his sightseeing was
done through the windshield, in the climate-controlled interior of a rental car, which
allowed him and the photographers he brought along to travel the large distances quickly,
safely and comfortably – an entirely different type of encounter with the landscape than
any of its inhabitants might have. Banham fully assumed his position as an outsider: ‘. . .
it is a landscape where I will always be an observer, a traveller – a tourist if you will because
I am unlikely to live long enough in that terrain to acquire the deeply ingrained knowledge
of an old desert hand.’155 As such, it was an approach similar to the one he had employed
in Los Angeles, and to some extent his work on the desert is indeed a continuation of the
‘ecological’ approach he had developed there. It was an attempt ‘to capture the
completeness of a scene’,156 to grasp an entire environment and everything it contained.
So, what did it contain?
A lot of human activity, indeed.
First of all, human inhabitation: from religious and colonialist landmarks such as San
Xavier del Bac to vernacular settlements like Taos Pueblo as well as archaeological sites
like Kuaua. Furthermore, there was also the inevitable presence of traffic (‘An American
desert may be cynically described as an arid zone with a four-lane highway slapped down
in the middle of it.’157) as well as military exercises (‘. . . a double thunderclap out of the
upper air as a plane from Edwards Air Force Base cracks through the sonic barrier.’158),
industrial activity (‘Mining, assuredly, makes some mighty holes in the face of the
Mojave.’159), and scientific installations such as the Mayall telescope at Kitt Peak (‘In that
bowl of light we see the sun trapped for the purpose of modern science, much as men of
earlier civilizations tried to trap the image of the sun for their no more arcane purposes
and magic.’160). Additionally, there is also a chapter devoted to ‘The Written Word’, in
which Banham addresses the literary figure of the desert, most notably in travelogues such
as John van Dyke’s The Desert: Further Studies in Natural Appearances and Charles M.
Doughty’s Travels in Arabia Deserta – from which Banham borrowed the title – but also
in science fiction such as Frank Herbert’s Dune. All of this gives us an idea of Banham’s
approach: the desert on its own did not really attract him, instead, he focused on the way
human beings inhabit and appropriate such an environment, the relation between both.
As he writes towards the end of the book:
154
Banham, 6.
155
Williams, Reyner Banham Revisited, 180–81.
156
Williams, 203.
157
158
Banham, 191.
159
Banham, 197.
160
Banham, 187.
81
. . . the works of men always interest me as much as the landscape in which they are
wrought. The tire tracks in the sand, the old arastra by the gold mine’s mouth, the
grove where the station used to be, the shiny power pylons marching over the
horizon, the old windmill in the canyon and the new telescope repeater on the peak,
the Indian pictograph and the anti-war graffiti, the trailer home parked in the
middle of nothing, the fragment of Coalport china found in the sand at the bottom
of the wash. One of the reasons why the Mojave is my prime desert is that there are
more traces of man to be seen, traces more various in their history and their
import.161
This interest is perhaps the most visible in the chapter titled ‘Frank Lloyd Wright Country’,
in which he revisits some of Wright’s works in the Arizona desert and their engagement
with ‘the landscape in which they are wrought’. After briefly revisiting Wright’s failed
projects – the burned down Rose Pauson House and the abandoned Ocatillo Camp –
Banham then moves on to the Taliesin West project, Wright’s winter home and desert
laboratory he established in 1937, but that, at the time of Banham’s visit two decades later,
had become a museum open to tourists (Figure 11). Banham seems to find some joy in the
way this project also had its failures: its architecture consisted of massive walls, a
combination of desert rocks and reinforced concrete, which had been repaired beyond
recognition over time, and canvas roofs, which later had been covered with plastic tiles –
a material Wright abhorred – for protection from both the rain and the blazing sun. There
was also the famous controversy about the electrical power lines: the complex had been
designed to open up towards the view of the valley, which in the 1940s started to be filled
with power lines crossing the desert. Wright reportedly wrote a letter to President Harry
S. Truman demanding they would be buried, but to no success. Eventually, Wright turned
his back on the valley and moved the entrance to the back of the main building. Yet beyond
such anecdotes, as Williams writes, Taliesin
. . . addressed (even if not entirely successful) the specifics of the desert site, making
use of technology to make the desert inhabitable. Partly this was electricity and fuel
applied to the landscape, partly the use of thick walls, partly the allusions to camping
with the canvas roof materials and the informal layout of the site.162
Or in the more concise words of Whitely: ‘The essence of his interest was what he
identified in Scenes as the interrelationships of “man, machine, and wilderness,” which I
think can be generalized as “humans, technology, and environment”.’163 This is how the
relation between architecture and the natural landscape of the desert was understood by
161
Banham, 199–200.
162
163
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Banham: as environmental conditions and climatological parameters to be regulated

through architectural technologies.
Figure 11: Taliesin West, Arizona, Frank Lloyd Wright, 1937 (photograph by Julius Shulman).
Indeed, Banham made a conscious and explicit attempt to avoid engaging with ‘nature’,
either by rendering the desert as a thoroughly cultural construct, or by reducing the natural
to an environment to be controlled. The notion of nature, in the full Romantic sense, was
impossible to avoid altogether however, and the book closes with a final chapter in which
he finally faces the question of natural beauty, under the title ‘The Eye of the Beholder’.
In the opening scene to the chapter, Banham recalls how he and a photographer drove
towards the Cowhole Mountains, when suddenly the view opened up and upon seeing the
landscape, ‘the truck stopped almost of its own accord’, they jumped out in great haste,
and both of them, ‘professional and amateur’, reached for their cameras:
83
. . . what was at stake was a scene of exquisite and evanescent beauty – the time, the
temperature, and the angle of the sun at that season had together caused the early
mist on the salt not to fray away in wisps and fragments, but to lift in uniform
horizontal layers which now banded the face of the mountains in pale veilings of
faint luminescence. The effect was like nothing I have seen on the desert or elsewhere
– a delicate limpidity and perfectly layered geometrical regularity, all subtle and
precise, too atmospherically to last.164
It was only later, after returning and looking at the contact sheets and colour slides that
had insufficiently captured the moment, that Banham could not avoid the ‘difficult
question’ anymore: ‘Why is it “beautiful” to me?’165
Inevitably, for Banham the art historian, such a question about the natural ‘beauty’ of a
landscape becomes distorted by references to eighteenth-century aesthetic categories. And
indeed, it is tempting to liken Banham’s travels through the desert to Ruskin’s Picturesque
hunting of over a century earlier. Yet, he suggests, in the case of the desert, such
comparisons are perhaps not enough. This last chapter is a reflection on his own visual
sophistication, which gets in the way of truly seeing, experiencing, understanding and
relating to nature. ‘Every piece of landscape that I might admire in my native parts of
England, for instance, has a painter’s signature in the bottom right hand corner, so to
speak, and sometimes a date as well.’166 Or further on: ‘The colors which I had learned to
regard as “naturally beautiful” came from John Sell Cotman’s watercolors.’167 All of these
art-historical references that are impossible to ignore at home, Banham realizes, have been
developed in the face of European landscapes, which is an entirely different environment,
and perhaps not applicable on the other side of the Atlantic. As such, Banham claims that
the Mojave Desert is neither Picturesque, ‘because unpictured’,168 not Sublime, ‘because
not awesome nor terrifying’,169 even ‘boring rather than daunting’,170 and simply ‘calm’,171
nor even Beautiful in the strict sense of Burke’s or Sir Uvedale Price’s work, since it is ‘not
soft, gentle, “feminine”, and all that’.172 But, then, what is it?
Seemingly liberated from his cultural baggage, Banham raises the naïve question of if he
might have experienced ‘a pure aesthetic response’:
164
165
Banham, 210.
166
Banham, 212.
167
Banham, 212.
168
Banham, 218.
169
Banham, 218.
170
Banham, 218.
171
Banham, 219.
172
Banham, 17.
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Nature
Deprived of the ancient categories of Picturesque and Sublime; dubious as to

whether the deserts may be Beautiful in any equally ancient sense; knowing that I
came into America Deserta culturally naked and ill-prepared; aware that I return
to these landscapes in order to feast my eyes on visions that I am prepared to term
addictive; I find myself driven closer than ever in my life to the idea that some
scenes may be perceived as, simply, ‘beautiful’ – that the unthinking desert
layabouts who say that ‘it just is’ may be onto something real. . . . And I think that
surprising something is, after all, a matter of color and light.173
Of course, he is quick to point that such an experience of pure colour and light had already
been codified by abstract art, which is, as English critic Lawrence Alloway that Banham
references has observed, ‘just another iconography’.174 But instead of accepting such a
judgment, here Banham returns to that overwhelming sensation of ‘silence, heat and light’
he experienced the first time he set foot in the desert, and which seems to escape any
attempt at iconographic codification.
Indeed, one might wonder if we take cover behind the sunglasses of our
technological culture, not simply because the light is strong and threatens to hurt
our eyes, but because the light is so extreme, and the independence of color and form
so unsettling, that it somehow threatens our established psychologies as well, and
evokes uninvited responses with a directness that is difficult to bear.175
The chapter concludes rather open-ended: Banham proposes the possibility of a pure
aesthetic response, admits that even such an experience has some established iconography
in abstract art, but concludes that any attempt to codify it further, to describe it, to even
use a word like ‘beautiful’, but also others such as ‘mystical’ or ‘hallucinatory’, are perhaps
‘convenient labels with which to categorize, and thus tame, responses that were not tame.
. .’176 Banham’s personal conclusion was thus a rather existential one, where he concludes
that he ‘lost’ himself in the desert, ‘in the sense that I now feel I understand myself less
than I did before’.177 Unable to account for his experience in the desert, he turns around
and contemplates himself instead – as the desert tends to invite its visitors to do. Our
conclusion is perhaps a bit broader: on the one hand, Banham tries to take the natural
beauty of the desert seriously on its own terms, refusing to admit to established aesthetic
conventions, while entertaining the question of whether an unmediated encounter with
nature is possible. On the other hand, the only way this might be possible is by reducing
173
Banham, 221.
174
Banham, 211.
175
Banham, 224.
176
Banham, 225.
177
Banham, 225.
85
the desert to mere sensory inputs, again a bodily experience of the environment as
climatological conditions.
This last chapter emphasizes what we already learned at Taliesin: here, in the desert seen
through Banham’s eyes, we find an architecture that is opposed to nature, that mediates
nature to make the environment inhabitable, or rather, that mediates its effects of light
and heat, since the actual desert, on its own, remains largely absent. There may be
something out there, there may be something that we could call nature and that exists on
its own, but if it does, it is inaccessible to human experience, since human experience
always seems to distort and culturalize whatever confrontation we may have with nature.
Forgetting Nature
This chapter started with the question of what nature is. As I have tried to demonstrate,
and as other authors have observed as well, this is perhaps an impossible question, as it
always gets entangled with the question of what the human is, and as such, nature never
appears as something on its own, but is always constructed through human frames of
understanding. Architecture also seems to play a role in constructing the category of
nature: the way we conceive of what nature is and transform the built environment
accordingly, reinforces and projects the very artificial definition we started out from. For
example, as we have seen in the case of Ruskin, architecture sometimes functions to project
a Picturesque version of nature, by building a specific type of architecture that aesthetically
corresponds with the natural environment it is located in, reinforcing the idea of an
idealized harmony between human beings and nature, but which often seems to cover up
the harsh reality that nature is not at all friendly to human beings. On the opposite side of
the spectrum, in a metropolitan environment like Los Angeles, we can see how nature is
completely absorbed into the human-made urban environment, as one of its many parts,
without distinguishing it from the artificial, but in doing so also opening it up to its
destruction. Either way, that which we generally describe as nature, inevitably entangles
with the human. This does not mean there is not something out there, but it does mean
that it is inaccessible. We should thus be suspicious of any reference made to the natural,
as it always hides an ideological agenda that refers back to the human. Perhaps a better
way of addressing the world around us – the environment – would be to try and forget
about ‘nature’ and approach it as material processes, which allows us to move beyond the
binary opposition between the natural and the human, but which opens up another set of
questions.
86
Materiality
We seem to find ourselves in the middle of a crisis of materiality.

On the one hand, there appears to be a lack of materials. The world economy is running
out of resources. Over the past few years, the construction industry has faced shortages of
building materials, with skyrocketing prices as a result. The agricultural industry is
suffering from soil degradation, risking worldwide harvest shortages in the next few
decades. The supply of rare earth materials currently does not match the projected demand
of the coming years. The Amazon is disappearing due to deforestation at an alarming rate,
coral reefs are dying off, glaciers are melting. We are living through the Sixth Mass
Extinction, with large populations of insects, fish, mammals and all kinds of life dwindling.
It seems as if the material world – in the broadest sense – around us has become
fundamentally unstable and is disappearing more and more by the day.
At the same time, there is an excess of materials. Oceans are getting saturated with plastics.
The atmosphere is filling up with higher and higher levels of carbon dioxide. Landfills are
overflowing with all kinds of trash, consumer and industrial. Countries are struggling with
safely storing nuclear waste. Every few months another oil spill occurs, covering local
ecosystems without sufficient efforts to clean them up. Vast amounts of stuff are covering
the planet, to the point where we need new words to describe these phenomena, such as
the word ‘hyperobject’, coined by eco-philosopher Timothy Morton, referring to objects
so large we can only see glimpses of them at a time, for example the total amount of
Styrofoam ever produced and distributed around the world.178
In other words, there seems to be both a shortage and an excess of materials, of things, of
stuff. It’s not surprising therefore, that in recent years there has been a renewed interest in
the notion of materiality – as we already saw briefly in the chapter on ‘An Ecological
Sensibility’ – which seems to revolve around the tension between the material and the
immaterial, a tension that can be traced historically but has perhaps received a new kind
of urgency in light of the environmental crisis. In architecture, for example, in an attempt
to reduce consumption and pollution, the construction industry has pushed the
development of all kinds of energy-efficiency standards and certificates of sustainability,
relying on the abstraction of numbers and data to calculate and map out the lifecycles of
entire building processes. Such network-oriented approaches often try to offer a broader
perspective on construction, beyond the singular building, in an attempt to include the
processes of extraction, production, construction, inhabitation, adaptation, renovation,
recycling and destruction. Yet, in doing so, the building as a tangible architectural object
178
See Morton, Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology After the End of the World.
often disappears in the endless flow of abstract calculations.179 By contrast, there has also
been a renewed interest in craftsmanship, in an attempt to get back in touch with the actual
tangible materials out of which a building is constructed. Such approaches often favour
the small-scale and local production of materials side by side with low-tech construction
methods, in which the traces of where those materials come from and the hands of those
who manipulated them remain visible. The result of such practices are buildings that
foreground themselves as material entities in the world, carrying the traces of their
biographies over time.180
As I will argue in this chapter, the tension between the material and the immaterial is
nothing new, but to a large extent has defined modern architecture history since the mid-
nineteenth century. The history of modern architecture can indeed be read as an attempt
to embrace the immaterial, in tune with the modern worldview that increasingly separates
itself from the messiness of matter, while the material returns again and again, as the
repressed often does. But first, before going into architecture history and the role played
by Ruskin and Banham in this story, let us zoom out a bit more and look at what is at stake
today in contemporary debates on materiality.
A Renewed Materialism
Given this contemporary situation, it is no surprise that contemporary theory has shown
a renewed interest in the notion of materiality. As already mentioned in the chapter on
‘An Ecological Sensibility’, since at least the 1980s there has been a renewed attention for
the agency of objects, of things, of matter.181 After decades of theorizing immaterial notions
such as language, ideology and power, in which material objects were but mere passive
receptacles for human meaning, the environmental crisis has provoked theorists to think
about the agency of the material world beyond human intentions. This is generally framed
as a ‘new materialism’, in which modern binaries like subject/object and
human/nonhuman are problematized, while exploring different ways of conceptualizing
the relationship between human beings and material objects, acknowledging, for example,
179
For one of the more popular theoretical arguments on such a relational view of architecture, see Bruno
Latour and Albena Yaneva, ‘Give Me a Gun and I Will Make All Buildings Move: An ANT’s View of
Architecture’, in Architectural Theories of the Environment: Posthuman Territory, ed. Ariane Lourie
Harrison (London: Routledge, 2013), 117–24.
180
For example, see Pauline Lefebvre and BC Architects & Studies, The Act of Building (Antwerp: Flanders
Architecture Institute, 2018).
181
This shift in attention towards nonhuman agency is to a large extent the result of theoretical frameworks
as Actor-Network Theory, developed in the 1980s by Michel Callon, Madeleine Akrich, Bruno Latour
and John Law, which has been growing in popularity since then. See, for example, Bruno Latour, Science
in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers Through Society (Cambridge MA: Harvard University
Press, 1987).
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Materiality
the simple fact that human bodies are material as well, while material objects are not
merely inert, but exhibit behaviours beyond human action.182
Even within this turn towards materiality as a whole, which seems to suggest a clear focus
on the material as such, the tension between the material and the immaterial nonetheless
persists. This can, for example, be seen by contrasting the work of French philosopher
Bruno Latour and American philosopher Jane Bennett. While Latour has dedicated a large
part of his work to the development of a method of social analysis in which non-human
things are taken into account as agents – or ‘actants’, in ANT’s terminology – his actor-
network theory is often criticized for foregrounding the agentic relations between things,
while losing the things themselves. This is symptomatic of other network-oriented
approaches such as Earth systems science, or the way a lot of climate modelling works by
relying on vast amounts of quantitative yet abstract data. By contrast, people like Bennett,
whose work also builds on Latour, puts matter front and centre, and instead attempts to
theorize the agency of things as a material presence, instead emphasizing the affective
dimension between human beings and things, or among things themselves. In her
celebrated 2009 book Vibrant Matter: The Political Ecology of Things, Bennett aimed at
understanding the way in which the material world affects human beings, beyond our
intentions, by foregrounding material presence as such. The key word here is perhaps
‘affect’, to which we will return later on in the context of Ruskin’s work, which generally
implies a direct and immediate relation, as opposed to Latour’s focus on actions, which
are not necessarily so tangible.
A different and relevant author is perhaps British anthropologist Tim Ingold, who has
explicitly distanced himself from this so-called ‘new materialism’ as well as from actor-
network theory, but nonetheless focuses on questions of materiality too. While Bennett as
well as people like Latour can be seen to attribute a sense of agency to objects, Ingold
instead argues against such apparent animism: ‘Bringing things to life, then, is a matter
not of adding to them a sprinkling of agency but of restoring them to the generative fluxes
of the world of materials in which they came into being and continue to subsist.’183 Aside
from such ontological disagreement, however, both Bennet and Latour as well as Ingold
aim to question the dominant approach in Western thought that views the material world
as fundamentally passive, and often argue that we should focus on relations rather than
objects in themselves.
To understand what this means, let us briefly look at the way Ingold approaches
architecture. For example, in his article ‘The Textility of Making’, he follows Deleuze and
Guattari to argue that ‘the essential relation, in a world of life, is not between matter and
182
See for example the edited volume on the recent discourse on ‘new materialism’: Coole and Frost, New
Materialisms: Ontology, Agency, and Politics.
183
Tim Ingold, ‘Materials against Materiality’, Archaeological Dialogues 14, 1 (2007): 12.
89
form but between materials and forces’.184 This stands in contrast to the dominant, so-
called hylomorphic model of making, deeply embedded in Western thought, as formulated
by Aristotle. For Aristotle, making something meant bringing together matter (hyle) and
form (morphe), implying the presence of an active, usually human, agent who imposes a
design onto passive matter. Yet, as most makers know, this is rarely the case, since matter
resists certain designs while it affords others, suggesting a process of collaboration instead.
When it comes to architecture, Ingold quotes Matisse Enzer, a contractor, who states:
Architects think of a building as a complete thing, while builders think of it and
know it as a sequence – hole, then foundation, framing, roof, etc. The separation of
design from making has resulted in a built environment that has no ‘flow’ to it. You
simply cannot design an improvisation or an adaptation. It’s dead.185
In various texts, Ingold illustrates such a separation between design and making with the
difference between Gothic cathedrals and Renaissance villas. In the essay ‘On Building a
House’, for example, Ingold observes how the Italian architect Alberti, as one of the
founding figures of the European Renaissance, ‘can be seen in retrospect to stand at a
pivotal juncture in the process that ultimately led to the professionalisation of architecture
as a discipline devoted exclusively to design as opposed to implementation’.186 The
hylomorphic model of making and its implications for the role and the tools of the
architect contrasts heavily with the preceding medieval practices of construction. In his
review of the available literature on such medieval building practices, Ingold notes that
there is little doubt that medieval builders drew, but ‘what is doubtful is that any of their
drawings can be understood as plans, in the strict sense of a full geometrical pre-
specification of the intended work’.187 According to the historical research of scholars such
as Lon R. Shelby, medieval builders indeed employed working drawings, but he argues that
‘templates, rather than drawings per se, were the primary means by which master masons
transmitted architectural forms to the workmen who executed them’.188 These templates
were more ‘descriptive than prescriptive’ and their execution relied heavily on ‘the
intelligence of skilled craftsmanship’ of the workmen, who employed specific on-site
drawing practices to translate these templates into constructions. As such, Ingold
concludes, ‘there was no radical division here between drawing and building . . . rather
both were integral to the craft itself’.189 By contrast, Renaissance architects like Alberti
instead conceived entire designs a priori in lines on paper, which then needed to be built
accordingly. As Alberti writes in his On the Art of Building in Ten Books (1485): ‘The
184
Tim Ingold, ‘The Textility of Making’, Cambridge Journal of Economics 34, 1 (2010): 91–92.
185
Ingold, 93.
186
Tim Ingold, ‘On Building a House’, in Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture
(London: Routledge, 2013), 49.
187
Ingold, 55.
188
As cited in: Ingold, 55.
189
Ingold, 56.
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Materiality
building consists of lineamenta and matter, the one the product of thought, the other of
Nature, the one requiring the mind and the power of reason, the other dependent on
preparation and selection’. What Alberti here calls lineamenta is the ‘precise and complete
specification of the form and appearance of the building, as conceived by the intellect,
independently and in advance of the work of construction’.190 What Ingold then argues
for, is to return to some version of the medieval craftsmen, echoing Ruskin’s arguments as
we will see, based on the idea that such a model of making was more in tune with the
ontological structure of the material world, one which the modern world denies.
Such a historical transition from the architect as a craftsman to the architect as a designer
was not an isolated development, but coincided with a broader cultural shift in which the
relationship between human beings and the material world changed – a change in the
dominant ‘regime of materiality’, as French architecture historian Antoine Picon would
argue.
Regimes of Materiality
No matter how you look at it, the relationship between architecture and matter has always
been an intimate one. As Picon observes in his 2018 book The Materiality of Architecture:
The entire paradox of the architectural discipline consists in endeavoring to render
matter expressive, often to the point of overlooking its stubborn resistance to
language as such – even though a significant portion of its expressive power lies
precisely in this resistance.191
In his book, Picon develops the notion of ‘regimes of materiality’ to examine how specific
historical moments have been characterized by a specific relationship between human
beings and the material world. In this, he distinguishes between ‘matter’ as the generic
category to describe the substance of the world, ‘materials’ as specific manifestations of
matter, for example as planks of wood, stacks of bricks or blocks of concrete, and
‘materiality’ as ‘the way humans relate to matter and materials through the prism of their
beliefs, knowledge, and practices, architecture being one of these practices – a key one,
actually, because of the part played by matter in its very definition’.192 Picon’s argument is
built on the idea that architecture is indeed defined by the attempt to ‘render matter
expressive’, or better, to make matter ‘speak’, for which various approaches have been used
at different moments in history. Indeed, architects have generally been concerned with
ordering various materials – wood, stone, glass – into intelligible and readable
190
Ingold, 50.
191
Antoine Picon, The Materiality of Architecture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2020), 7.
192
Picon, 8–19.
91
configurations, whether ornamental, tectonic or otherwise. As such, architecture can

indeed be seen as the activity to give the shapeless world of matter an intelligible form, to
give it a language, and thus to transform mute materials into cultural signification.
But the way human beings – and especially architects – have engaged with the material
world has changed over time and can be described, according to Picon, as a succession of
different historically situated ‘regimes of materiality’. In his book, Picon gives an overview
of how these changed over time. He observes how ‘the Renaissance saw the gradual
superimposition of an ordered set of measurable spaces and objects onto the wondrous
and suprareal world of the Middle Ages’193 and how Renaissance architecture was ‘the
definitive expression of the simultaneous reformulation of the subject’s relation to the
material world and the enshrinement of the human gaze in the perspectival mechanism
that refers to the emergence of humanism.’194
During the second half of the eighteenth century, something else happened. Picon here
quotes the historian of architecture Erika Naginski, who observed a
. . . general shift away from seventeenth-century understandings of matter as
essentially passive and subject to God’s arbitrary judgment. The presumed
dependence of material bodies on external forces was a premise that sat squarely at
the center of baroque theological doctrine, political philosophy, and scientific
thought . . . By contrast, the Enlightenment gradually sought out a markedly less-
deterministic position. It evolved toward the possibility that matter was radically
active.195
As a result of scientific research, ‘matter seemed on the verge not only of revealing but,
more than this, rendering possible previously inaccessible natural mechanisms and
procedures’.196 As such, a better understanding of structural properties, and especially
those at work in Gothic architecture, led to the emancipation of the notion of structure
from established rules of proportion and ornament. Rather than considering a
construction as a static thing, the notion of circulation became a central one to understand
structural loads: ‘In addition to lightness, or rather as its enabler, Gothic was characterised
by the channeling of part of the thrust exerted by the vaults toward peripheral flying
buttresses, a channeling that evoked the way water can be diverted in irrigation.’197 As such,
and amid similar shifts in other fields, a regime of so-called ‘material truth’ developed: ‘. .
. this analytical character was reflected in the demand for the architectural legibility of load
paths and transfers; hence the conviction that for each material – stone, wood, or iron –
193
Picon, 80.
194
Picon, 84.
195
Picon, 85.
196
Picon, 85.
197
Picon, 86.
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Materiality
there is a corresponding structural type that best utilises its mechanical properties.’198
However, this regime of material truth was not always that obvious and led to some
fundamental contradictions within modernist architecture. On the one hand,
technological advances allowed architects to mobilize matter at will, while, on the other,
‘truth to materials’ implied the existence of intrinsic rules embedded within matter that
limited architects.
Arriving at the present, Picon then examines our contemporary situation. Tracing the
development from late-nineteenth century bureaucracies to the digital world, he observes
how ‘computers and, more broadly, the digital realm appear as a form of technology that
is overhauling our relationship with physical reality in a comprehensive way, starting with
the sensory sphere’.199 The devices we use daily transform our perception of the world, in
which our vision intertwines with the zooming in and out of our cameras, in which our
auditory experience is transformed by listening to compressed digital audio files or noise-
cancelling headphones, in which the tastes of food and the smells of perfumes are more
often than not the result of artificial, highly engineered production processes, and so on.
Picon mentions how neuroscience is investigating how this changing multisensory world
is impacting our cognition, since here, too, the digital technologies result in ‘the joint
transformation of the perception of the physical world and the interpretation of what
constitutes the human’.200
The question of what constitutes the human echoes a lot of posthuman theory and Picon
indeed refers to the figure of the cyborg (theorized by Haraway, among others), though
argues for its update:
Over the past few years, the cyborg appears to have been replaced by a networked
personality that resides simultaneously within and outside the body; distributed
through neural networks that ensure the proper functioning of the mind, it is at the
same time spread across numerous physical and electronic channels that connect it
to the environment.201
Indeed, in our contemporary regime of materiality, the human and the material, or the
subject and its environment, appear as radically entangled, undermining the modern
perspective of human beings in control:
For what is closely linked to our increasing sensitivity toward environmental issues
is a calling into question of the modernist vision of the heroism of human will that
beats the physical world into submission. What emerges to replace this antagonistic
fiction is an ideal of collaboration with the forces animating matter, or, more
198
Picon, 91.
199
Picon, 113.
200
Picon, 114.
201
Picon, 115.
93
precisely, with the forces that course through and animate human and nonhuman
alike, newly considered as continuous entities.202
The contrast Picon evokes here, between the modern vision that ‘beats the physical world
into submission’ and the more ecological approach of a ‘collaboration with the forces
animating matter’, is indeed what is at stake in the tension between the material and the
immaterial. A collaboration with the material world entails a recognition of its agency,
understanding and accepting it on its own terms – being true to materials. Such an attitude
is nothing new in architecture history, however, but a central theme in much modernist
discourse. The notion of ‘truth to materials’ has a long-standing history that goes all the
way back to Ruskin, which might be the best starting point to reevaluate our human
relationship with the material world and the role architecture plays in it.
Material Vitalism
To fully understand what is at stake in Ruskin’s theories on material truth, and his
underlying arguments on vitalism, we need to understand what he was arguing against. In
the middle of the nineteenth century, industrialization was well underway to transform
society, and one of the emblematic buildings that represented such a transformation was
perhaps the Crystal Palace, built in Hyde Park in 1851 (Figure 12). In its very construction
and functioning it fully embodied the tension between the material and the immaterial
that largely marked modernity in general. On the one hand, the Crystal Palace housed the
Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations with over 100,000 objects,
grouped into four categories: Raw Materials, Machinery, Manufacturers and Fine Arts. As
literary historian Thomas Richards observed, the Great Exhibition established a
specifically capitalist system of representation, as a ‘spectacle’ of abundance, delivered
through a system of economic exchange built on colonialism and industrialization. The
result was an overwhelming amount of objects, of resources, of materials. On the other
hand, however, the building itself appeared to be a completely immaterial construction,
made of nothing but cast iron, glass and air. It is generally understood to be the first
building of that scale and size and popularity to completely dissolve the monumentality
that was traditionally associated with major architectural works. As such, the building has
been commented on widely since and keeps returning as a major turning point that signals
the start of a process of dematerialization, as writers at the time already realized.
202
Picon, 116.
94
Materiality
Figure 12: The interior of Joseph’s Paxton Crystal Palace during the Great Exhibition in 1851, London,
England (coloured lithograph by J. McNeven, 1851).
For example, The Art Journal Illustrated Catalogue for the exhibition states: ‘The effect of
the interior of the building resembles that of the open air. It is perhaps the only building
in the world in which atmosphere is perceptible.’203 Or, as a reporter of the Wiener
Allgemeine Zeitung recorded the complaints of an artist about the lack of form:
The light, shining through the walls, finds no resistance anywhere, and so the
alternation of light and shadow that is pleasant and necessary to the eye is completely
missing – in a word, no masses, only a mass of glass and iron.204
German publicist Lothar Bucher, a friend of Marx and Semper, equally wrote that ‘in it
everything corporeal disappears’.205 Likewise, Semper himself described it as a ‘vacuum’.206
And as Philip Ursprung observes today: ‘It is obvious to read this spatiality as a function
of the economic changes – as if it were an articulation of the process of evaporation
203
As quoted in Philip Ursprung, ‘Phantomschmerzen Der Architektur: Verschwindende Körper Und
Raumprothesen’, Kritische Berichte 2 (2006): 23. Translation by Bart Decroos.
204
As quoted in Ursprung, 23. Translation by Bart Decroos.
205
206
95
described by Marx and Engels.’207 Ursprung is of course referring to the famous phrase
from the Communist Manifesto: ‘All that is solid melts into air.’208
I briefly mention the Crystal Palace here – on which much has already been written
elsewhere – to set the stage for Ruskin’s work, whose writings on architecture at the time
were indeed an attack on a material culture of dematerialization, against the material
alienation he recognized in the cultural developments driven by industrialization. When
the Crystal Palace opened in 1851 in Hyde Park, a widely anticipated event, Ruskin stayed
home and started to write the second volume of The Stones of Venice. It was only when the
Crystal Palace was rebuilt a few years later in 1854 at Sydenham that he went to see the
building and subsequently wrote a pamphlet titled The Opening of the Crystal Palace,
considered in some of its relations to the prospects of art.209 In the pamphlet, Ruskin
describes the Crystal Palace as mere building, not architecture. While he acknowledged its
‘mechanical ingenuity’, ‘formed under the auspices of science which can hardly err’, he
criticized the disconnection of the building from history, on which he ironically remarked
that ‘the first principles of architectural sublimity, so far sought, are found all the while to
have consisted merely in sparkling and space’.210 This of course echoes other remarks, like
that of Semper, describing it as a vacuum, as something completely detached from the
world. Ruskin goes further, however, and the pamphlet diverts into a critique of the
restoration of Gothic churches in France, where a large-scale restoration campaign had
been set up, partly under the supervision of Viollet-le-Duc. For Ruskin, such restoration
processes – ‘with mathematical exactitude’211 – implied the illusion that one could recreate
an architectural construction in the nineteenth century exactly as it had been built in the
thirteenth, which he saw as a denial of the material processes through which architecture
was effectively built and experienced and, to a larger extent, as a denial of how the material
world operated. Both the mechanical ingenuity of the Crystal Palace and the illusion of
restoration were expressions of the ‘vacuous’ attitude of the at the time developing modern
material culture – which will be addressed on its own further down.
In contrast to what Ruskin perceived as a denial of the material reality of the world, he
instead argued in favour of truth. One of the recurring themes in Ruskin’s work is the
classical conflation of the good, the beautiful and the true. When it comes to architecture,
it can only be good architecture when it is beautiful, and only beautiful when it is truthful.
His first architectural treatise, The Seven Lamps of Architecture, abounds with statements
in that direction. For example, Ruskin writes how ‘the first duty of architecture is to
support truth’, and that ‘a building is not truly a building until it is honest’, while ‘there
207
Ursprung, 24. Translation by Bart Decroos.
208
Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, The Communist Manifesto (London: Penguin Classics, 2015 [1848]).
209
John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, vol. XII
210
Ruskin, XII:418–19.
211
Ruskin, XII:422.
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Materiality
can be no truth in architecture which is not in its materials’.212 Indeed, for Ruskin the
notion of truth is largely connected to the material construction of building, since he
believed that architecture was a reflection of the culture that built it and that, for example,
the use of cheap or imitation materials was to be regarded as a sign of moral decay and a
loss of cultural values. To illustrate his point, one of the examples he gives in this chapter
is ‘the noble entrance and general architecture of the British Museum’, where ‘the noble
granite foundation of the staircase should be mocked at its landing by an imitation’. This
was a problem for him, since ‘the only effect of it is to cast suspicion upon the true stones
below, and upon every bit of granite afterwards encountered.’213 How can we value our
monuments, the architecture of our society, when it does not even value itself, Ruskin asks,
when it only pretends to be something that it is not?
And from this perspective, mechanical production was to be condemned as well. For
Ruskin, the ornaments of especially Gothic architecture were the result of a dedication,
even a sacrifice, made by craftsmen, giving value to the edifice. They were the material
traces of the immense effort that was made to construct these churches and cathedrals. In
his time, however, the mechanical production of ornaments was increasingly replacing
handmade ones, and as such, according to Ruskin, they merely pretended to be the result
of a painstaking process in their aesthetic appearance, while in reality they were quite
cheap, deceiving the viewer about the actual value of a building – both in economic and
moral terms. ‘All cast and machine work is bad, as work’, he writes, and thus wrong.214
This was the result of a disconnection between the processes of construction and the
appearance of a building, which was to be condemned as false, sinful even. Ruskin’s
arguments were of course the result of his religious convictions, often using Biblical
language to condemn such practices. But more fundamentally, Ruskin was arguing against
a cultural alienation from the material world human beings lived in. When things appear
to us aesthetically in a different way than they were constructed, or, in other words, when
the appearance of a building does not match the processes of construction that produced
it, Ruskin argues, we risk losing touch with the world itself. This was thus not simply a
moral condemnation of deception, but a concern for the alienation from the material
environments we live in. As such, he saw the slab of imitation granite as a symptom of the
modern attitude that reduces matter to static and superficial surfaces, mere appearances
without living substance, denying the wealth of the world.
212
See ‘The Lamp of Truth’ in Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908.
213
Ruskin, VIII:76.
214
Ruskin, VIII:81.
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4.3.1 Vital Beauty

This was a denial, for Ruskin, because he perceived the world, and especially the natural
world, as something alive. To describe the aesthetic perception of this aliveness of the
world, the way human beings might relate to it, he developed the notion of ‘vital beauty’,
in contrast to ‘typical beauty’, the beauty of classical order. Vital beauty, instead, is the
beauty of living things. The way Ruskin introduces his development of this notion, in the
second volume of his Modern Painters, is with the example of a ‘slender, pensive, fragile
flower’ piercing through ‘unsullied snow’, somewhere on the slopes of ‘the Lower Alps,
early in May’, ‘partly wondering at its own recent grave, and partly dying of very fatigue
after its hard-won victory’, which, Ruskin writes, ‘[utters] to us a call for sympathy’, one
that ‘cannot be heard without affection, nor contemplated without worship’.215
The key word here is ‘sympathy’, which is foundational to understanding Ruskin’s concept
of vital beauty. While the notion of sympathy today has been reduced to meaning
something like pity or compassion, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries it was an
almost magical word that described a mixture of emotional perception, resonance and
communication. According to Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary (1755) sympathy can be
understood as ‘fellow-feeling; mutual sensibility; the quality of being affected by the
affectations of another’. In Ruskin’s writings, the word sympathy would appear
extensively, but it would take him until 1873, in his Fors Clavigera, to really define his
understanding of the term as ‘the imaginative understanding of the natures of others, and
the power of putting ourselves in their place’.216 In Ruskin’s development of the concept of
vital beauty, he relies on the notion of sympathy to explain the sensation of happiness one
enjoys when observing the pleasure of someone else – or something else. He was well aware
that this extension of sympathy towards the nonhuman was unusual and carefully weighed
his words, writing that the idea of happiness in other organisms ‘is doubtful, or only
seeming’.217 Yet, he argues, referring back to the example of the flower above, ‘the pleasure
afforded by every organic form is in proportion to its appearance of healthy vital energy. .
. . The amount of pleasure we receive is in exact proportion to the appearance of vigour
and sensibility in the plant.’218
For Ruskin, the beauty of the natural world was the result of a sympathy with its vital
energy, which could be perceived in the continuously changing growth of nonhuman
beings. The beauty of these living things was to be taken as an example, not only for artists
but also for architects. This can already be seen in his Seven Lamps, where Ruskin insists
215
John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, vol. IV
216
John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, vol.
XXVII (London: George Allen, 1908), 627.
217
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, IV:150.
218
Ruskin, IV:151.
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that beauty depends on natural form and that the energy in structure and decoration
should follow the example of the power and life of natural forms as we saw in the previous
chapter. And life means movement, transition, change. Vital beauty, for Ruskin, was
crucial to a material culture attuned with the natural environment around us, a material
culture he saw threatened by industrialization. Today, the emergence of an ecological
sensibility seems to insist again on an aesthetics of vitalism, one which should be able to
forge connections between us, human beings, and the nonhuman life of the planet on
which we live.
Not surprisingly, Ruskin’s concept of vital beauty and its reliance on the notion of
sympathy has been taken up again by contemporary theorists. A major reference here is
the work of architecture theorist Lars Spuybroek and his 2011 book The Sympathy of
Things: Ruskin and the Ecology of Design, in which he tries to redevelop these notions for
the twenty-first century. While Spuybroek is largely concerned with developing a ‘digital
Gothic’ in line with his own work as a practicing architect, which has often been described
as ‘blobitecture’, his arguments echo a lot of contemporary new materialist discourse,
though in its own specific way. In short, Spuybroek uses Ruskin as a guide to navigate
debates on materiality and thing-theory, arguing in favour of an aesthetics based on the
notion of sympathy to account for the relations between things. In doing so, he develops
a ‘Gothic ontology’ to account for the material vitality of the world we live in, which,
borrowing a phrase from Ruskin, he describes as a ‘veil of strange intermediate being’: ‘The
veil of strange intermediate being – simply the most beautiful term ever – ranges from grey
to green, oscillating violently between the crystalline and the arabesque; green petrifies to
become grey and grey comes to life, but all is fundamentally entangled.’219
For Ruskin, this so-called ‘veil’ is the thin surface of the Earth that contains all life, or
rather, where all things are ‘more or less alive’.220 From this perspective the world appears
as a realm of things that cannot be strictly separated from each other: ‘Our Gothic ontology
has never aspired to distinguish strictly between the two: stones act like plants, and plants
act as strange and still as rocks.’221 Spuybroek goes on to develop this Gothic ontology as a
theory of relationality, in which all things are inevitably related to other things or, better,
‘entangled’ with each other.222 Ruskin’s notion of sympathy is how things are related to
each other, how they entangle, which ‘not only includes things and actions but also
219
Lars Spuybroek, The Sympathy of Things: Ruskin and the Ecology of Design (London: Bloomsbury, 2016
[2011]), 243.
220
As Ruskin writes in The Ethics of Dust: ‘Things are not either wholly alive, or wholly dead. They are
more or less alive.’ See John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander
Wedderburn, vol. XVIII (London: George Allen, 1908), 346. This term, for example, seems to be
explicitly echoed in Bruno Latour’s notion of a ‘critical zone’: the thin crust of the Earth on which all
climate politics is focused. See Bruno Latour, Down to Earth: Politics in the New Climatic Regime
(Cambridge: Polity Press, 2018).
221
Spuybroek, The Sympathy of Things: Ruskin and the Ecology of Design, 164.
222
Spuybroek, 49.
99
feelings’.223 This sympathy between things is described by Spuybroek primarily as an

aesthetic relation, as ‘a resonance, an attunement of feelings.’224 As such, Spuybroek aims
at an ontological conception that not only allows for an understanding of the world as
relational, but, by emphasizing the aesthetic character of such relations, he also suggests
how to design this world accordingly. Similar to Ruskin, Spuybroek’s goals is not just to
rethink the way we understand architecture, as a new kind of architecture theory, but also
how to design architecture in such a way that it opens up a space for such sympathy with
the life of things:
Because a wall as a naked, Euclidian object with four static points in its four corners
presents itself as finished, stable, and at rest, in short, as something we cannot feel
anything for but merely see. Sympathy can be felt only for things that are in the
making or in transition, that have a life.225
Spuybroek, in accordance with Ruskin, emphasizes the vitality of the material existence of
things themselves. And the way in which we humans relate to this vitality, and the way
things relate to each other’s vitality, according to both, is through the affective aesthetics
of sympathy. And indeed, in the work of people such as Bennett, the ‘vibrancy’ of matter
she defines is the result of affective relations. It is no coincidence that alongside a turn
towards materiality in contemporary theory, the field of affect theory is developing as well.
4.3.2 Between Ethics and Aesthetics

Much of modern philosophy has been defined by a clear opposition between reason and
emotion, between thinking and feeling. Especially when it comes to knowing the world, it
seems that modern philosophy requires of us to step outside of it, leave behind or emotions
and feelings and intuitions, and rely on abstract reason alone. Affect theory, on the other
hand, is an attempt to reconsider the importance of all other things than detached reason
to understand and navigate the world we nonetheless live in, and which it seems
impossible to step out of. As Melissa Gregg and Gregory J. Seigworth write in the
introduction to The Affect Reader, published in 2010:
Affect arises in the midst of in-between-ness: in the capacities to act and be acted
upon. . . . Indeed, affect is persistent proof of a body’s never less than ongoing
immersion in and among the world’s obstinacies and rhythms, its refusals as much
as its invitations.226
223
Spuybroek, 243.
224
Spuybroek, 159.
225
Spuybroek, 95.
226
Melissa Gregg and Gregory J. Seigworth, eds., The Affect Theory Reader (Durham: Duke University
Press, 2010), 1.
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I will not go too far into contemporary affect theory, as this is beyond the scope of this
manuscript, but I briefly mention it here, since it seems to echo similar concerns of Ruskin,
writing almost two centuries earlier.
For Ruskin, the question of aesthetics, of perception, was impossible to separate from the
question of morality, as it was current at the time. This dominant view had already been
firmly established by German philosopher Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten in the
eighteenth century, when, in 1735 to be precise, he coined the very term ‘aesthetics’ and
argued that ‘the study of beauty should be concerned merely with the adequacy of the
object to perception, that is, that aesthetics should be a separate, independent concern
dealing only with the pleasures of perception’. This was unacceptable for Ruskin, for whom
beauty was not merely a matter of perception, but also a matter of ethical consideration,
as its perception impacts the way we understand the world and act on it – as the concept
of vital beauty demonstrates. This entanglement Ruskin proposed between aesthetics and
morality was thus not only found in his work, but echoed the arguments of the Scottish
school of emotionalist moral philosophy, which had been developing since the mid-
eighteenth century. In short, emotionalist ethics proposed that affections or emotional
responses trigger moral behaviour, instead of rational deliberation. As Adam Smith writes
in his Theory of the Moral Sentiments:
Though reason is undoubtedly the source of the general rules of morality, and of
all the moral judgments we form by means of them; it is altogether absurd and
unintelligible to suppose that the first perceptions of right and wrong can be
derived from reason, even in those particular cases upon the experience of which
the general rules are formed. These first perceptions, as well as all other
experiments upon which any general rules are founded, cannot be the object of
reason, but of immediate sense and feeling.227
This position contradicts the Cartesian view in which reason sits at the top of the hierarchy,
in charge of the lower faculties such as the senses. Emotionalist moral philosophy, instead,
takes an empiricist approach, surprisingly building on Locke, who paved the way for
questioning reason’s primacy and instead argued that reason was dependent on ‘sense-
data’. Ruskin did not explicitly engage with these thinkers at length, but his aesthetic
theories seem to echo similar arguments. Aesthetics and morality were impossible to
separate for him, in the sense that what you perceive affects you, and what affects you
shapes your judgement. Yet, at times, he would doubt himself.
227
Adam Smith, Theory of the Moral Sentiments (London, 1759), 320.
101
4.3.3 A Pathetic Fallacy?

While Ruskin developed the concept of vital beauty on the basis of an affective relation he
described as sympathy, at times he did question to what extent such a feeling of
sympathetic attunement with nonhuman beings was not simply a projection of the human
mind onto the world, rather than actual ‘fellow-feeling’. To describe this confusion, he
even coined the term of ‘the pathetic fallacy’ in the third volume of Modern Painters.
According to the conventional definition of the term, the phrase refers to ‘any
representation of inanimate natural objects that ascribes to them human capabilities,
sensations and emotions’.228 Indeed, in Ruskin’s usage, the term ‘pathetic’ roughly means
‘relating to feelings’ and it is a fallacy because the feelings in question are attributed to
things that we would not expect to be able to have feelings, and thus the result is an
emotional falseness. Ruskin’s pathetic fallacy has generally been understood as a critique
of the sentimentality that was common in the work of late eighteenth-century poets such
as Blake, Wordsworth, Shelley and Keats. One of the examples Ruskin himself gives, are
the following lines from the poem Alton Locke by Charles Kingsley:
They rowed her in across the rolling foam–
The cruel, crawling foam.
Ruskin observes that ‘the foam is not cruel, neither does it crawl’ but that ‘the state of mind
which attributes to it these characters of a living creature is one in which the reason is
unhinged by grief’. In other words, the grieving mind of the poem does not ‘see clearly’
and mistakenly projects its own emotional state onto the world. But what this explanation
is missing is Ruskin’s underlying epistemological and ontological argument, with which
he himself introduces the notion of the pathetic fallacy at first, and which seems to
completely undo the fallacy he then goes on to formulate. It is indeed a strange chapter, in
which he questions the confusion between mind and world, but introducing this question
with introduction that argues the opposite. Ruskin’s argument opens with a discussion of
the opposition between the terms ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’, which he deems to be ‘two of
the most objectionable words that were ever conceived by the troublesomeness of
metaphysicians’.229 While Ruskin does not mention any names, it is clear from what
follows that he is mostly responding to German philosopher Immanuel Kant’s
transcendental idealism, and the distinction the latter makes between things-in-themselves
and how these things appear to us humans. Ruskin writes:
The word ‘Blue’, say certain philosophers, means the sensation of colour which the
human eye receives in looking at the open sky, or at a bell gentian. Now, say they
farther, as this sensation can only be felt when the eye is turned to the object, and
228
M. H. Abrams, A Glossary of Literary Terms (Boston: Heinle & Heinle, 1999), 203.
229
John Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, vol. V
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as, therefore, no such sensation is produced by the object when nobody looks at it,
therefore the thing, when it is not looked at, is not blue.230
From this, Ruskin says, metaphysicians construct a binary taxonomy in which the term
‘objective’ describes those qualities of things that are independent on human perception,
while ‘subjective’ describes those that are dependent on human perception. As such, he
writes, for those troublesome metaphysicians
. . . the step is very easy to a farther opinion, that it does not much matter what things
are in themselves, but only what they are to us; and that the only real truth of them
is their appearance to, or effect upon, us.231
To which he then further concludes:
From which position, with a hearty desire for mystification, and much egotism,
selfishness, shallowness, and impertinence, a philosopher may easily go so far as to
believe, and say, that everything in the world depends upon his seeing or thinking
of it, and that nothing, therefore, exists, but what he sees or thinks of.232
For contemporary readers, the description of such an extreme version of Kantian idealism
resonates heavily with what in recent years has become known as ‘correlationism’. Coined
by French philosopher Quentin Meillassoux, this term is used to describe the shift from
Kant’s epistemological argument to the ontological claim that the human mind actively
structures reality. As Meillassoux writes in his After Finitude (2006): ‘By “correlation” we
mean the idea according to which we only ever have access to the correlation between
thinking and being, and never to either term considered apart from each other.’233
Meillassoux argues that most post-Kantian philosophy has operated within such a
correlationist view, and more precisely, the strong version of it: that the qualities of the
world exist in the mind of the perceiving subject, which thus locates the perceptive agency
in the mental domain and attributes an inherent inertia to the material world.
What philosophers like Meillassoux instead argue for is a weaker version of correlationism,
by returning to the Kantian thing-in-itself and developing a different argument from it.
For example, American philosopher Graham Harman’s so-called ‘object-oriented
ontology’ proposes that the world is primarily made up of individual entities, which are
not fully reducible to their relations with other entities (as in the work of Latour or
Whitehead), nor to the parts they are made up of (objects are the fundamental ‘stuff’ of
the cosmos, yet not in the reductionist sense of some ‘smallest particle’). By returning to
230
Ruskin, V:201.
231
Ruskin, V:202.
232
Ruskin, V:202.
233
Quentin Meillassoux, After Finitude: An Essay on the Necessity of Contingency (London: Bloomsbury,
2006), 5.
103
the Kantian thing-in-itself, Harman is able to argue that objects are ‘withdrawn’ and
therefore never completely exhausted by any human (or non-human) modes of access
(such as thinking, measuring, calculating, feeling, licking or brushing).234 Drawing from
Harman’s object-oriented ontology, Morton instead defines this as a ‘weird essentialism’,
as a gap between the ‘being’ and ‘appearance’ of things: ‘On the view of weird essentialism,
things are inconsistent rather than constantly present: to be a thing is to have a gap
between what you are and how you appear.’235 Morton demonstrates this by paraphrasing
Kant’s discussion of raindrops:
There are raindrops. You can feel them touching your skin coldly, wet and small.
Though these phenomena are not the raindrop, they are inseparable from the
raindrop. . . . Raindrops are raindroppy: their phenomena are measurably so. But I
can’t access the actual raindrops. Their phenomena are not raindrops. There is a
fundamental, irreducible gap between the raindrop phenomenon and the raindrop
thing. Moreover, I can’t locate this haunting gap anywhere in experiential space or
even in scientific space.236
As such, Morton argues that things have a gap in their ontological structure as such: ‘The
human-world gap is not the only one. Everything has a gap like that. Correlationism is not
false in itself; it is simply the anthropocentrism [that reduces things to passive objects].’237
By introducing a difference between a thing and its appearance, Morton is able to find the
necessary wiggle room, which does not require things ‘to exist is to be constantly present’
in the perception of human beings.238
A lot of these contemporary philosophical debates seem to echo Ruskin’s further
development of his critique of Kantian philosophy. For Ruskin, the question of where
perception is produced and where it is finally perceived are two different things. Returning
to the example of the colour blue, he writes:
Now, to get rid of all these ambiguities and troublesome words at once, be it
observed that the word ‘Blue’ does not mean the sensation caused by a gentian on
the human eye; but it means the power of producing that sensation: and this power
is always there, in the thing, whether we are to experience it or not, and would
remain there though there were not left a man on the face of the earth.239
To which Ruskin concludes his argument with a remarkably contemporary position:
234
See, for example, Graham Harman, The Quadruple Object (London: Zer0 Books, 2011).
235
Morton, Dark Ecology: For a Logic of Future Coexistence, 70.
236
Morton, 93.
237
Morton, 103.
238
Morton, 48.
239
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, V:202.
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Hence I would say to these philosophers: If, instead of using the sonorous phrase,
‘It is objectively so,’ you will use the plain old phrase, ‘It is so,’ and if instead of the
sonorous phrase, ‘It is subjectively so,’ you will say, in plain old English, ‘It does
so,’ . . . you will, on the whole, be more intelligible to your fellow-creatures.240
What Ruskin describes here in ‘plain old phrases’ – ‘it is so’ and ‘it does so’ – might be
understood as a definition of agency in the Latourian sense, as a flat ontology in which the
conventional distinction between active human subjects and passive non-human objects
is replaced with an understanding of agency as merely the ability to have an effect on
something else. Or, in the words of literary theorist Branka Arsić: the Ruskinian ontology
that merely divides the world into doers and nondoers, ‘not only renders porous the divide
between persons and things but also, more radically, challenges the distinction between
inanimate and animate’.241 Things that would count as inert objects according to a post-
Kantian Western metaphysics (such as the sky or a gentian), become in Ruskin’s world
active: ‘A gentian does not produce the sensation of blueness if you don’t look at it. But it
has always the power of doing so.’242 Conversely, as Arsić observes, Ruskin turns the
Kantian correlation on its head: the sensation perceived in the human mind becomes the
passive outcome of an object’s action on the perceiving subject. More fundamentally,
however, this Ruskinian ontology defies the anthropocentrism that post-Kantian
philosophy has propagated. Whereas the former divides the world into an active human
mind on one side and passive inert matter on the other, Ruskin’s division between doers
and nondoers, or activity and passivity, suggests that ‘the same dynamic of affecting and
being affected applies equally to strictly human interactions and interactions among
nonhuman beings and phenomena’.243 As such, Ruskin can now be understood as
confirming to a weak version of correlationism: the way we get to know the world is indeed
structured by an affective relation between thinking and being, but instead of locating the
structuring of the world firmly and only in the human mind, Ruskin seems to propose a
more even distribution of agency.
Modern Material Truth

While Ruskin’s development of the notion of ‘truth to materials’ – with all of its
implications about vital beauty – was a response to the material culture developing out of
industrialization, the notion in general was adopted and transformed by the modernists in
the early twentieth century, as Picon also observed. As Adolf Loos wrote in 1898: ‘Every
240
Ruskin, V:203.
241
Branka Arsić, ‘Materialist Vitalism or Pathetic Fallacy: The Case of the House of Usher’, Representations
140 (2017): 125.
242
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, V:202.
243
Arsić, ‘Materialist Vitalism or Pathetic Fallacy: The Case of the House of Usher’, 126.
105
material has its own formal language, and no material can lay claim to the form of another
material for itself.’244 A similar argument can be found in the work of sculptor Henry
Moore, who wrote in 1934: ‘Each material has its own individual qualities . . . Stone, for
example, is hard and concentrated and should not be falsified to look like soft flesh . . . It
should keep its hard tense stoniness.’245 The sentiment would persist even into the mid-
twentieth century, for example in the American architect Louis Kahn’s famous phrase:
‘When you are designing in brick, you must ask brick what it wants or what it can do.’246
And indeed, while Banham’s later work explicitly focused on the question of technology,
in his early writings he briefly but explicitly addressed the subject of materiality, too.
Despite his insistence on the need to reject the Ruskinian legacy of the nineteenth century,
his writings on the New Brutalism in the 1950s show a striking resemblance to Ruskin’s
thought. This is perhaps Banham at his most Ruskinian, explicitly so on two points: on the
one hand, his arguments on the New Brutalism are presented in the tension between
aesthetics and morality – as the title of the book he published on the topic states: The New
Brutalism: Ethics or Aesthetics – while on the other the argument itself relies on an explicit
notion of material truth, similar to how Ruskin wrote on Gothic architecture a century
earlier.
It is one of Banham’s more well-known essays, titled ‘The New Brutalism’ and published
in December 1955 in the Architectural Review, that he would develop into a book with the
same title by 1966, but with the additional revealing subtitle ‘Ethic or Aesthetic’. In the
essay, Banham continues his search for an architecture autre, an architecture that
corresponds to the conditions of the Machine Ages modern society is going through. And
he presents the work of British architects Alison and Peter Smithson as a possible answer.
The core of his argument is that the ‘brutalist’ character he recognizes in their work is an
ethic, an attitude, a sensibility, even, rather than an aesthetic, as was the case in earlier, also
described as ‘brutalist’ examples, such as the ‘béton brut’ architecture of Le Corbusier or
the ‘Brutalist’ style of Asplund. The reason why it is an attitude is that the Smithsons were
more concerned with the conditions in which they designed and built, than the aesthetic
resulting from it. While for someone like le Corbusier, brutalism was perhaps about
developing an aesthetic suited for modern materials such as concrete, according to
Banham, the Smithsons instead focused on the ‘valuation of materials for their inherent
244
Adolf Loos, ‘The Principle of Cladding’, in Ornament and Crime: Selected Essays (London: Penguin,
2019), 60–65: 61
245
Henry Moore, ‘Statement for Unit One’, in Unit One: The Modern Movement in English Architecture,
ed. Herbert Read (London, 1934), 29.
246
Oliver Wainwright, ‘Louis Kahn: The Brick Whisperer’, The Guardian, 26 February 2013, accessed 8
November 2023, https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2013/feb/26/louis-kahn-brick-whisperer-
architect.
106
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qualities “as found”’.247 Or, in the words of Peter Smithson himself, reflecting back on their
work of that time:
In a society that had nothing, you reached for what there was, previously unthought
things . . . We were concerned with the seeing of materials for what they were: the
woodness of wood, the sandiness of sand. With this came a distaste of the
simulated.248
As such, the New Brutalism is not even necessarily linked with the use of concrete – though
in the circumstances of the post-war period that was a logical material choice – since
Banham considers their design for a brick house in Soho as one of the prime examples.
Alongside the Soho house, Banham also discusses the realized Hunstanton School as an
example of the New Brutalism, in terms similar to those Peter Smithson used above (Figure
13):
Hunstanton appears to be made of glass, brick, steel and concrete, and is in fact
made of glass, brick, steel and concrete. Water and electricity do not come out of
unexplained holes in the wall, but are delivered to the point of use by visible pipes
and manifest conduits. One can see what Hunstanton is made of, and how it works,
and there is not another thing to see except the play of spaces.249
As becomes obvious, Banham’s argument here relies on showing the world for what it is,
not denying or hiding it. The difference with Ruskin, however, is that the world had
fundamentally changed over the century that had passed. While Ruskin still lived in a
world where nature was the main point of reference, even though industry was
accelerating, in Banham’s case, the world appeared as thoroughly technological, which is
why he described it as a ‘Machine Age’. The aesthetic-ethical argument he is developing in
the case of the New Brutalism is to represent the world as found, to use the materials and
technologies of the time they were living in and embrace them – to be truly modern.
247
Reyner Banham, ‘The New Brutalism’, October 136 (2011): 23.
248
Alison Smithson and Peter Smithson, ‘The “As Found” and the “Found”’, in As Found: The Discovery of
the Ordinary, ed. Claude Lichtenstein and Thomas Schregenberger (Baden: Lars Müller Publishers,
2001), 40.
249
Banham, ‘The New Brutalism’, 22.
107
Figure 13: Hunstanton School, Norfolk, England, Alison and Peter Smithson, completed in 1954 (photograph
by de Burgh Galwey).
Yet, as Picon noted, ‘truth to materials’ in modernist architecture was rather paradoxical,
indeed torn between the material and the immaterial. The modernist position entailed that
one needed to employ specific materials in the way they themselves afforded – ‘Every
material possesses its own language of forms’,250 as Loos stated in 1898 – while, at the same
time, scientific knowledge into the properties of certain materials and especially the
invention of new, industrialized materials also implied a human mastery over the material
world. When it comes to a quintessential modern material, the choice for concrete seems
obvious. Not only were numerous canonical projects built in concrete – from the Villa
Savoye to Hunstanton – but even the most banal of projects realized in the twentieth
century up until today make use of concrete. It seems impossible to imagine the
construction industry today without it. And while concrete needs a very specific process
of production and has its own material properties, at the same time it is also one of the
most flexible materials, which can be poured in almost any shape imaginable. As such,
250
Adolf Loos, ‘The Principle of Cladding (1898)’.
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concrete seems to have come to embody the modern dream of mastery over an inert,
physical world – a dream shattering today.
Hairy Materials
When tracing the notion of a ‘truth to materials’ throughout modern architecture history,
we can observe how it functioned in the nineteenth century in the work of people such as
Ruskin, in response to the sterility of modern materials like cast iron and glass. For Ruskin,
being true to the material world largely meant recognizing the historical as well as natural
dimensions of the material construction of architecture. As such, at the time, it was largely
a conservative, even nostalgic argument, since it emphasized what Ruskin perceived as
being at risk of being lost: a connection with history, with traditions and conventions, and
a connection with the vitality of the natural world, being destroyed by industry. By the
twentieth century, however, the notion of a truth to materials was redeveloped in
modernist discourses as being true to the conditions of modern society, embracing new
materials that had become possible through technological innovation, especially concrete.
In the 1950s, for example, in Banham’s arguments on the New Brutalism, being true to
materials received an explicit ethical dimension, emphasizing the importance of an as
found quality in architecture, expressing the conditions of post-war Europe. By then, it
had become a rather progressive argument, one that did not look back at what had been
lost, but embraced the present and even looked forward, to what was still to come, as a
result of technological innovation.
Today, things seem to be shifting again, reversing the terms once more it seems, but not
quite.
Materials that once appeared to be innovative and contemporary products have now lost
their appeal and instead are seen as representative of a bygone world. Especially concrete
has become problematic in this sense. From an ecological point of view, concrete has
become the exemplary material involved in the environmental crisis. It is estimated that
concrete is the third largest emitter of greenhouse gasses worldwide, since the production
of cement accounts for at least seven percent of global carbon dioxide emissions, three
times the amount produced by aviation.251 As a result, the material seems to have lost its
reputation as a material of the future – it is, instead, jeopardizing it.
251
Isabel Malsang, ‘Concrete: The World’s 3rd Largest CO2 Emitter’, accessed 19 July 2023,
https://phys.org/news/2021-10-concrete-world-3rd-largest-co2.html.
109
Figure 14: On 17 February 2020, as part of their ‘End of Building Sites’ campaign, activists of Extinction
Rebellion blocked cement factories of the Lafarge-Holcim group and Cemex in Paris, France (photography by
Extinction Rebellion).
Recently, architecture criticism has started to focus on the role of materials like concrete
in the environmental crisis, and the implications of its cultural signification. For example,
in her article ‘“Le bâti ment” (The Built Lies)? A Story of Antagonist Aesthetics in French
Eco-Neighbourhoods’, architecture theorist Eliza Culea-Hong traces the increasing public
backlash against the presence of concrete in new construction projects in France, even in
so-called eco-neighbourhoods.252 While architecture historian Hélène Jannière once
observed how, at the turn of the twenty-first century, public engagement with
contemporary architecture was at an all-time low, Culea-Hong now argues, from an
ecological point of view, that this trend seems to be reversing. Increasingly, activist
organisations such as Extinction Rebellion organize protests against large development
252
Eliza Culea-Hong, ‘“Le Bâti Ment” (The Built Lies)? A Story of Antagonist Aesthetics in French Eco-
Neighbourhoods’, OASE Journal for Architecture 112 (2022): 74–93.
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Materiality
projects as well as against the construction industry itself.253 The French collective
SuperLocal counted over 343 such conflicts in France in 2021 and Culea-Hong herself
gives the examples of XR’s ‘End of Building Sites’ campaign, including recent protests at
the site of the future Vauban eco-neighbourhood in the city of Besançon as well as several
blockades at cement factories around Paris, such as at Lafarge Mirabeau or Cemex (Figure
14). But it is not only the mere statistic that provokes such responses – although knowledge
of such statistics does indeed drive the resistance – by now, already the mere aesthetic
presence of concrete in a newly constructed building is enough to provoke negative
reactions. For example, in 2021 the Swiss newspaper 24 heures published an article by
journalists Camille Kraft and Erwan Le Bec titled ‘À quand la fin de la monoculture du
béton?’ [When will the monoculture of concrete end?]. In it, the journalists question what
they perceive as the dominant ‘style’ of Swiss architecture, which they describe as a
concrete monoculture. They especially criticize two recent projects in Lausanne: the
Cantonal Museum of Fine Arts built with 740,000 German clinker bricks by Spanish
architects Barozzi Veiga and the adjacent double museum MUDAC and Photo Elysée by
renowned Portuguese architects Aires Mateus, who used 15,000 m3 of concrete and was
celebrated as a ‘jewel’ of ‘white concrete, as white as concrete can be, both inside and out’.254
This statement serves as an illustration of a certain type of cognitive dissonance between
contemporary architecture culture, which still seems to celebrate materials such as
concrete in a seemingly outdated modernist fashion, and what is happening in the world
at large, namely an environmental crisis exacerbated by the fetishizing use of this material
(Figures 15 and 16).
253
Hélène Jannière, Critique et Architecture: Un État Des Lieux Contemporain (Paris: Éditions de la Vilette,
2018).
254
Culea-Hong, ‘“Le Bâti Ment” (The Built Lies)? A Story of Antagonist Aesthetics in French Eco-
Neighbourhoods’, 85.
111
Figure 15: Musée cantonal des Beaux-Arts Lausanne, Lausanne, Switzerland, Barozzi Veiga, completed in
2020 (photography by Matthieu Gafsou).
While, in modernist discourses, concrete was long celebrated as the material of ahistorical
abstraction par excellence, in hindsight, it was also the material of capitalism par excellence,
as German philosopher Anselm Jappe argued in his recent book Béton, arme de
construction massive du capitalisme [Concrete: capitalism’s weapon of mass
construction].255 For example, Jappe writes how
. . . capitalist value has abolished all local particularities, all traditions, and has
imposed itself as the only law into the furthest corners of the planet . . . in the same
way, concrete has stretched its monotone dominion to the entire globe
homogenizing everything by its presence.256
Indeed, while the modernist dream of universality through a homogenizing abstraction
seems to have fit well with the capitalist project in this way, from the current ecological
perspective such abstraction seems incredibly outdated, lethal even.
255
Anselm Jappe, Béton Arme de Construction Massive Du Capitalisme (Paris: L’échapée, 2020).
256
Jappe, 186.
112
Materiality
Figure 16: Mudac and Musée de l’Elysée, Lausanne, Switzerland, Aires Mateus, completed in 2022
(photography by Matthieu Gafsou and Itten+Brechbühl SA).
In recent years, to address the environmental impact of the construction industry,

architects and engineers have sought to develop new kinds of materials, both low-tech and
high-tech. Wood has again become a fashionable material, stripped of its nostalgic
associations with local craft traditions, but employed to even construct skyscrapers. More
experimentally, architects like Neri Oxman have experimented with silkworms to
construct pavilions and more and more research is going into fungal biomaterials, both as
crossovers between finding new kinds of materials and developing human-nonhuman
collaborations. Other examples are experiments with hemp, adobe, rammed earth,
recycled plastic and so on, in which both traditional and innovative technologies are
(re)developed. In contrast to the smoothness of concrete and steel, such ecological
materials are often described as ‘hairy’. The term literally refers to the fibrous textures such
materials often have, but figuratively it also captures the sometimes messy and risky
situations that ecological questions provoke. As such, it is also a term Latour proposes for
alternative, so-called nonmodern ways of describing objects. He writes: ‘Modernist objects
113
were bald aesthetically, morally, epistemologically – but the ones produced by the
nonmoderns have always been hairy, network, rhizomelike.’257
The use of such new materials, framed in light of the environmental crisis, therefore raises
the question of how we should understand the notion of being true to materials. Materials
like concrete are not contemporary anymore, but specifically modern, in the now
conservative sense. The world is being smothered by concrete, and already the aesthetic
appearance of the material evokes resistance in an increasingly growing group of citizens.
What has come in its place is again a reference to nature, but not the Picturesque nature
Ruskin often relies on, but the carefully engineered and innovative nature of human-
grown fungi, chemically treated wood, composite materials like hempcrete. Our
contemporary truth to materials refers now to an artificial nature: hybrid materials that
are not really natural, nor fully synthetic. They are hairy. The simple opposition between
nature and technology, into which materials used to be divided – wood is natural, steel is
technological – does not suffice anymore. Both are hopelessly outdated: natural wood is
nostalgic, but concrete and steel are nostalgic too, reminiscent of a bygone modern age. In
an ecological sensibility, the dominant regime of materiality increasingly appears to be
hybrid: human production is intertwined with natural resources, allowing both space for
agency, for collaboration, as Picon observed.
257
Bruno Latour, Pandora’s Hope: Essays on the Reality of Science Studies (Cambridge MA: Harvard
114
Technology
Let’s start with an etymological reminder.

As Welsh cultural critic Raymond Williams notes in his Keywords, the word ‘technology’
came into use in the English language in the seventeenth century, derived from the Greek
tekhnologia, to describe the systematic (logos) study of an art or craft (tekhne). By the
second half of the eighteenth century, against the background of industrialization, the
word became increasingly defined as the ‘description of the arts, especially the
Mechanical’.258 As the processes of industrialization developed, by the mid-nineteenth
century technology referred specifically to the so-called practical arts, as a result of the
specialization of scientific research, which introduced the modern distinction between
science as the pursuit of knowledge and technology as the practical application of such
knowledge in a specific field. This definition persists to this day, although there is a
recurring conflation of the terms technological and technical in common language, which
have distinct meanings in the precise sense, but are often used interchangeably in the
general sense. On the one hand, in the etymological sense, it is possible to make a
distinction between the technical as concrete matters of practical construction and the
technological as its more general and systematic treatment. On the other hand, from a
historical perspective, the technical came first (tools existed long before any systematic
knowledge about, for example, the laws of physics that make them work), and technology
is considered to be a more specific form of the technical, closely related to the
systematization underlying the historical processes of scientific research and industrial
production. This confusion is indicative of the current situation in which technology is
often understood: while historically the term technics seems to cover a broader set of
practices related to art and to crafts, against which technology can be seen as a specific
type of making, in the contemporary situation technology has largely subsumed these
varied practices within a single, monocultural and systematic approach to making things
– an approach closely associated with efficiency, as we will see below.
One of the key texts in twentieth century philosophy that more fundamentally interrogates
the relationship between technology and techne is the German philosopher Martin
Heidegger’s treatment of the subject in his famous essay The Question Concerning
Technology (1954). For Heidegger, technology does not only refer to an intensified and
more systematic development of techne, but marks a fundamental breaking point. In the
essay, Heidegger argues that beyond the instrumentality of technology, as the means with
which we achieve particular ends in the broadest sense, from hammers to windmills,
258
Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society, 249.
technology is also a way of knowing, which Heidegger describes as a ‘revealing’ or

Entbergen of the truth: ‘Instrumentality is considered to be the fundamental characteristic
of technology. If we inquire into what technology, represented as means, actually is, then
we shall arrive at revealing. . . . It is the realm of revealing, i.e., of truth.’259
But there is a difference between older forms of technology (what we might call techne)
and newer ones (technology in the modern sense), and more precisely in the ways how this
uncovering of the truth takes place. According to him, older technologies operated
according to a logic of Hervorbringen, meaning both ‘to make’ and ‘to bring to the fore’.
Yet, while newer technologies are still about making something, they are not about
bringing the truth to the fore anymore, but about challenging it, or, in German,
Herausfordern, and more precisely challenging both nature and humankind. While older
technologies had to follow the principles of nature, such as a windmill adjusting itself to
the uncontrollable forces of the wind, newer technologies follow their own principles, such
as a steam engine running on a human-generated supply of coal. As philosopher of
technology Peter-Paul Verbeek writes: ‘Heidegger understands technology as a particular
manner of approaching reality, a dominated and controlling one in which reality can only
appear as raw material to be manipulated.’260 And perhaps more importantly, newer
technologies challenge humankind to challenge nature: the structure of technology in the
modern sense demands of us that we constantly realize and exploit an as yet unrealized
potential of nature, by devising new technologies that force nature in different ways to
follow the principles of technology rather than vice versa. From this perspective, following
Heidegger, the modern period can be seen to rely on the creation of a dichotomy between
the classical techne operating within the limits nature and technology dominating over
nature. As such, the technological is often seen as opposed to the organic: technology as a
way of knowing assumes a different kind of nature: not one in which humankind is
embedded, but one that it can exploit, shape and mould to its own needs.
In the face of the environmental crisis today, such an interpretation of technology, as a
dominating and controlling force over nature, no longer seems credible. On the contrary,
what the crisis tells us is how the world cannot be fully controlled, a situation that is
becoming clearer every day. At the same time, as the environment destabilizes further, we
might need technology more than before. This paradox in which technology finds itself
today requires us to rethink the role of technology, to rethink what kind of technology we
need. But to do so, we need to go back in time and figure out what seems to have gone
wrong.
259
Martin Heidegger, The Question Concerning Technology, and Other Essays (New York: Garland Pub,
1977 [1954]), 12.
260
Peter-Paul Verbeek, What Things Do: Philosophical Reflections on Technology, Agency, and Design
(Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2005), 10.
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Technology
Between Thinking and Making

One of the clues about what happened can be found in the writings of Ruskin, who fiercely
opposed the processes of industrialization and the coming of machines. In perhaps his
most famous text, the chapter ‘The Nature of Gothic’ from the second volume of his The
Stones of Venice, which was reprinted by William Morris as a separate pamphlet, Ruskin
describes how industrialization, and thus the use of technology in the process of
construction, disrupted processes of making and divided the workers involved.
Ruskin presents the essay as an attempt, not to define a specific version of the Gothic, such
as the Venetian one, but to define Gothic as such, the ‘universal Gothic’.261 To do so, he
lists six characteristics that produce the ‘gothicness’ of a building, which are both part of
the material form of the architecture and of the mental power of the builders that
constructed this or that Gothic building. It is important to note this conflation, as Ruskin
assumed that the builders identified themselves with the building they were making, and
the characteristics he defined are therefore not just architectural, but social and cultural as
well. In order of importance, Ruskin proposes and discusses the following characteristics:
savageness, changefulness, naturalism, grotesqueness, rigidity and redundance.
The list might seem to describe formal qualities, but in the discussion of each it becomes
clear that what matters most are the processes of making that result in such qualities. In
discussing the first of these, savageness, Ruskin already takes aim at the streamlined
processes of industrial production, which dehumanize the workers in their attempt to
achieve an aesthetics of perfection. To do so, Ruskin argues, industrial processes rely on a
disconnection between thinking and making:
. . . we want one man to be always thinking, and another to be always working, and
we call one a gentleman, and the other an operative; whereas the workman ought
often to be thinking, and the thinker often to be working, and both should be
gentlemen, in the best sense.262
Separating making from thinking meant for Ruskin that artisans were turned into
operatives, who lost their humanity as they became mere extensions of the machines they
operated. While he knew nothing of Marx, whose first major economic works would only
be published ten years after The Stones of Venice, they were both addressing the same social
and economic changes of the time, as well as the alienation that they produced:
It is verily this degradation of the operative into a machine, which more than any
other evil of the times, is leading the mass of nations everywhere into vain,
261
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, X:181.
262
Ruskin, X:201.
117
incoherent, destructive struggling for a freedom which they cannot explain the
nature to themselves.263
Yet, unlike Marx, for Ruskin such alienation was not of an economic nature, but primarily
an aesthetic one. The transformation of man into machine was the result of a so-called
‘perfection’ aimed at by industrial production, in which artisans were not allowed to
exercise their own freedom of thought. Instead, the artisan – now operative – had to
mechanically execute a fixed set of instructions, preconceived on the drawing board of the
‘thinking gentleman’. The division of labour, for Ruskin, thus meant that ‘it is not, truly
speaking, the labour that is divided; but the men’.264 While those who conceive of cultural
products are distanced from its actual production, those who make them are required to
stop thinking:
You can teach a man to draw a straight line, and to cut one; to strike a curved line,
and to carve it; and to copy and carve any number of given lines or forms, with
admirable speed and perfect precision; and you find his work perfect of its kind:
but if you ask him to think about any of those forms, to consider if he cannot find
any better in his own head, he stops; his execution becomes hesitating; he thinks,
and ten to one he thinks wrong; ten to one he makes a mistake in the first touch he
gives to his work as a thinking being. But you have made a man of him for all that.
He was only a machine before, an animated tool.265
Beyond his arguments against the production processes of industry and its aesthetics of
perfection lies a more fundamental argument on material culture as a whole. For Ruskin,
the measure of beauty was of course nature, which is anything but perfect, but instead
always incomplete – imperfect. Even stronger, Ruskin argues, ‘imperfection is in some sort
essential to all that we know of life’:266
It is the sign of life in a mortal body, that is to say, of a state of progress and change.
Nothing that lives is, or can be, rigidly perfect; part of it is decaying, part nascent.
The foxglove blossom, – a third part bud, a third part past, a third part in full bloom,
– is a type of the life of this world. And in all things that live there are certain
irregularities and deficiencies which are not only signs of life, but sources of beauty.
No human face is exactly the same in its lines on each side, no leaf perfect in its
lobes, no branch in its symmetry. All admit irregularity as they imply change; and
to banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to check exertion, to paralyze
vitality.267
263
Ruskin, X:194.
264
Ruskin, X:196.
265
Ruskin, X:191–92.
266
Ruskin, X:203.
267
Ruskin, X:203–4.
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Technology
As such, Ruskin’s critique of industry as well as his defence of the Gothic is explicitly an
aesthetic argument, and he demonstrates how such an aesthetics of imperfection allows
for both humanity in its making as well as for the expression of the material life of the
world we inhabit as human beings. By contrast, what industrialization achieves, according
to Ruskin, is to deny both, by its insistence on an aesthetics of perfection, thus not only
estranging men from their labour and from each other, but also estranging society from
the material processes on which an industrialized society was being built.
To make this argument, Ruskin of course relies on an idealization of the Gothic builders,
which he portrays as intimately and enthusiastically connected to the construction of
Gothic buildings all over Europe, conveniently forgetting the hard labour and poor
circumstances in which many of them lived. Nonetheless, the reception of his text struck
a point with many of his contemporaries, not in the least those who were involved in
manual labour, as the wide circulation in mostly socialist circles demonstrates. Aside from
such an idealization, Ruskin also invoked the organic, as opposed to the mechanical figure
of the machine. The organic has associations with integrated wholes, in which thinking
and making, but also humankind and the world around them, were still one – something
that was ruptured by industry, and which would indeed mark the further development of
modern societies.
The Two Cultures

Ruskin’s critique of a division of men, and of the world as a whole, would echo into the
next century, where it would be formulated in different terms. As a quick reminder, this
divide can also be formulated as a split between techne and modernity. While techne can
be understood as being embedded in nature, it is also more closely associated with cultural
production, such as artistic activity, indeed embodied in the figure of the craftsman
manipulating and collaborating with the material world. Technology, on the other hand,
is closely associated with science and industry, embodied in the figure of the machine,
which extracts, consumes and transforms the material world, and which seems to have
been at odds with cultural production from the beginning. As such, the very notion of
technology has been haunted by a spectre of violence since the rise of industrialization in
the late eighteenth century. Remember the Luddites, a group of English textile workers in
the nineteenth century that destroyed machinery in factories as a campaign of resistance
against the increased economic exploitation of their labour as well as the social disruption
in general as a result of the use of machinery. People like Ruskin argued at length against
the effects of industry, economic and social as well as political and cultural, and instead
advocated for a more human-centred approach based on pre-modern, medieval ways of
doing. But despite this violent resistance, workers and artisans had to give way to the
machine, and a deep divide between industry and the arts, between technology and culture,
developed. In the field of architecture, this divide became primarily apparent in the split
119
between the architectural establishment and the newly developing profession of engineers
in the nineteenth century, the latter of which was preoccupied with the development of
constructions that no longer had much to do with conventional architectural values, as the
work of Paxton or French engineer and industrialist Gustave Eiffel demonstrated. This
divide persisted into the twentieth century, which British scientist and novelist Charles
Percy Snow described as ‘the two cultures’.
In 1956, Snow first published his influential essay with the title ‘The Two Cultures’ in The
New Statesman, on which he then expanded in his 1959 Rede Lecture at the University of
Cambridge, under the same title. In his analysis, Snow observed how the intellectual life
in industrialized societies at the time had been split in two, represented by scientists on the
one hand and what he called ‘literary intellectuals’ on the other. Snow especially
emphasized the apparent disdain these literary intellectuals had for science, as the
following, often quoted statement describes:
A good many times I have been present at gatherings of people who, by the
standards of the traditional culture, are thought highly educated and who have with
considerable gusto been expressing their incredulity at the illiteracy of scientists.
Once or twice I have been provoked and have asked the company how many of
them could describe the Second Law of Thermodynamics. The response was cold:
it was also negative. Yet I was asking something which is the scientific equivalent
of: Have you read a work of Shakespeare’s? . . . So the great edifice of modern physics
goes up, and the majority of the cleverest people in the western world have about
as much insight into it as their neolithic ancestors would have had.268
Snow seemed to have touched on a sensitive point, as his analysis of the two cultures was
picked up widely, often reformulated in different terms to expand on the problem. As
contemporary British philosopher Simon Critchely, for example, writes:
[Snow] diagnosed the loss of a common culture and the emergence of two distinct
cultures: those represented by scientists on the one hand and those Snow termed
‘literary intellectuals’ on the other. If the former are in favour of social reform and
progress through science, technology and industry, then intellectuals are what
Snow terms ‘natural Luddites’ in their understanding of and sympathy for
advanced industrial society. In Mill’s terms, the division is between Benthamites
and Coleridgeans.269
It is the last sentence that is revealing, as Critchly suggests how the tension between these
two cultures is a resurfacing of certain debates of the mid-nineteenth century, embodied
in the figures of philosopher Jeremy Bentham and poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. In short,
268
C. P. Snow, ‘The Two Cultures’, Leonardo 23, 2/3 (1990): 172.
269
Simon Critchley, Continental Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2001), 49.
120
Technology
the former, Bentham, in developing his philosophy of utilitarianism, was seen at the time
as a radically progressive figure, questioning inherited assumptions and traditions and
criticizing them from the viewpoint of utility. On the other hand, Coleridge embodied
conservative values, accepting and working within such inherited traditions. As John
Stuart Mill observed about these two contrasting figures:
Bentham judged a proposition true or false as it accorded or not with the result of
his own inquiries; and did not search very curiously into what might be meant by
the proposition, when it obviously did not mean what he thought true. With
Coleridge, on the contrary, the very fact that any doctrine had been believed by
thoughtful men, and received by whole nations or generations of mankind was part
of the problem to be solved, was one of the phenomena to be accounted for.270
Or, put more simply, while Bentham asked if something was true or false, Coleridge
instead asked what the meaning or significance of something was. What is important here,
however, is how the figure of Bentham indeed embodied the logic of scientific and
technological progress: not only was it a matter of ‘revealing’ truth, but, as his philosophy
of utilitarianism demonstrated, it was also a matter of utility, if things were useful, and as
such any superfluity obstruction had to be rendered more efficient. This was a radically
progressive position at the time, in tune with the speed of technological progress, which
quickly outpaced the arts, stuck in their conventions and traditions. Not surprisingly, then,
by the twentieth century, at the time Snow observed the appearance of two cultures in
society, attempts were made to bridge the gap.
It is indeed a conventional historiographical approach to interpret the history of modern
architecture as the attempt to bridge the gap between architecture and technology. From
the influential Deutscher Werkbund at the beginning of the century, which had the explicit
mission to integrate traditional crafts with industrial mass production techniques, to the
opening of the Centre Pompidou in 1977, perhaps the quintessential monument to High-
Tech architecture as Banham argued, the architectural avant-garde seemed committed to
catch up with the fast pace of technology and take it seriously, on its own terms and in
cultural ones. It was already by 1980, a mere three years after the Pompidou opened, that
the architectural forerunners seemed to have given up the race. That year, the very first
International Exhibition of Architecture opened at the Venice Biennale, curated by
architect and historian Paolo Portoghesi, titled ‘The Presence of the Past’. As the title
indicates, the biennale was symptomatic of a wider reorientation in the architecture
culture of the West: while there had been a significant interest in history since at least the
1960s, with, for example, Aldo Rossi’s publication of The Architecture of the City in 1966
as major point of reference, it was not until the 1980s that such a preoccupation with the
270
John Stuart Mill, ‘Coleridge’, in The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill: Essays on Ethics, Religion and
Society, ed. John M. Robson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1969 [1840]), X:119.
121
past went mainstream in the form of postmodern historicism. At that point, major
architects seemed to largely turn away from explicit societal problems and to lay claim to
an autonomy for the architectural project, as the work of, for example, Peter Eisenman or
Bernard Tschumi demonstrated. The general sentiment in the search for an autonomous
architecture was summed up by Oswald Mathias Ungers, who, reflecting on his own work
from the period, stated in an interview in 2009: ‘I think social problems cannot be resolved
by architecture . . . you can only solve architectural problems.’271
While a trace of the modernist project persisted in the rather corporate projects of people
like Norman Foster, Renzo Piano and Richard Rogers, the architecture culture of the late
twentieth century seemed to be dominated by postmodern formalism above all else.
Today, however, the question of how architecture and technology might relate is
resurfacing again with full force in the face of the environmental crisis. Driven by industry-
wide standards for sustainability, there seems to be a kind of watered down High-Tech
revival, usually backed by corporate interests and focused on technological solutions for
questions about energy and material use, while, on the other hand, there is again a Luddite-
like aversion to technology, found in a return to traditional building methods, favouring
local materials and the reappreciation of some kind of craftsmanship, often emphasizing
durability over sustainability and longevity over innovation. Yet, while the former is often
appropriated by business-as-usual, the latter so far seems to rarely transcend the smaller
scale, falling short in providing structural solutions. But what is it that puts technology at
odds with culture, with society and perhaps the natural world in general?
Purification
One of the answers to the above question was formulated – and defended – by one of the
early modernists: German architect Walter Gropius. In his essay The New Architecture and
the Bauhaus published in 1935, Gropius describes how the ‘new architecture’ is an
‘organic’ outcome of ‘the technical civilization of the age we live in’. Its two main
characteristics, Gropius argues, are standardization and rationalization. On the one hand,
standardization relies on simplification and elimination:
A standard may be defined as that simplified practical exemplar of anything in
general use which embodies a fusion of the best of its anterior forms – a fusion
preceded by the elimination of the personal content of their designers and all
otherwise ungeneric or non-essential features.272
271
Rem Koolhaas and Hans Ulrich Obrist, ‘An Interview with O.M. Ungers’, Log 16 (2009): 50–95.
272
Walter Gropius, The New Architecture and the Bauhaus (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1965 [1935]), 34.
122
Technology
On the other, rationalization is the result of industrially organized production and

construction processes, which reduces complexity into such standardized parts:
And just as fabricated materials have been evolved which are superior to natural ones
in accuracy and uniformity, so modern practice in house construction is increasingly
approximating to the successive stages of a manufacturing process. We are
approaching a state of technical proficiency when it will become possible to
rationalize buildings and mass-produce them in factories by resolving their structure
into component parts.273
All of this has become possible through technological progress, but they are not its goals,
Gropius states:
For instance, rationalization, which many people imagine to be its cardinal principle,
is really only its purifying agency. The liberation of architecture from a welter of
ornament, the emphasis on its structural functions, and the concentration on concise
and economical solutions, represent the purely material side of that formalizing
process on which the practical value of the New Architecture depends.274
Instead, the ‘new architecture’, made possible through technology and relying on processes
of standardization and rationalization, nonetheless has a spiritual goal: ‘The other,
aesthetic satisfaction of the human soul, is just as important as the material.’275
There is a kind of millenarian rhetoric at work here, which is characteristic of modernist
discourse, and which can still be found today in debates on technology in general. As
Gropius also writes, the Bauhaus was originally founded with ‘the idea of the fundamental
unity underlying all branches of design’, and more precisely, of unifying craftsmanship
with industry, to heal the rupture introduced by technology. For Gropius, this does not
mean getting rid of technology, but rather the opposite: more technology. What he
ultimately argues here for, is the idea that through technology we might ‘purify’
architecture, get rid of everything that is superfluous and arrive what is essentially an
immaterial world of ideas:
What is far more important than this structural economy and its functional emphasis
is the intellectual achievement which has made possible a new spatial vision. For
whereas building is merely a matter of methods and materials, architecture implies
the mastery of space.276
What is important here is the idea that the modern idea of technology, and its associations
with efficiency and utility, are guided by a logic of purification. While Gropius was
273
Gropius, 39.
274
Gropius, 23-24.
275
Gropius, 24.
276
Gropius, 24.
123
defending this in the early twentieth century, it is exactly this terminology that Latour also
uses to critique such a modern view. In his classic We Have Never Been Modern, Latour
indeed describes the modern worldview as a denial of hybrids: as the scientific domination
over material reality – nature – out of which the emancipation of humanity arises – culture
– and which needs a continuous maintenance – purification – of a strict division between
both domains.
The Mechanical Sensibility

Instead of affirming such a binary opposition, modern architecture made attempts to
reconcile the divide, something Banham also argued for and tried to further theorize in his
work. Around the time Snow gave his lecture on the two cultures, Banham published his
first book, in 1960, titled Theory and Design in the First Machine Age, in which he
attempted to trace the relation between architecture and technology in modern
architecture. As the title indicates, one of the major ideas in the book was the notion of a
succession of ‘machine ages’, the development of historical periods in which ‘literary
intellectuals’ could no longer ignore the effects of technology on culture. As he writes:
‘Men whose means of moving ideas from place to place had been revolutionised at their
writing desks by the typewriter and the telephone, could no longer treat the world of
technology with hostility or indifference.’277 For Banham, the ‘Machine Ages’ he
introduces were a subdivision of the industrial society in general, suggesting that ‘we have
lived in an Industrial Age for nearly a century and a half now – the “Industrial Age” is no
less than the industrial revolution’.278 The varying character of the relationship between
technology and society over time constitutes these different Machine Ages, and according
to his analysis, at the time of his writing, society had already moved into a second phase:
We have already entered the Second Machine Age, the age of domestic electronics
and synthetic chemistry, and can look back on the First, the age of power from the
mains and the reduction of machines to human scale, as a period of the past.279
Or, as architecture theorist Nigel Whiteley summarizes in his monograph on Banham: ‘If
the First Machine Age had been about technology that was transforming life at the basic
level of reducing drudgery and making tasks less labor-some, technology in the Second
Machine Age was often about the dreams that money could buy.’280 Indeed, while Banham
often styled himself as a radical contrarian, his belief in technological progress included a
naïve enthusiasm for the – largely American – capitalist consumer society of the mid-
277
Banham, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age, 11-12.
278
Banham, 10.
279
Banham, 10.
280
124
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twentieth century. Because of this enthusiasm, Whitely argues, when the socioeconomic
model on which much of the technological progress of the twentieth century had been
built was questioned after the events of 1968, Banham seemed unable to understand why.
At that point, Whiteley suggests, a Third Machine Age was being born, in which the role
of technology as imagery changed: ‘Although technology remained the basis of Western
society, it was no longer necessary to respect its imagery (as the First Machine Age had
done), let alone celebrate it (as Second Machine Age designers from Detroit to Archigram
had done).’281
While there may be valid criticisms of Banham’s all too enthusiastic embrace of the various
Machine Ages, and it might be a worthwhile historiographical exercise to more clearly
define these, the main point here is that Banham was trying to articulate the changing
relationship between society and technology and to urge the architectural establishment
to catch up with the speed of technology, inventing a vocabulary to describe the
burgeoning technological culture. To do so, Banham developed the notion of a
‘mechanical sensibility’, which might seem like an oxymoron, contrasting the rationality
of a mechanized universe with the sensual experience of it, but that was exactly what
Banham was interested in. In his Theory and Design, Banham makes a crucial argument
to develop this notion more clearly in relation to architecture history, since he thought
architecture at the time was failing to catch up with the speed of technology, something it
desperately needed to do:
The architect who proposes to run with technology knows now that he will be in
fast company, and that, in order to keep up, he may have to emulate the Futurists
and discard his whole cultural load, including the professional garments by which
he is recognized as an architect. If, on the other hand, he decides not to do this, he
may find that a technological culture has decided to go on without him.282
Indeed, an important part of his argument was focused on the rehabilitation of the Italian
Futurists, who he presents as the pioneers of the Modern Movement, but who had been
largely ignored by people like Pevsner. According to Banham, however, the Futurists were
perhaps the only ones thus far who had attempted to take technology seriously, and had
recognized its impact on the cultural production of the twentieth century. For Banham,
Futurism was a sensibility, the origins of what he would call a mechanical sensibility, or in
others words, an attitude of mind:
The qualities which made Futurism a turning-point in the development of Modern
theories of design were primarily ideological, and concerned with attitudes of mind,
rather than formal or technical methods – though these attitudes of mind were often
281
Whiteley, 392.
282
Whiteley, 329-330.
125
influential as vehicles in the transmission of formal and technical methods which

were not, in the first place, of Futurist invention.283
Banham was heavily influenced by his experiences during the Second World War, which,
though made possible through technological progress and rational planning, was anything
but rational. Instead, it was an explosion of irrational violence. As Williams observes in
Reyner Banham Revisited, during the war, Banham took an apprenticeship with the Bristol
Aeroplane Company, where he trained and worked as an engineer.284 There, he was
confronted with shot-through planes returning from the continent, often with wounded
or dead soldiers inside of them. The experience must have made an impression on
Banham, revealing the violent forces embedded in technology as such. As Virilio once put
it:
When you invent the ship, you also invent the shipwreck; when you invent the plane
you also invent the plane crash; and when you invent electricity, you invent
electrocution . . . Every technology carries its own negativity, which is invented at
the same time as technical progress.285
What Banham perhaps experienced during those years as an aeroplane engineer was not
so much the presumed rationality of technology, but the visceral experience of its violence,
its speed and power, an experience that he would eventually write about, and which would
draw him towards the work of the Italian Futurists. However, in an interview with Scottish
architect, historian and critic John Maule McKean, Banham recounted how it was not just
reading the writings of the Futurists that confronted him with what he would eventually
call ‘mechanical sensibility’, but an experience one night at a suburban London railway
station.
Standing on the platform, one night a week, and at a certain point . . . the Flying Scot
or something used to hurtle through underneath, and the whole building would
shake and steam would come up through the platform. And at the same time an
electric would come through at the high level, bursting through the steam . . . And
suddenly I got the message . . . about the actual kind of experience that Futurism was
all about, and it suddenly began to hang together from then on.286
In the late 1950s, Banham published a number of articles and gave a number of lectures
on the Futurists, primarily on the role of Antonio Sant’Elia within the movement, in an
attempt to rehabilitate him as one of the founders of modernism. Indeed, while Futurism
dates back to 1909, writers such as Pevsner, Giedion and Mumford largely ignored the role
Futurists had played in the development of modernism, and Banham was there to set the
283
Whiteley, 99.
284
285
Paul Virilio, Politics of the Very Worst (New York: Semiotext(e), 1999), 89.
286
Quoted in Whiteley, Reyner Banham, 10.
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record straight. His first article on the work of Antonio Sant’Elia was published in 1955
and discusses the ‘Manifesto of Futurist Architecture’, connecting it with Sant’Elia’s
drawings (Figure 17). As Banham observes, Sant’Elia
. . . goes on to create forms which are exciting in virtue of their mechanistic
interpretation. In fact, putting the total corpus of drawings against the text of his
manifesto, we see that he was among the very first to combine a complete acceptance
of the machine-world with an ability to realise and symbolise that acceptance in
terms of powerful and simple geometrical form. The acceptance is more complete
than Le Corbusier’s, the forms more powerful than those of Gropius.287
As such, Banham argues that Sant’Elia was ‘the first to conceive planning of cities as fully
three-dimensional structures, and his position in the family tree of the Modern Movement
is thus assured’.288
Here, a strange blend of technology and Romanticism appears. Technology does not
appear as a neutral instrument, but as something to be lived. It echoes the writings of the
Futurists in the sense that, as Whiteley observes, they ‘believed they were witnessing the
dawning of a new age of power, dynamism, and excitement’, in which ‘technology was
central and should not be observed with the detached air of the academic, but experienced
for all its compulsive sensations’.289 In other words, technology was not there to be
understood rationally, but to be lived irrationally, and Banham wanted to understand what
this meant.
287
Reyner Banham, ‘Sant’Elia’, in Architectural Review (May 1955), 300.
288
Banham, 300.
289
Whiteley, 47.
127
Figure 17: La Città Nuova, Antonio Sant’Elia, 1914.
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Technology
Architecture as Technology
Over time, Banham would end up reproducing and reinforcing the logic of purification
according to which technology operates, as formulated by Gropius. In his later work he
would start to focus on the relationship between architectural form and mechanical
services, which resulted in an architecture as ‘fit environments for human activities’.290
This fascination would result in the radical book The Architecture of the Well-tempered
Environment in 1969, in which he traces the historical development of certain key
mechanical services, such as air-conditioning, heating and electric light, and assesses them
in terms of architectural value. Much has been written on Banham’s arguments on
architecture as a ‘well-tempered environment’, but what is important here is the tension
he perceives between the mechanical innovations and the conservatism of architectural
design, which, in the context of Europe, still adhered to some idea of monumentality and
massing. By contrast, Banham would argue in favour of a reduction of architectural form,
as a ‘purification’ of it down to the strictly necessary, echoing earlier modernist ideas about
rationalization. In 1965, a few years before the publication of The Architecture of the Well-
tempered Environment, Banham already developed some of its core ideas in his well-
known essay ‘A Home Is Not a House’, illustrated with drawings by François Dallegret
(Figure 18).
In the essay, Banham takes aim at the monumental architecture of European history,
which still served as a frame of reference for much of the architecture culture at the time,
especially in England. Instead, in the United States, he found its antithesis: the caravan. In
its most prosaic form, the caravan is a car to live in. In its most radical form, as envisioned
by Banham, the caravan embodies a capsular architecture of pure utilitarian technologies,
light-weight and moveable, designed to transform almost any uninhabitable space into a
place for dwelling. Its main feature was the omission of anything superfluous, a
requirement to make it as mobile as possible, to the point that everything we might call
architecture in the Ruskinian sense had disappeared. As such, the essay opens with the
following famous provocation:
When your house contains such a complex of piping, flues, ducts, wires, lights,
inlets, outlets, ovens, sinks, refuse disposers, hi-fi reverberators, antennae,
conduits, freezers, heaters – when it contains so many services that the hardware
could stand up by itself without any assistance from the house, why have a house
to hold it up?291
290
Reyner Banham, The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment (London: The Architectural Press,
1969), 21.
291
Reyner Banham, ‘A Home Is Not A House’, Art in America 2 (1965): 70.
129
Figure 18: Illustration for Banham’s article ‘A Home Is Not a House’, François Dallegret, 1965.
This phrase seems to sum up much of what was happening to modern architecture at the
time, namely the increased presence of service technologies – machines – in buildings,
which undermined the classical tectonic and massive constructions of the most part of the
architectural canon up until then. Taken to its extreme, in Banham’s view, one might just
as well skip a few steps ahead and move into a caravan, or at least into its more
sophisticated and radical variation, a ‘standard-of-living-package’, as he phrases it,
borrowing the term from Buckminster Fuller. Yet, underneath this technological
argument, there is another, quite opposite argument. The caravan is not merely
appreciated for its radical embrace of a technological architecture, it also embodies the
possibility to leave the city and inhabit the countryside again, the wilderness, the desert,
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even. It is a highly technological device that offers the possibility of returning to nature, as
Banham writes:
A standard-of-living package (the phrase and the concept are both Bucky Fuller’s)
that really worked might, like so many sophisticated inventions, return Man nearer
to a natural state in spite of his complex culture (much as the supersession of the
Morse telegraph by the Bell Telephone restored his power of speech nationwide).292
What then follows is Banham’s famous characterization of two types of architecture, which
he would further develop in The Architecture of the Well-tempered Environment: the
campfire and the cave. In his words:
Man started with two basic ways of controlling the environment: one by avoiding
the issue and hiding under a rock, tree, tent or roof (this led ultimately to
architecture as we know it) and the other by actually interfering with the local
meteorology, usually by means of a campfire, which, in a more polished form,
might lead to the kind of situation now under discussion.293
This basic metaphor serves as a rhetorical device to oppose the American mobile
architecture of the caravan to the dusty brick buildings of Europe. It relies on the
assumption that architecture is fundamentally there to control the environment and make
it inhabitable, either by mechanical means (the campfire) or by massing (the cave).
However, the suggestion is also that the highly technological architecture that Banham
envisions here and that he sees developing at the time in general as a result of an
industrialized society, is not one that becomes further removed from some kind of state of
nature, but rather one that holds the promise to bring human beings back closer to the
natural environment via technology. Exemplary of this ideological frame are the drawings
included with the article, by Dallegret, which show a high-tech capsular architecture, but
in which Banham and Dallegret themselves are inserted, nude, as cavemen rediscovering
a more primal mode of being. This is some kind of high-tech-Heideggerian dwelling, not
despite technology, but because of it.
Technological Textility
A different and more generous reading of Banham’s arguments is possible, however.
Banham’s suggestion to reject monumentality and massing in favour of embracing a
technological aesthetics can also be interpreted as an argument to render the thoroughly
technological nature of twentieth-century dwelling perceptible to its inhabitants – an
argument that still exists today. For example, in a paper titled ‘Designing Environmental
292
Banham, 75.
293
Banham, 75.
131
Relations: From Opacity to Textility’ (2013), British anthropologist Tim Ingold and design
theorist Mike Anusas seem to formulate a similar argument to that of Banham, albeit in
different terms. The authors start with a critique of the dominant logic of form that
understands the worlds as a collection of objects, which, they argue, results in an increasing
environmental alienation.294 More specifically, they identify Western industrialized design
as a system that produces singular and discrete objects that conceal their interiority – all
of the parts, structures and conduits; all electrical, chemical and mechanical workings; and
all of the energies, gases and fluids they carry – behind opaque surfaces, which are only
perforated by interfaces that allow the object to be used and connected to other objects.
They argue that this design logic obfuscates the entangled nature of the world:
In constituting the world as a set of apparently independent and discrete objects,
the interdependent and entangled nature of the world becomes more difficult to
perceive. Flows of materials, which are of critical environmental significance, are
infrastitially hidden and accorded low perceptual value.295
Instead, they propose to reimagine form as ‘textilic’, to bring out ‘the energetic lines of the
material world’ and to conceptualize ‘design as a practice of enriching the weaves that bind
people and their environments’.296 To do so, they propose to ‘think of the inhabited world
not as a layout of interconnected objects but as a tapestry of interwoven lines’.297 In the
second half of the paper, they make an attempt to outline what this would mean in the
context of product design, architectural design and public space design, in which they
suggest for architecture that this means rethinking the aesthetic appearance of a building,
not as an enclosed and objectified form, but as one that allows for a ‘haptic engagement
with the materials and forces that are bound together in the building’.298 While they
acknowledge that the late modern high-tech style of, for example, Richard Rogers’s Lloyd’s
building seemingly makes an attempt to render its interior workings visible, they argue
that the division between surface and interiority remains intact but is merely inverted
(Figure 19). To imagine form as textilic, they conclude, would mean to forget about any
division between surface and interiority, or in more architectural terms, between
construction and finishing:
Thus, instead of the division between surface and depth, or between the superficial
and the infrastitial, the surfaces of things are at one with their workings. These
294
Mike Anusas and Tim Ingold, ‘Designing Environmental Relations: From Opactiy to Textility’, Design
Issues 29, 4 (2013): 58–69.
295
Anusas and Ingold, 59.
296
297
298
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surfaces are no longer superficial, nor are the workings infrastitial; rather both
surfaces and workings are interstitial ‘in the midst of things’.299
Such an argument seems to echo Banham’s writings to a certain extent, especially the
previously discussed article ‘A Home Is Not a House’, where he tried to conceive of an
architecture that would reveal the thoroughly technological nature of contemporary living.
Doing so would confront us with the technological flows and networks out of which our
world is built, and might result in a greater awareness of our ties with the environment.
Figure 19: Detail of Lloyd’s building, London, England, Richard Rogers & Partners, completed in 1986
(photography by Timothy Soar).
Against Efficiency
What I have tried to demonstrate in all of the above is how the notion of technology in
modern society has often become tightly associated with a narrative of purification or, in
299
133
other words, of efficiency. The purification described by Gropius is about reducing things
to the essential, to filter out the noise – to arrive at pure space, according to him. From a
more general perspective, this is how technological efficiency is indeed often understood:
as a way of making things more straightforward, less wasteful. Especially in light of the
environmental crisis, the discourse on sustainability largely relies on technological
solutions to reduce our impact on the natural world through an increased efficiency of the
way we consume materials and energy, by doing the same with less, and by even doing less
in general. There is a narrative that we, human beings, should do less, produce less, use
less, consume less, pollute less. And while this may be true to some extent, something
seems off about this narrative.
The reason we find ourselves in the middle of an environmental crisis is not because
technology has made things more efficient since industrialization, on the contrary.
Technological progress has rather resulted in more of everything – more extraction, more
production, more consumption and more pollution. One of the reasons is of course
technology’s embedment within a capitalist world economy that strives for infinite growth,
in which efficiency is not aimed at reducing things, but at intensifying growth, primarily
economic growth. This was already observed in 1865 by English economist William
Stanley Jones in his work ‘The Coal Question’, an observation that is often referred to as
Jevons’ Paradox.300 At the time, new technologies made it possible to burn coal more
efficiently, but as Jevons noted this did not lead to less burning of coal. Instead, it resulted
in more coal being burned, precisely because newer technologies were available to do so
more efficiently. Something similar is happening with the roll-out of wind and solar power
today, in which these newer technologies are not necessarily replacing older and more
polluting forms of energy production, but have become additional sources of energy with
which to extract, produce and consume even more.301 And while this could rightly be
attributed to the dominant economic system of capitalism in which technology is
embedded, and which economic theories such as degrowth criticize, it might also tell us
something about the way technology functions as such – the way we think technology
should function. But perhaps we need to think about it in different terms, not as
purification and efficiency, but rather the opposite, according to a logic of sacrifice and
abundance.
Indeed, part of Ruskin’s critiques of industrialization was the observation that something
of importance was getting lost, namely sacrifice, which he not only found crucial for
architecture, but saw as a fundamental feature of the world. The notion is of course loaded
with religious connotations in Ruskin’s work, but might also be understood in more
300
William Stanley Jevons, The Coal Question: An Inquiry Concerning the Progress of the Nation, and the
Probable Exhaustion of Our Coal Mines (London: Macmillan and Co., 1865).
301
‘World Energy Consumption Statistics | Enerdata’, accessed 8 August 2023,
https://yearbook.enerdata.net/total-energy/world-consumption-statistics.html.
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secular terms, in terms of abundance or excess, as it appears in the work of French writer
and philosopher Georges Bataille. There is a surprising connection to make between
Ruskin and Bataille, between the religious conservative and the – eventually – atheist
radical, but I will return to that at the end. For now, let us first look at Ruskin and how the
notion of sacrifice figures in his writings: first in its importance for architecture and second
as an economic logic.
5.7.1 Sacrifice
The first lamp in The Seven Lamps of Architecture is already dedicated to the notion of
sacrifice. For Ruskin, it is one of the fundamental features of what makes architecture truly
architecture, as opposed to mere utilitarian construction. He writes:
Let us, therefore, at once confine the name [Architecture] to that art which, taking
up and admitting, as conditions of its working, the necessities and common uses of
the building, impresses on its form certain characters venerable or beautiful, but
otherwise unnecessary. Thus, I suppose, no one would call the laws architectural
which determine the height of a breastwork or the position of a bastion. But if to
the stone facing of that bastion be added an unnecessary feature, as a cable
moulding, that is Architecture.302
In other words, what makes architecture ‘Architecture’ is sacrifice. Something of value
must be added to the construction, simply because it is valuable, without any ulterior
motive. This may take the form of the extra work required to make something more
refined, elaborate or detailed than necessary, or the use of a certain material that is more
expensive than it needs to be:
Now, first, to define this Lamp, or Spirit of Sacrifice, clearly. I have said that it
prompts us to the offering of precious things merely because they are precious, not
because they are useful or necessary. It is a spirit, for instance, which of two
marbles, equally beautiful, applicable and durable, would choose the more costly
because it was so, and of two kinds of decoration, equally effective, would choose
the more elaborate because it was so, in order that it might in the same compass
present more cost and more thought.303
Of course, as Ruskin adds, this ‘spirit’ is the complete opposite of the logic of the market:
‘It is therefore most unreasoning and enthusiastic, and perhaps best negatively defined, as
the opposite of the prevalent feeling of modern times, which desires to produce the largest
302
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, VIII:28–29.
303
Ruskin, VIII:30–31.
135
results at the least cost.’304 The main difference lies in the fact that, while the market
prioritizes the final product, to be sold and consumed, Ruskin instead prioritizes the
process of production, the work required to make something: ‘It is not the church we want,
but the sacrifice; not the emotion of admiration, but the act of adoration; not the gift, but
the giving.’305 As such, this argument is not only a plea for architectural sacrifice, but more
fundamentally, a plea for sacrifice in the making of architecture itself. Or, more radically,
the making of architecture, and especially the making of Gothic architecture, as an
enterprise that requires materials, labour and energy, is to be understood, according to
Ruskin, as a gesture of sacrifice entirely. Ruskin will rarely mention the ‘function’ of Gothic
architecture, since its function did not really matter. What mattered was the work that was
required to build these edifices, which in itself was already ennobling – ennobling the
community, the citizen and especially the artisans themselves. It is no surprise therefore
that, in ‘The Nature of Gothic’, where he again attempts to define Gothic architecture
through a number of different notions, one of them is the notion of ‘redundancy’. Echoing
the above-described contrast with the logic of the market, Ruskin writes:
There are, however, far nobler interests mingling, in the Gothic heart, with the rude
love of decorative accumulation: a magnificent enthusiasm, which feels as if it never
could do enough to reach the fulness of its ideal; an unselfishness of sacrifice, which
would rather cast fruitless labour before the altar than stand idle in the market.306
The suggestion here is that Ruskin considers work as something valuable in itself, beyond
its mere value defined by the market – as already discussed above in contrast to Marxist
interpretations of labour. As usual, Ruskin employs religious references in his arguments,
which can here be seen is his paraphrasing of the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard
as found in the Gospel of Matthew. As the title indicates, the parable tells the story of
workers in a vineyard, who all get paid the same at the end of the day, no matter the varying
amounts of work each has done. This parable has multiple interpretations, but what
Ruskin takes from it is that, while the work should be compensated, it cannot be reduced
to the value of compensation, which would be a restricted perspective to understand the
importance of work, of making something.
It is the same logic Ruskin later develops in his work on political economy, titled Unto This
Last, again a reference to the same parable, in which the workers should be paid the same
‘unto this last’. The economic logic Ruskin develops borders on the naïve and was indeed
not taken seriously at the time. As Ballantyne summarizes:
Ruskin believed that craftsmen should be paid enough to live on, but that the wage
should not be dependent on the quality of their work. He did not want to see their
304
Ruskin, VIII:31.
305
306
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, X:244.
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employers competing on price, undercutting one another, as that could only lead
to the lowering of standards. The market should deal with bad workmanship by
declining to employ the bad workmen, not by persuading them to work for less.307
In contrast to the developing economy of industrial capitalism which strives for
maximized profit, Ruskin instead was concerned with the conditions of labour for the
workmen. Yet, beyond that, he was also concerned with the way in which modern society
was developing, according to a logic that, in his opinion, contradicted how the world in
general, the natural world, operated. While superficial interpretations of Darwin’s work at
the time seemed to suggest how nature functions according to a logic of utility – as a
survival of the fittest – Ruskin instead believed the opposite: the natural world appeared
to him as one of abundance, of excess, of sacrifice. His drawings and paintings of natural
scenes testify to his fascination for the growth of plants, which always exceed merely
utilitarian principles. A plant does not stop growing once it has reached its goal of
procreation, it keeps on adding branches and leaves, flowers and fruits, as long as it
receives sunlight. And the sun is indeed abundant, it overflows the Earth with amounts of
energy that all life on the planet struggles to consume fully. There is an overflowing excess
in nature everywhere you might look, it seems from Ruskin’s drawings, a continuous
process of spending energy beyond utility, in other words: sacrifice.
5.7.2 Excess
An unexpected turn in contemporary discourses on ecology is the reference to the work of
Georges Bataille. While Bataille never explicitly addressed questions of ecology, his work
does seem to lend itself to a certain ecological interpretation that runs counter to dominant
narratives of sustainable efficiency, and which might be useful to briefly address here.
Moreover, it might also be counterintuitive to connect Ruskin to Bataille. While Ruskin
was conventionally seen as the exemplary Victorian prude, idealizing the religious cultural
heritage of feudal Europe to formulate his critiques of the modern world, Bataille’s work
instead revolved around states of extremity, of transgression. Nonetheless, as British
historian Jessica Maynard observed:
Bataille and Ruskin are united in the distinction they draw between one kind of
consumption – the consumerist acquisition and hoarding integral to the
conservation of life and ‘the continuation of individuals’ productive activity in a
given society’ – and a second order of consumption that for both is sacrificial,
resolutely non-utile in its effects.308
307
308
Jessica Maynard, ‘Architectures of Sacrifice: Ruskin, Bataille, and the Resistance to Utility’, Mosaic: An
Interdisciplinary Critical Journal 39, 1 (2006): 116.
137
Bataille was indeed critical of the assumption that human societies merely develop
according to a logic of pure rational calculation, an economic attitude according to which
the ideology of industrial capitalism operates, for example. Instead, he emphasized the
importance of unproductive expenditure, which is the destruction of wealth and resources
beyond any instrumental logic of utility, but crucial to the formation of community, and
thus of culture: ‘Violence is its [sacrifice’s] principle, but the works limit it in time and
space; it is subordinated to the concern for uniting and preserving the commonality.’309
This quote is taken from Bataille’s work on political economy, titled La Part maudite, or
The Accursed Share in English, first published in 1949 and, similar to Ruskin’s work on
political economy, received with widespread confusion and largely ignored by economists,
as they regarded Bataille’s approach to the field unorthodox, at best, and uninformed, at
worst. However, the terms ‘restricted economy’ and ‘general economy’ around which the
work revolves, as well as this idea of a ‘non-productive expenditure’ that manifests itself in
various ways throughout his whole oeuvre, have recently been reinterpreted as ‘restrictive
ecology’ and ‘general ecology’, for example in the work of Morton.310
The reason why Bataille’s work on economy was not taken seriously is because he
advanced the position that the fundamental question of economics is not how to best
allocate scarce resources – a question of efficiency – but how to best destroy wealth – a
question of excess.311 To argue this position, Bataille makes a distinction between the
conventional approach to economics, which he describes as ‘restrictive economy’, and a
more fundamental approach, which he describes as a ‘general economy’.312 What Bataille
calls the restrictive economy is indeed how the economy is usually understood, as a system
of production and consumption that revolves around scarcity and utility. In short, scarcity
of a certain good, for example energy to heat our houses, drives demand, which requires
organized labour to produce the required energy in order to meet the demand. In contrast
to such an economy based on scarcity and needs, Bataille argues that this is only part of
the story, and that such a restricted economy is embedded in a much broader, more general
economy, which goes beyond human societies. From the perspective of a general economy,
energy is not simply a good that exists within a dynamic of need, but is what constitutes
and sets in motion all processes of life on earth, including the particular processes of a
restricted economy. Indeed, to define such a general economy, Bataille starts from an
‘ecological’ understanding of the world: the idea that the Earth is flooded by energy coming
from the sun, more than any organism or community of organisms can handle, and as a
309
Georges Bataille, The Accursed Share: An Essay on General Economy (New York: Zone
Books, 1988 [1949]), 59.
310
311
Ray Huling, ‘Bataillean Ecology: An Introduction to the Theory of Sustainable Excess’, Moveable Type
11 (2019): 25–37.
312
See Jochem Zwier and Vincent Blok, ‘Energetic Ethics: Georges Bataille in the Anthropocene’, Global
Changes 46 (2020): 174–75.
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result, all life in the thin layer covering the Earth – the ‘critical zone’ in Latourian terms,
or the ‘veil of strange intermediate being’ in Ruskinian ones – cannot help but grow,
multiply and produce excessively, to the point where the excess energy has to be spent,
wasted. Bataille takes this not only as a biological fact of nature, but as a social fact of
history. What else is this so-called civilization but an excess of life, a surplus that goes far
beyond mere survival, as a result of too much energy?
Zooming out from the restricted economy of human societies to a general economy – or
better, general ecology – of the biosphere that operates according to a logic of abundance
and sacrifice, undermines the discourse of technological sustainability that argues for
purification and efficiency. As Morton asks:
Since it looks like capitalism is about to use an ecological rhetoric of scarcity to
justify future developments, it is vital that we recognize that there are serious
problems with imagining an ecological view based on limits, even at the level of
abstraction we have been exploring. And we need to notice that scarcity and
limitation are not the only ecological concepts on the block. What if the problem
were in fact one of a badly distributed and reified surplus?313
As such, both Ruskin and Bataille remind us that we should not all too quickly approach
ecological questions from a perspective of efficiency, as economic systems like capitalism
as well as dominant discourses on technology seem to ask of us.
A Technological Sacrifice?
In this sense we can perhaps better understand Heidegger’s distinction between the
technological and the natural: what Ruskin as well as Bataille remind us of, is how, in the
modern world, the technological operates according to a different logic than the natural
one opposed to it. While the natural is the result of sacrifice and excess, of an unproductive
expenditure of energy, the technological instead tends to strive for purification and
efficiency. If technology is then a way of knowing the world, it casts the natural in terms
of utility, to the point where certain ecological discourses describe the natural in terms of
‘ecosystem services’.314 Such a view, however, misses the point, and only ends up making
things worse, as it denies a fundamental feature of how the natural works. Can we think
technology differently? Might we conceive of the technological as sacrifice, rather than
instrumentality? And is this not what the environmental crisis asks of us, to engage with
the world, not by reducing it, but by contributing to it, by spending human energy that
313
314
See, for example, Carlos Corvalan, Simon Hales, and Anthony McMichael, Ecosystems and Human
Well-Being: Health Synthesis: A Report of the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (Geneva: World Health
Organization, 2005).
139
contributes to more than mere human ends? These questions might lead us towards a
‘politics of vitality’, which I will discuss in the conclusion, but for which we need one more
piece of the puzzle: the question of time.
140
Time
Something is happening to our sense of time.

The environmental crisis is not only a disruption of the material world we live in, but also
of the temporal one. This can already be seen in the way we talk about the environmental
crisis: depending on what report or article you read, catastrophe is just around the corner,
has already happened a long time ago, and is also happening right now, already all around
us.
Let me unpack this a little by looking at what is happening to the world at large.
For example, on 8 October 2018, the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate
Change (IPCC) released a special report on the effects of global warming above 1.5°C, out
of which the most quoted headline was the estimated twelve years left to realize ‘rapid and
far-reaching transitions’ in order to keep warming below this 1.5°C.315 In other words,
global warming, and especially its worst effects, were still in the future, although not an
abstract and a faraway future, but an immediate future, defined by a time horizon of a
mere twelve years, of which, at the time of writing this text, five years have already passed,
bringing down the counter to seven, with little sign of such rapid and far-reaching
transitions. In the past few years, this prediction has already been revised and most
indicators suggest things will develop even faster. The outdated but optimistic slogan ‘the
future is now’, which once expressed the sentiment that everything had become possible,
now carries a more sinister implication: the future is running out of time.
On the other hand, much of the environmental disaster to come will be the effect of already
so-called ‘locked in’ emissions and pollution that happened in the past. As ecological
theorist Timothy Morton writes in his Hyperobjects (2013):
The end of the world has already occurred. We can be uncannily precise about the
date on which the world ended. Convenience is not readily associated with
historiography, nor indeed with geological time. But in this case, it is uncannily
clear. It was April 1784, when James Watt patented the steam engine, an act that
315
IPCC, ‘Summary for Policy-Makers’, in Global Warming of 1.5 °C. An IPCC Special Report on the
Impacts of Global Warming of 1.5 °C above Pre-Industrial Levels and Related Global Greenhouse Gas
Emission Pathways, in the Context of Strengthening the Global Response to the Threat of Climate Change,
Sustainable Development, and Efforts to Eradicate Poverty, ed. Valérie Masson-Delmotte et al. (Geneva:
World Meteorological Organization, 2018), 17.
commenced the depositing of carbon in Earth’s crust – namely, the inception of

humanity as a geophysical force on a planetary scale.316
Such an observation inverts much of the ecological debate about what we should do: rather
than focusing on the possibility of future disaster, we apparently need to change what has
already happened in the past, which is a temporal logic that, for example, much wildlife
conservation and rehabilitation projects are based on.
And while the catastrophe is coming in twelve, no, seven, no, merely a few years, and
although ‘the end of the world has already occurred’ as well, we are currently also living
through, as another example, the so-called Sixth Mass Extinction Event, which comes 65
million years after the last one in which the dinosaurs became extinct.317 It is estimated
that in the current situation at least 1 million different species are at risk of disappearing
entirely, a conservative estimate according to many scientists.318 The main reason for such
a mass extinction event is a series of interconnected environmental disasters, largely driven
by human activity, such as increased carbon emissions that lead to an acidification of the
oceans, or the global deterioration of soil fertility through industrialized agriculture that
causes insect populations to plummet.
What these examples demonstrate is how the environmental crisis operates at different
speeds and different scales. And as scientific knowledge of the crisis and its different but
connected events, of what is happening to the world we are living in, spreads through
society, our temporal experience of the world starts to change as well. An ecological
sensibility is indeed defined by such a paradoxical looping of time, in which the past, the
present and the future get mixed up and are difficult to discern from each other. This
stands in contrast with the conventional and rather simplistic conception of linear time
within which a large part of modernity operated – the arrow of progress from an
increasingly outdated past towards a faraway utopian future – and which now seems
completely insufficient to account for the world we live in.
Temporal Collapse
In the previous chapters, I have tried to demonstrate how an ecological sensibility seems
to largely revolve around hybrid conceptions of nature, materiality and technology. These
categories, however, are all three subject to temporal dimensions as well. In short, from a
modern perspective, the notion of nature often seems to be associated with nostalgic
316
Morton, Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology After the End of the World, 7.
317
See, for example, Kolbert, The Sixth Extinction: An Unnatural History.
318
IPBES, Global Assessment Report on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services of the Intergovernmental
Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services, ed. Eduardo S. Brondizio et al. (Bonn:
IPBES secretariat, 2019).
142
Time
sentiments. At best, it is that which humanity transcends and takes care of, at worst, it is
that which gets destroyed in the process of modernization. Either way, nature seems to be
that which is left behind by modernity, and to which Romantic conservatism wants to
return. Yet, in different terms, nature can also be understood as a material reservoir,
already here, lying, waiting to be extracted and transformed by human activity, without
which it is static, merely present. And while the natural world of plants and animals may
continuously change and evolve, the material world conceived as molecules seems
ultimately permanent, and any change is merely a reshuffling of its elements. Finally, the
notion of technology is heavily entangled with ideas of progress, oriented towards the near
and distant future. It is through technology that we supposedly can transcend nature, learn
to fully control and stabilize the material world according to human-made designs, and
solve any problems we might meet on our way to the futuristic but undefined utopia that
all technology seems to strive for. As such, the modern mind seems to position the notions
of nature, materiality and technology on a linear timescale, which, from an ecological
perspective, completely unravels and starts to loop around, tying itself in knots and getting
stuck, and in which clear-cut categories such as past, present and future, tradition and
progress, nostalgia and futurism all get mixed up.
This is something Latour also touches upon in his widely popular Down to Earth: Politics
in the New Climatic Regime (2018), but from a spatial perspective.319 In this essay, Latour
problematizes the modern opposition between the local and the global, which, he argues,
long defined the terms of conservative and progressive politics. Yet, in the ‘New Climatic
Regime’, he argues, these categories seem to have lost their ability to function as clear
political signifiers. While the global long functioned as a political signifier for progressive
politics – the promise of world-wide democracy, of equality, of universality, even – and
the local long seemed to be the concern of conservatism – the importance of traditions, of
national identity, of isolationism, even – today, such a clear political division between the
two has become impossible in the face of the environmental crisis. Globalization has not
only failed to deliver on the promises of a united world, even worse, it has expanded
systems of oppression and extraction, in part causing the large-scale breakdown we are
facing. On the other hand, while we are witnessing a resurgence of xenophobic nationalism
in the West, the local has also become a signifier for progressives to rally around, especially
when it comes to new forms of collective organization in the face of global neoliberalism.
As such, as the binary between the local and the global as well as between the
conventionally associated political agendas crumbles, ideas on what political progress or
conservatism means equally shift.
In what follows, I will argue that the environmental crisis is not merely a collapse of the
physical world around us, it is also a collapse of the temporal categories through which we
understand that world. To do so, I will first trace out a general idea of how modernity
319
Latour, Down to Earth: Politics in the New Climatic Regime.
143
relied on the temporal categories of nostalgia and futurism to function, followed by a

demonstration of how Ruskin and Banham indeed occupied these respective positions as
exemplary products of modernity, after which I will problematize such positions within
contemporary ecological debates. Finally, as a conclusion, I will propose to think of our
contemporary temporal experience as a ‘deep present’, in which the conventional
categories of past, present and future collapse, making room to think differently about
nature, materiality and technology, beyond the modern binaries in which these categories
were defined.
Between Nostalgia and Futurism

A major study examining the temporal conditions of modernity is The Future of Nostalgia
by Russian-American literary theorist Svetlana Boym, published in 2001, right at the
beginning of the new century. In it, she analyses the temporal struggle of the modern world
in twentieth-century Russia, Europe and the United States, drawing from both her own
biography as well as the work of Russian émigré writers. Her point of departure is the
observation that modernity, with its emphasis on progress and the future, is not the
antithesis to nostalgia, but rather that nostalgia is the necessary by-product of striving for
the future. ‘Nostalgia inevitably reappears as a defense-mechanism in a time of accelerated
rhythms of life and historical upheavals,’ she writes in the introduction.320 And a few pages
further: ‘[Nostalgia] is not necessarily opposed to modernity and individual responsibility.
Rather it is coeval with modernity itself. Nostalgia and progress are like Jekyll and Hyde:
alter egos.’321 Indeed, while a desire for the future is usually seen as a modern tendency and
a nostalgic longing for the past as anti-modern, or at least conservative, it is the interplay
between both that constitutes the temporal sensibility of modernity itself. As such, Boym
traces the development of nostalgia – initially as a medically diagnosed disease – back to
the end of the seventeenth century, not coincidentally the moment in Europe when the
conception of time was undergoing a radical change: from a religious temporality to a
modern one.
It is a historiographical commonplace to contrast the linear time of the medieval world
with the pagan, cyclical understanding of time as an eternal return. While pagan
conceptions of time are usually understood to have been built around the ritualized
repetition of events that had already occurred before, the medieval view of time is
conventionally understood as being focused on the linear unfolding of a divine plan. As
Polish anthropologist Johannes Fabian notes in his classic Time and the Other (1983): ‘In
the Judeo-Christian tradition Time has been conceived as the medium of a sacred history.
320
Svetlana Boym, The Future of Nostalgia (New York: Basic Books, 2001).
321
Boym.
144
Time
Time was thought, but more often celebrated, as a sequence of specific events that befalls
a chosen people.’322 Human history was largely irrelevant to the progress of time, since the
salvation or damnation at the end was dependent on divine intervention. ‘Faith in a
covenant between Divinity and one people, trust in divine providence as it unfolds in a
history of salvation centered on one Savior, make for sacred conceptions of Time.’323 As
such, time was perceived as a rather static thing, where one was locked up in a continuous
present without much freedom to control the future. Similar views of time persisted until
the late Renaissance, not only as religious dogma, but also in more rationalist perspectives
such as, for example, philosophical determinism. In the words of Leibniz: ‘The whole of
the coming world is present and prefigured in that of the present.’324
It wasn’t until the end of the seventeenth century, when the religious wars of Europe came
to an end, that a more secularized version of linear time became possible. In his Futures
Past, German historian Reinhart Koselleck observes: ‘It was only when Christian
eschatology shed its constant expectation of the imminent arrival of doomsday that a
temporality could be revealed that would be open for the new and without limit.’325 And
while the French Revolution caused a major shift in the European experience of time, as a
human intervention that fundamentally transformed the social order, it was the Industrial
Revolution that decisively changed the conception of time, from then on as an abstract but
measurable language of numbers, with the train schedules of the developing railroads
across Europe as the primary equalizer.326
This shift from a linear yet predefined unfolding of inevitable events to a linear but
measurable and thus controllable proceeding of time open to change, Boym argues,
resulted in ‘a new theology of “objective” time’: ‘Progress became a new global narrative
as a secular counterpart to the universal aspirations of the Christian eschatology. In the
past two centuries the idea of Progress applied to everything – from time to space, from
the nation to the individual.’327 The idea of progress as a defining characteristic of time was
derived from a feeling of acceleration: time had suddenly shifted gear and started to speed
up, while society had to follow suit. In the words of Prussian historian Friedrich Ancillon,
writing in 1828:
Everything has begun to move, or has been set in motion, and with the intention
or under the pretence of fulfilling and completing everything, everything is placed
in question, doubted, and approaches a general transformation. The love of
322
Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia
323
Fabian, 2.
324
Quoted in: Reinhart Koselleck, Futures Past (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 1985), 15.
325
Koselleck, 232.
326
Boym, The Future of Nostalgia.
327
Boym, 35.
145
movement in itself, without purpose and without specific end, has emerged and
developed out of the movement of the time. In it, and in it alone, one seeks and sets
real life.328
The idea of progress was then born from the perceived acceleration of time as well as the
open-ended otherness of the future: a feeling that things were in transition, that the past
was different from the present, and that the future would be different again. As the German
Romantic philosopher and scientist Alexander von Humboldt wrote in Das achtzehnte
Jahrhundert: ‘Our epoch appears to lead out of one period, which is passing, into another,
which is no less different.’329 As such, the temporal experience of modern time became
defined as increasingly shorter intervals, always in transition, increasingly speeding up,
into an unknown future.
In response, as a historical emotion, nostalgia became a widespread cultural phenomenon,
compensating for the insistence on progress by turning back and looking towards a past
that now seemed irretrievably lost. And again, rather than being the mere antithesis to
progress, nostalgia was its twin, dependent on the very same temporal shift: ‘Nostalgia,
like progress, is dependent on the modern conception of unrepeatable and irreversible
time.’330 By the end of the eighteenth century, such a nostalgia became closely associated
with Romanticism, which celebrated the particularism of the sentiment in contrast to the
universality of reason. Parallel to the progress of science and technology, nostalgia became
eventually institutionalized in national and provincial museums as well as in urban
memorials. The past was no longer simply gone, but became heritage, with projects of
restoration as a result. As such, both progress and nostalgia became fundamental
characteristics of modern European societies, and it is along these lines that the work of
Ruskin and Banham can be read, both in the intentions of these respective authors as in
the way in which they have been received and interpreted, and are still reproduced today.
If nostalgia and progress can be described as modernity’s Jekyll and Hyde, then perhaps
Ruskin and Banham can be seen as their architectural counterparts. Indeed, during the
industrialization of England, Ruskin dutifully fulfilled his role as the nostalgic
conservative, challenging this so-called progress on the basis of an idealized, medieval past.
On the other hand, Banham, in the post-war England of the 1950s and 1960s, fully
embraced modernity’s narrative of progress, explicitly rejecting the Ruskinian tendencies
that the architectural establishment had inherited. Yet, if the current environmental crisis
prompts us to reevaluate the binary opposition between nostalgia and progress, we might
as well begin with reevaluating such an oppositional reading of the work of these two
figures as well.
328
Quoted in: Koselleck, Futures Past, 241.
329
Quoted in: Koselleck, 241.
330
Boym, The Future of Nostalgia.
146
Time
The Golden Stain of Time

Ruskin’s work is largely pervaded by that typical Romanticist nostalgia of the turn of the
nineteenth century: from his love of Picturesque ruins to his idealization of the medieval
craftsman, from his religiously inspired conservative politics to his resistance of
industrialization. Similarly, his writings on Gothic architecture are inspired by an aversion
of the modern material culture that was developing among his contemporaries, and most
of what he finds important in Gothic architecture is in response to what he finds lacking
in the architecture and culture of the modern age. As British architecture historian Andrew
Ballantyne writes in his ‘critical biography’ of Ruskin:
Ruskin’s conception of architecture is of form that is steeped in culture that
resonates with earlier forms. The genuineness of the production is part of the
goodness in a built form, but there is also the question of whether or not it feels
appropriate and right. This aspect of buildings is related to tradition and habit, and
does not easily change, so Ruskin is wary of anything like conscious novelty.331
Of course, unfortunately for Ruskin, nineteenth-century England was perhaps first and
foremost an age of novelty. The emblematic building of such novelty in architecture was
the Crystal Palace, embodying the quintessential modern values of progress and
innovation. Yet, what was lacking for Ruskin was the connection with the past, with where
things came from – for him, the Crystal Palace was the symbol of a collective amnesia,
stumbling blindly into the future without recollection of the past.
Not coincidentally, in his first architectural treatise, published in 1849, a mere two years
before the opening of the Crystal Palace, we find a completely opposite vision of what
architecture can and should be. In what is perhaps its most referenced chapter, titled ‘The
Lamp of Memory’, Ruskin emphasizes the mnemonic role of buildings, by bearing the
traces of those who built and inhabited them before. As he writes:
We may live without her, and worship without her, but we cannot remember
without her. How cold is all history, how lifeless all imagery, compared to that
which the living nation writes, and the uncorrupted marble bears! – how many
pages of doubtful record might we not often spare, for a few stones left one upon
another!332
And while this might now seem obvious in the case of monuments or public buildings,
Ruskin makes it clear that this also counts for the smallest of houses, as, for example, a
small house ‘at the head of the Grand Canal, consisting of a ground floor with two storeys
above, three windows in the first, and two in the second’, which he considers to be ‘the
331
332
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, VIII:224.
147
most elaborate piece of architecture in Venice’.333 For Ruskin, architecture was to be

constructed over long periods of time, and any building that could be erected in a mere
few months was not worthy of being called architecture. In short, while the material
culture of an industrialized society seems to emphasize newness, Ruskin instead makes a
plea for age, for longevity, eternity, even:
Therefore, when we build, let us think that we build for ever. Let it not be for
present delight, nor for present use alone; let it be such work as our descendants
will thank us for, and let us think, as we lay stone on stone, that a time is to come
when those stones will be held sacred because our hands have touched them, and
that men will say as they look upon the labour and wrought substance of them,
“See! this our fathers did for us”.334
Not only does Ruskin emphasize the past, the previous generations that came before us
and built this world we inhabit, he urges us to think of ourselves as if we are already living
in the past too, and to see us through the eyes of future generations, as we look at previous
ones today. Ruskin wrote this almost two centuries ago, but it is a sentiment that, after
these two centuries of industrialization and modernization, is increasingly resurfacing,
usually as part of a broader critique of consumerism and pleas for more ecological ways of
living, as I will discuss below. Yet while such critiques and pleas are usually aimed at the
modes of production on which our society is built, for Ruskin this is also, and perhaps
primarily, an aesthetic argument. For him, the modern aesthetics of newness forms a
stumbling block for such a long-term, inter-generational use of buildings, and while much
of his contemporaries might have been seduced by the blinding light of a brand-new world,
Ruskin instead foregrounds age as an aesthetic category, as the traces that the passing of
time leaves in the material construction of architecture, which he sums up with the
magnificent phrase ‘the golden stain of time’:
For, indeed, the greatest glory of a building is not in its stones, nor in its gold. Its
glory is in its Age, and in that deep sense of voicefulness, of stern watching, of
mysterious sympathy, nay, even of approval or condemnation, which we feel in
walls that have long been washed by the passing waves of humanity. . . . it is in that
golden stain of time, that we are to look for the real light, and colour, and
preciousness of architecture [emphasis added].335
It is perhaps paradoxical, but is from this appreciation of such a golden stain of time, which
regards the wear and tear and even the outright damage that a building suffers as signs of
beauty and of life, that Ruskin also goes on to critique the notion of restoration:
‘[Restoration] means the most total destruction which a building can suffer: a destruction
333
Ruskin, VIII:228.
334
Ruskin, VIII:233.
335
148
Time
out of which no remnants can be gathered: a destruction accompanied with false

description of the thing destroyed.’336 Such a critique of restoration might indeed seem
surprising, since restoration seems to go hand in hand with a nostalgia for the past, a return
to how things were rather than moving onwards to new things, but for Ruskin it is not
history as such that is important, but a conscious confrontation with the passing of time,
with what has been and what will come, that is crucial. Instead of restoration, Ruskin says,
we need care, we need to care for the buildings we live in in order to prevent ourselves
from ever ending up in a situation where restoration would even be necessary. And by
extension, by caring for the buildings in which we live, we also care for the buildings in
which future generations will live, as there will be little need to renew them, to restore
them. Taking the argument to its logical end, Ruskin then concludes that the buildings we
live in are not merely our own, but that they belong to all who live in them – past, present
and future:
I must not leave the truth unstated, that it is again no question of expediency or
feeling whether we shall preserve the buildings of past times or not. We have no
right whatever to touch them. They are not ours. They belong partly to those who
built them, and partly to all the generations of mankind who are to follow us.337
Ruskin’s nostalgia was not simply a longing for the past, although that was also part of it,
but more fundamentally it was about an expanded view of historical time, in which past
generations cared for the present one, and in which the present one needed to care for
future ones. As such, and this might sound counterintuitive, Ruskin’s nostalgia was
perhaps more future-oriented, at least in intention, than the focus on novelty and
innovation in the name of progress, which, as I will argue in the case of Banham, leads one
to a much more narrow frame of time.
The Immediate Future

Ruskin’s nostalgic arguments on the golden stain of time came in response to a developing
industrial culture that emphasized an almost sterile newness, in which objects and
buildings were denied material lives of their own, extending beyond human generations,
but were rather treated as passive and static objects, easily replaceable. A century later, this
development reached its epitome, in the 1950s and 1960s, the moment a fully developed
and widespread consumer culture was established, defined by throwaway products and
seasonal trends. The fundamental driver of this consumer culture was a combination of
an industrialized mode of production and a capitalist market economy based on growth,
which resulted in a culture of consumption focused on perpetual renewal: it had become
336
Ruskin, VIII:242.
337
Ruskin, VIII:245.
149
functionally possible to bring new products on the market every season, it had become
economically imperative to do so in order to grow, and it had become culturally desirable
to buy into these seasonal renewals in order to attain or uphold a certain social status. For
example, as Priscilla Chapman wrote in the Sunday Times Literary Supplement in an article
on contemporary furniture in 1964:
Technological change is going to move so fast that people won’t tolerate machines
or furniture or even rooms which are more than a few years old . . . Responsible
design will be throwaway design . . . [People] throw away their paper bags, their
television sets and their cars. The public just don’t realise how close they are to
throwing away their furniture too.338
Indeed, while seasonal trends and changes in fashion might be seen as mere marketing
tricks to stimulate production and consumption, at the same time they are also inherent
to the logic of technology to strive for continuous change. While we might be critical of a
statement such as the one above today, at the time the idea of throwaway design was
instead celebrated, as it not only exemplified progress and improvement, but it also meant
democratization: throwability meant cheapness, and cheap prices meant more and more
people could enjoy the luxuries and comfort of a technologically advanced society. As
Banham also observed in his Theory and Design in the First Machine Age in 1960:
Even a man who does not possess an electric razor is likely – in the Westernised
world at least – to dispense some previously inconceivable product, such as an
aerosol shaving cream, from an equally unprecedented pressurised container, and
accept with equanimity the fact that he can afford to throw away, regularly, cutting
edges that previous generations would have nursed for years.339
In contrast to Ruskin’s golden stain of time, Banham sought to develop an aesthetics of a
different kind of temporal change, namely an aesthetic of expendability, which, rather than
expressing the passing of human time across generations, would express the almost instant
obsolescence of consumer products in the face of an unstoppable progress without bounds.
The problem for Banham, however, was to think of what this might mean for architecture.
If technological progress meant continual change and renewal, how could buildings, those
heavy and slow constructions, ever keep up?
He found the theoretical foundations for such an aesthetics of expendability based on
obsolescence in the writings of the Futurists, who, in his eyes, were the ones who had taken
technology seriously on its own terms, something that the modernists of the 1920s and
later had failed to do. The Futurists had celebrated the advent of a technological culture,
or, in Banham’s terminology, had embraced the ‘mechanical sensibility’ of the First
338
As quoted in: Whiteley, Reyner Banham, 179.
339
150
Time
Machine Age. The temporal experience of such a mechanical sensibility was characterized
by an insistence on speed, of which the automobile was its exemplary symbol, but which
had to be extended to all other realms of design, even architecture. As Antonio Sant’Elia
wrote in the Manifesto dell’architettura futurista (1914): ‘The fundamental characteristics
of Futurist architecture will be obsolescence and transience. Houses will last less long than
we. Each generation will have to build its own city.’340
While the modernists of the 1920s had been fascinated by the presence of machines in
industrialized society, it wasn’t until the 1950s and 1960s that an architecture developed
that truly tried to answer this call of the Futurists, and Banham was there to connect the
dots. One of the prime examples for him was the House of the Future designed by the
Smithsons in 1956 (Figure 20). For the Futurists as well as the modernists and later on the
Smithsons, the car was a main point of reference. Yet, as Banham observed, while Le
Corbusier, in his Vers une architecture, had famously compared the Parthenon with an
automobile, the cars used in this comparison were still highly customized and unique one-
offs. For the Smithsons, and especially for Banham himself, the cars that were being
produced and marketed in the 1950s and onwards were instead largely standardized and
mass-produced vehicles, which became increasingly affordable, and were both subject to
market trends and amateur customization. In contrast to the valuable cars referred to by
Le Corbusier, these cheap and more popular cars were intended to become obsolete and
to lend themselves to quick replacement. The House of the Future was designed around
similar ideas, as a mass-produced consumer product, not even intended to last a lifetime.
As such, it was a radically new way of conceiving architecture, which had until then largely
been about longevity rather than transience. As Banham observed about the Smithsons’
project:
. . . there is no ambition to imitate automobile form, the only exception to this rule
appears to be the ‘styling’ of the Smithsons’ House of the Future on the assumption
that mass-produced houses would need as high a rate of obsolescence as any other
class of mass-produced goods. Such a sentiment is rare, however, because the
operational lore of architecture seems not to include the idea of expendability.341
340
Antonio Sant’Elia, ‘Manifesto of Futurist Architecture’, in Programs and Manifestos on 20th Century
Architecture, ed. Ulrich Conrads (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 1970 [1914]), 36.
341
Reyner Banham, ‘Stocktaking’, Architectural Review 127, 756 (February 1960): 96.
151
Figure 20: Plan of the House of the Future, shown at the ‘Daily Mail Ideal Home Exhibition’, London,
England, Alison and Peter Smithson, 1955-1956.
For Banham, the idea of expendability became a central tenet around which architecture
had to be organized, especially during the Pop years. Already in 1955, in his well-known
essay ‘Vehicles of Desire’, he emphasized the gap between the throwaway economy that
was developing and the lack of an appropriate aesthetics to reflect this condition:
We are still making do with Plato because in aesthetics, as in most other things, we
still have no formulated intellectual attitudes for living in a throwaway economy. We
eagerly consume noisy ephemeridae, here with a bang today, gone without a
whimper tomorrow – movies, beach-wear, pulp magazines, this morning’s headlines
and tomorrow’s TV programmes – yet we insist on aesthetic and moral standards
hitched to permanency, durability and perennity.342
It was only in the next decade, in the work of Archigram, that he found an architecture
that indeed fully embraced the values of obsolescence and expendability, not merely as an
economic condition, but as a cultural one as well. The third issue of Archigram magazine,
published in 1963, was explicitly devoted to these values, appropriately titled
342
Reyner Banham, ‘Vehicles of Desire’, in A Critic Writes, 4–5.
152
Time
‘Expendability towards Throwaway Architecture’. As Peter Cook wrote in the

introduction:
Why is there an indefinable resistance to planned obsolescence for a kitchen, which
in twelve years will be highly inefficient (by the standards of the day) and in twenty
years will be intolerable, yet there are no qualms about four years obsolescence for
cars.343
While such a statement might seem outrageous today, it made perfect sense in the face of
the optimistic mood of Pop. What is important to note here, however, is the temporal
paradox that arises when highly technological societies find themselves in a state of
continual change. On the one hand, there is the promise of progress, of striving towards
an open-ended future, while on the other there is the reality in which things are invented
today and thrown away tomorrow. In other words, the emphasis on progress results in an
abolition of the future, since nothing is allowed to survive that long. Instead, despite all the
Futurist rhetoric, Banham has often been described as a ‘historian of the immediate future’,
a term that seems to aptly describe modernity’s temporal horizon as well. While the past
is considered to be outdated, the future is already obsolete as soon as it arrives, leaving
only the immediate present as the temporal horizon of experience. Indeed, the slogan ‘the
future is now’ not only expressed the idea that everything becomes possible, but more
paradoxically perhaps, the abolition of the future itself.
To remedy such a paradoxical balancing act between promising the future and abolishing
it as soon as it arrives, it was necessary to turn this promise of the future into a promise of
the faraway future. While the technological progress of today will be hopelessly outdated
by tomorrow and need another round of innovation, we nonetheless need to believe that
in a faraway future things will be definitively solved nonetheless. As such, the following
oft-quoted statement by Banham is emblematic of such naïve wishful thinking:
Our accession to almost unlimited supplies of energy is balanced against the
possibility of making our planet uninhabitable, but this again is balanced, as we
stand at the threshold of space, by the growing possibility of quitting our island
earth and letting down roots elsewhere.344
Indeed, while the embrace of obsolescence and expendability was presented as a radical
affirmation of the progress of the modern world, the idea that this might have adverse
effects on our planet was present as well. To counter this, it was necessary to relegate such
a concern to a faraway future in which technology would eventually solve the problems of
waste and pollution too, which, in a worst-case scenario, would even mean leaving behind
this planet Earth. Banham’s futurism, in its most naïve sense, then, is the way techno-
343
As quoted in Whiteley, Reyner Banham, 169.
344
153
optimists usually seem to operate, as I will argue below, namely by presenting a faraway
future so they can ignore the problems in the present, often as an excuse not to disrupt the
status quo.
Returning to the Future

Returning to Boym’s observation of how nostalgia and progress are both constitutive of
modernity, Ruskin and Banham indeed appear as each other’s counterpart. More
fundamentally, they are both symptomatic of modernity. Both rely on a temporal shift that
was constitutive of modernity: the transition towards a temporality in which the past
becomes unrepeatable and irretrievable, and in which the future becomes unknown and
open-ended. However, in our contemporary situation, their respective positions seem to
shift into what seems like a complete reversal. While Banham celebrated the rapid
obsolescence and expendability of consumer goods, now, half a century later, it is mostly
those consumer goods that persist, in toxic landfills, in oceanic plastic soups, as ‘forever
chemicals’ in the soil and drinking water. A throwaway plastic bag from a 1960s
supermarket might today resurface in the stomach of a beached whale. On the other hand,
the very things Ruskin tried to defend in the face of industry – traditional craftsmanship,
cultural resilience, community-based production – have become the things we are
desperately looking back to, or rather, forward to, as possibly more ecological practices
than mere techno-fixes.
The shift in these historically defined, antagonistic, binary categories – nostalgia and
progress, Ruskin and Banham – becomes all the more visible in late-twentieth-century
ecological debates. Since the Brundtland report in 1987, ecological debates have largely
been framed through the lens of sustainability. At first sight, the term ‘sustainable
development’ evokes a Ruskinian sentiment, as it was indeed introduced with the intention
to meet ‘the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations
to meet their own needs’.345 To achieve this, the report emphasized three pillars on which
such sustainable development should be based: human, environmental and economic. Yet,
while a lot of literature and manuals on sustainability acknowledge cultural wellbeing, in
practice sustainability is generally understood to be focused on technical solutions, which
suffer from the same phenomenon of Banhamian obsolescence as technology has done for
the past two centuries. More fundamentally, however, the Ruskinian ambition to think of
future generations translates itself rather quickly into sustaining the current status quo,
the very same system that got us into this mess in the first place, indeed reducing the open-
ended future to the immediate present. As Morton, for example, describes it in rather stark
terms: ‘What exactly are we sustaining when we talk about sustainability? An intrinsically
345
World Commission on Environment and Development, Our Common Future, 37.
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out-of-control system that sucks in grey goo at one end and pushes out grey value at the
other.’346
This attitude is perhaps best illustrated by one of the ways the European Union has
translated its Green Deal into a large-scale design initiative. In 2020, the EU launched its
‘New European Bauhaus’ project, which ‘brings citizens, experts, businesses, and
institutions together to reimagine sustainable living in Europe and beyond’.347 While this
is an admirable initiative, its title already betrays the ideological drive behind the project:
in order to imagine a sustainable future – which means a future in which sustainable
development through technological solutionism is possible – the EU refers back to the first
half of the twentieth century, when modernist dreams of completely making the world
anew were still credible. In other words, to still believe in the future, we seem to need to
return to outdated visions of the past.
The temporal struggle, however, continues even today, further intertwining Ruskinian and
Banhamian perspectives, especially in popular non-fiction that deals with the
environmental crisis. I would like to offer two examples here, two bestsellers that clearly
seem to express what is at stake in contemporary culture. In 2020, Australian-born
philosopher Roman Krznaric, published The Good Ancestor: How to Think Long Term in
a Short-Term World, with recommendations of pop figures such as U2 guitarist The Edge
and ecologists such as George Monbiot.348 The book argues that humankind, and especially
the societies of ‘the Global North’, have ‘colonised the future’, by treating it as a dumping
ground for ecological disaster and technological risk. In contrast, Krznaric proposes the
concept of ‘cathedral thinking’, which is not coincidentally introduced with reference to
Ruskin. He argues, as the term suggests, that we should look back to the construction of
cathedrals, among other things, which were built over the course of generations and
remind us of what it means to build a world in collaboration with future generations. As
such, the term echoes the so-called ‘seventh-generation principle’, which borrows the idea
from Indigenous thought to always consider the next seven generations in whatever you
do. While the book refers to numerous examples from history, it also makes clear that even
those are not enough in the face of what we are dealing with today. Falling short in relevant
solutions, Krznaric ultimately argues for is what the title says: to observe our own
behaviour through the eyes of future generations, as if we are already living in the past,
hoping that we might find a different way of doing things.
346
Morton, Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology After the End of the World, 113.
347
European Union, ‘About the Initiative’, New European Bauhaus, accessed 7 July 2023, https://new-
european-bauhaus.europa.eu/about/about-initiative_en.
348
Roman Krznaric, The Good Ancestor: How to Think Long Term in a Short-Term World (New York: The
Experiment, 2020).
155
On the flipside of this coin, we find other popular authors such as William MacAskill, a
Scottish philosopher who published the book What We Owe the Future in 2022.349 In it he
argues for a concept called ‘longtermism’, based on the idea that our moral priority is to
influence the distant future positively, so that regardless of what happens today, a future
humankind will have it better, at least. On the one hand, this implies a refreshing
acknowledgment of the inevitability of the crisis to come, but countered by an optimism
that we might still ‘win’ in the long run. On the other hand, however, the key word is
‘distant future’, not seven generations, but some abstract and unknown point in time. It is
the same attitude that Banham demonstrated at his worst: a naïve faith in the faraway
future, where all things will be magically solved, releasing us from our responsibilities in
the here and now. It does exactly what Krznaric warns us about: colonizing the future and
leaving the clean-up for later. As such, it is no surprise that business leaders have embraced
the ‘daring’ thinking of MacAskill, with people like Elon Musk praising the book on
Twitter even before its release. Fundamentally, longtermism shifts the focus away from
pressing issues in the now and supports even further expansion and economic growth
today, convinced that despite its current negative effects, they will net positive at some
later point in time.
The reason I briefly refer to these two popular writers here is to demonstrate how the
temporal struggle underlying our contemporary ecological sensibility is not merely an
academic exercise, but plays out in public debates, in business decisions and in economic
agendas. At the same time, however, they can be seen as merely updated versions of the
temporal struggle that has been at the basis of modernity since the end of the seventeenth
century, contrasting conservatism with futurism, localism with globalism.
Time Is (Not) a Circle

When the pre-modern past becomes a reference for a possible future and when the
technological future becomes a relic of the past, the modern temporal categories we have
long relied on seem to become untenable. One way out of the binary opposition of slowing
down and going back, or speeding up even more to go further, seems to bring back the
concept of circular time, in which past and future coincide. And indeed, in recent years,
the temporal figure of the circle instead of the arrow has become increasingly popular, not
in the least in one of the latest developments to address the environmental crisis: the idea
of the circular economy.
In contrast to the throwaway economy of the late twentieth century, as championed by
Banham among others, in recent decades the idea of a circular economy has gained
349
William MacAskill, What We Owe the Future (London: OneWorld Publications, 2022).
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widespread approval, from small-scale business practices to supranational political

institutions such as the European Union. The latter defines a circular economy as ‘a model
of production and consumption, which involves sharing, leasing, reusing, repairing,
refurbishing and recycling existing materials and products as long as possible’ in order to
extend the lifecycle of a product and reduce waste to a minimum.350 This in contrast to the
so-called linear economy, which is based on a ‘take-make-consume-throw away pattern’.351
There are numerous variations on this basic definition and various ways to bring this into
practice, with perhaps one of the most popular ones being the ‘cradle-to-cradle design’
model as developed by German chemist Michael Braungart and American architect
William McDonough. In 2002, they published a manifesto titled ‘Cradle to Cradle:
Remaking the Way We Make Things’, in which they go into detail on how to achieve the
model.352 Rather than embracing the conventional idea of downcycling, they instead argue
for a model of upcycling, in which waste does not exist, following a biological logic: ‘Waste
equals food. This cyclical, cradle-to-cradle biological system has nourished a planet of
thriving, diverse abundance for millions of years.’353 They argue that we should apply the
same logic to our technical systems of production and consumption by comparing the
‘biosphere’ with the ‘technosphere’ and thinking of ‘technical nutrients’ in parallel to
‘biological nutrients’.
One could formulate an ideological critique of such a line of thinking, arguing that it relies
on a naïve vision of the natural world as a totalizing and balanced system in which all
things live in harmony with everything else – which, as Morton argues, is a
misinterpretation of Darwin’s theory of evolution, which instead emphasizes mutation
and monstrosity.354 However, the problem is perhaps even worse. Such circular thinking,
in which materials and products are no longer conceived as having one lifetime but
multiple ones, extending beyond their current use, has become widely accepted as a valid
way of addressing the impact of our production and consumption patterns. One might
wonder, what is the goal? The idealist goal seems obvious: to reduce and eliminate waste.
However, the enthusiasm with which multinational companies that have long been
responsible for environmental disasters worldwide, such as DuPont and DOW Chemical,
have embraced the model is perhaps rather alarming. As Dutch philosopher Lisa Doeland
asks: ‘We should wonder, therefore, if the CE [Circular Economy] is so very different from
the linear economy that it aspires to break with.’ Perhaps not, Doeland suggests, as there
350
‘Circular Economy: Definition, Importance and Benefits | News | European Parliament’, European
Parliament, 24 May 2023, accessed 8 November 2023,
https://www.europarl.europa.eu/news/en/headlines/economy/20151201STO05603/circular-economy-
definition-importance-and-benefits.
351
‘Circular Economy’.
352
Michael Braungart and William McDonough, Cradle to Cradle: Remaking the Way We Make Things
(New York: North Point Press, 2002).
353
Braungart and McDonough, 92.
354
Morton, The Ecological Thought.
157
seems to be an inherent contradiction between what the environmental crisis asks of us –

to limit overproduction and overconsumption – and the ‘final, pivotal fantasy of the CE:
that of trying to realize recycling without remainders.’ Because, as Doeland observes, ‘the
result is the loss of society’s power to curb ever-increasing consumption and growth in a
global-capitalist system.’355 Indeed, what most ideas of a circular economy seem to promise
is the fantasy to keep things going as they are: all we have to do is change the way we
design, so that waste becomes food, and then we can keep on producing and consuming
as we are doing now, and keep on growing our economies, without the need for actual,
structural change. In other words, the circular economy, with its theoretical logic of
circularity, seems to result in sustaining the linear model of economic growth. The circular
economy is not here to save the world, it is here to save capitalism.
Moreover, another problem with the idea of a circular economy is indeed this illusion of
‘recycling without remainders’. Even if it would be possible to eliminate all waste and reuse
everything that is now being discarded – which is something that has not been proven
possible yet – the very model of economic growth nonetheless requires externalities to
extract, contradicting the premise of circularity. As Eswati economist Jason Hickel writes
in his widely popular Less Is More: How Degrowth Will Save the World:
Growth tends to require an ‘outside’: an external source from which to extract value
for free, or as close to free as possible. In a circular economy, the cost of materials
is internalised. That’s good from the perspective of ecology, but bad from the
perspective of capital accumulation. Recycling costs money, and the cost of paying
for recycled materials makes it more difficult to generate ever-rising surplus. And
the pinch gets tighter over time: materials degrade each time you recycle them, so
you need ever-rising energy inputs – and ever-rising cost – in order to maintain
their quality.356
While Hickel argues that circularity is something worth striving for, it is impossible to
achieve this within a growth economy, since the CE here becomes something through
which to sustain growth. Moreover, as the last sentence suggests, the necessity for
increasingly efficient recycling requires energy, which comes from outside of the circular
process, always resulting in an external supply from outside the system. There seems to be
no production without extraction, no consumption without waste, no recycling without
remainder – neither energy-wise nor materially. And while a growth economy requires
external sources to extract value from, the question is whether this is not the case for any
type of economy. The idea of closing the loop and establishing an economy without
surplus, without remainder, without waste, and thus without limits, is the quintessential
capitalist dream of unlimited growth. And even while striving for circularity as much as
355
Lisa Doeland, ‘The Circular Economy Should Finally Demand the Impossible’, in The Impossibilities of
the Circular Economy, ed. Harry Lehmann et al. (London: Routledge, 2022), 154.
356
Jason Hickel, Less Is More: How Degrowth Will Save the World (London: Heinemann, 2020).
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possible, preferably within post- or degrowth economies even, it sounds like waste will
nonetheless remain inevitable. So, then what?
Referring to the documentary Examined Life (2008), in which Slovenian philosopher
Slavoj Žižek walks around a garbage dump and remarks that ‘this is where we should start
feeling at home’, Doeland argues that we should indeed accept the presence of waste in the
world, as the limits to our economic growth. The image of an ideal and harmonious,
circular nature, which people like Braungart and McDonough as well as others invoke, is
an ideological mystification, based on a flawed concept of nature, as the Greek-British
philosopher Yannis Stavrakakis also argues. A lot of such ‘green ideology’, he writes,
. . . is built on the dislocation of the previously dominant view of our right to nature
with no hazard and no limits. What is shown by the current environmental crisis is
that there are in fact some limits, limits to growth and economic expansion, limits
imposed by the Real of nature.357
This, then, is the simple fact of the environmental crisis: there is no way out. We seem to
have reached a limit, and neither the linear temporality of a nostalgic return or a flight
forward to faraway techno-optimist futures nor the circular temporality of wasteless
recycling can really get us beyond it. The crisis is here to stay, and we need to stay with it.
Rather than linear or circular temporalities, this means embracing a more static
temporality, an enduring present of sorts perhaps, at least for now, which is a temporal
experience I would propose to describe as a ‘deep present’.
A Deep Present
In much recent ecological discourse, the figure of geology appears, along with its
implication of ‘deep time’. In 1981, American writer John McPhee coined the term ‘deep
time’ to refer to what eighteenth-century Scottish geologist James Hutton had already
described as ‘geological time’. Hutton argued that the geological features of the Earth had
been formed by cycles of sedimentation and erosion, of lifting up rocks and grinding them
down, on a timescale much larger than what human history was capable of conceiving.
The implication of such a deep time perspective was that the Earth operates on a timescale
in which human beings are but a mere blip, here today, gone tomorrow, and thus irrelevant
to the Earth’s much slower development. Despite its many problems, as mentioned in the
chapter on ‘An Ecological Sensibility’, the notion of the Anthropocene does suggest that
this has changed: human time and deep time have become intertwined, as the development
of the Earth over billions of years has been impacted by a human history of merely a few
357
Yannis Stavrakakis, ‘Green Fantasy and the Real of Nature: Elements of a Lacanian Critique of Green
Ideological Discourse’, JPCS: Journal for Psychoanalysis of Culture & Society 2, 1 (1997): 123–32.
159
hundred years, or perhaps a few thousand, depending on one’s perspective – but almost
nothing either way. In other words, the deep time of geology has collided with the fleeting
present of humans, resulting in what we could describe as a ‘deep present’, which I want
to suggest as a term here to describe the temporal feeling of living through the
environmental crisis today.
To some extent, the idea of a deep present echoes what Haraway has described as ‘staying
with the trouble’. In her 2016 book with the same title, she writes:
In fact, staying with the trouble requires learning to be truly present, not as a
vanishing pivot between awful or edenic pasts and apocalyptic or salvific futures, but
as mortal critters entwined in myriad unfinished configurations of place, times,
matters, and meanings.358
Indeed, in disturbing times such as these, Haraway urges us ‘to make kin in lines of
inventive connection as a practice of learning to live and die well with each other in a thick
present’.359 In the book, Haraway explores what kinship means in terms of a multispecies
relationality, which is an idea that has been picked up in contemporary architecture
discourse as well, where calls are made to conceive of more-than-human architectures,
which not only construct human worlds but non-human ones as well.360
One of the challenges in such a vision of multispecies relationality is perhaps the idea that
the dominant approach to architecture so far has been a thoroughly anthropocentric one,
understood as a practice of making ‘environments fit for human activities’, as Banham
would say. If architecture as cultural production not only expresses cultural values but also
has the potential to foster new ones, the question becomes how architecture might be
reconceived as environments fit for human as well as non-human activities, contributing
to the environments in and out of which they are built, rather than disrupting them.
In this sense, an architecture that would embody and foster an ecological sensibility is an
architecture that confronts all kinds of layers, beyond the anthropocentric one. It is about
constructing a world that is not simply striving towards the future or tries to recover the
past, but one that needs to consider artificial and natural environments, human and non-
human agencies, and employs technological as well as organic technics. It needs to deal
with events that have happened in the past as well as those that will happen in the future,
on timescales beyond those predictable by human understanding. An ecological sensibility
358
Donna J. Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (Durham: Duke University
Press, 2016), 1.
359
Haraway, 1.
360
See, for example, Andrés Jaque, Marina Otero Verzier, and Lucia Pietroiusti, eds., More-than-Human
(Rotterdam: Het Nieuwe Instituut, 2020).
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recognizes that these are not different questions, but questions that coincide in our current
moment, in the thickness of our deep present.
161
Towards a Politics of Vitality
So, what does all of this mean?

This manuscript started from the observation that something is changing in contemporary
culture as a result of the environmental crisis we are living through – a change in the
direction of what can broadly be described as ‘ecology’. In the field of architecture, we can
observe how both in discourse and in practice architects are increasingly orienting
themselves towards ecological questions, although in varying directions, with varying
agendas, and with varying outcomes. As I have tried to demonstrate, these ecological
questions largely revolve around the notions of nature, materiality and technology, which
are not new, but run deep in modern architecture history. However, the way we
understand these notions seems to be changing. Throughout much of modernity, these
notions have been understood within strict binary oppositions: in short, nature has often
been conceived as that which is outside of the human, the material has often been framed
as passive and inert in contrast to the immaterial agency of human beings, and the
technological has often been understood as a way of dominating and controlling the
organic world. But today these binary oppositions are actively being questioned and
approached from more hybrid perspectives. Tracing these notions throughout modern
architecture history, especially in the work of Ruskin and Banham, it also becomes clear
that the modern binaries through which they were framed were perhaps always already
untenable, and that things have always been entangled with each other, despite attempts
to separate them.
In the case of Ruskin’s arguments on nature, we can find both the Romantic mindset that
projects the natural outside of the human, industrialized world, as something that has been
lost and needs to be returned to. However, when writing on the kind of architectural
practices that do indeed attempt to recover a harmonious balance with nature, as in the
case of a Picturesque aesthetic, Ruskin himself eventually discovers such harmony to be
largely artificial, and that there is a rather mundane and often brutal reality underneath
such aestheticization of nature. At the same time, his arguments also at times tend towards
organicist approaches to art and architecture, in which the natural becomes a human-
made construction, distancing the human even further away from this thing called nature
on its own. Banham, by contrast, fully embraced the artificial construction of the
environment, in which the natural becomes a mere ‘ecological’ part of a larger system.
Even in the desert, a place supposedly uninhabitable for human beings, Banham
demonstrates how difficult it is to consider the natural on its own terms, how difficult it is
to abandon preconceived cultural constructions of nature. Yet, something does escape
such constructions, something that we might not have the language to name, but which
does not mean it is not present. As such, the natural appears as a slippery category and can
be defined in various ways, depending on whatever agenda is pursued. Ruskin and Banham
here remind us that we should always be suspicious of the category of nature, although we
should perhaps be equally suspicious of those who claim there is no such thing.
In the case of materiality, Ruskin’s writings eerily echo contemporary debates on a so-
called new materialism: in contrast to the modern view that regards the material as passive,
Ruskin’s arguments on art and architecture are pervaded by a certain vitalism, a sense that
all things are ‘less or more alive’. His arguments can be read as an attempt to recognize the
vitality of the world around us, as a way of theorizing a material culture in tune with the
ontological reality of the material world. Yet, as Ruskin also recognizes, the affective
sympathy we might feel for the material world is difficult to discern from mental
projections onto the world, from committing what he described as a ‘pathetic fallacy’.
Nonetheless, while running the risk of committing such a fallacy, Ruskin firmly commits
to the vital powers of the material world, something that the material culture of the modern
world seemed to deny. Ruskin’s arguments are a thoroughly developed example of what
in architecture theory is known as the concept of a ‘truth to materials’, which surprisingly
also became a feature of twentieth-century modernism, although on different terms.
Where Ruskin referred to the vitalism of the natural world, the moderns, as in the case of
Banham, instead referred to the industrialized character of modern societies, emphasizing
materials such as steel and concrete, suggesting such vitality is not merely reserved for the
natural.
Finally, in the case of technology, we can trace a split between the technics of craft and the
technology of industrialized processes. In Ruskin’s writings we find how this split revolves
around a division of men, between thinking and making, between control and
collaboration. Yet the moderns chased technology not only for its promise of progress, but
also for its promise of purification, of efficiency. In Banham’s writings we find the
conviction that an architecture culture built on technology would deliver a more essential
architecture, one purely aimed at rendering the environment habitable for human beings.
But as Ruskin reminds us, later confirmed in the writings of Bataille, the logic of
technological efficiency fundamentally contradicts the logic of sacrifice in the natural
world. If we are to take the challenge of the environmental crisis seriously, we might thus
need to abandon such a logic of efficiency according to which technology has often been
developed and think of ways in which it can instead produce excess, abundance – life.
The questions with which Ruskin and Banham, as well as many of their peers, struggled
now remind us of the impossibility of holding on to the modern insistence on the strict
binaries through which the notions of nature, materiality and technology have been
conceived. Instead, the ecological sensibility that is emerging today revolves around
hybridizing these binaries. In contemporary ecological practices in architecture, we can
observe attempts at such hybridization, but they often run the risk of repeating these
modern binaries, which are still ingrained deeply in our minds. Looking back to the
164
examples with which this manuscript also began, we can now understand better what is
going on.
Nature, Materiality, Technology (Reprise)

Again, first, the Bosco Verticale project in Milan, Italy, by Italian architect Stefano Boeri.
On a superficial level, as the architect claims, the project is about reconnecting human
beings with nature, by literally incorporating trees into the construction of a building.
Although a thoroughly industrially produced building, it does seem to echo certain
Ruskinian sentiments and even repeats the same mistakes. On the one hand, the building
can be seen to stage a Picturesque nature. As a result of a lack of a natural environment to
which it can relate, the nature is imported: trees grown elsewhere are placed within the
structure, evoking a Picturesque image of natural scenery, as if architecture and nature
belong to each other. But this is an aestheticized version of nature, cleaned up, without the
higher levels of biodiversity usually found in actual forests. Nature is allowed to be where
the architect’s design allow it to be, limiting its growth to the extent the structure can
support it. As such, it can also be viewed as a kind of organicism, as the natural elements
are there as external decoration, metaphorically evoking a forest. Despite such
shortcomings, as a cultural artefact the project does stage the urge to hybridize human
society and nature again, and thus testifies to a resurfacing of Romantic sentiments in the
face of the environmental crisis. At a time when the natural world is dying off, it is no
coincidence that such projects are appearing.
Second, the Fort V project in Edegem, Belgium, by Belgian-based BC Architects & Studies.
The project explicitly centres on questions of materiality and technology, in which pre-
industrial materials of construction such as rammed earth are redeveloped within systems
of industrialized production, by producing prefabricated and standardized blocks. As
such, a hybrid of the technics of craft and the technologies of industry appears. At the same
time, the finishing with hempcrete can indeed be described as a ‘hairy material’, since it
avoids the sterility of white plaster, instead foregrounding the fibrous presence of the
material, which changes over time.361 In addition, the process of construction is organized
by means of workshops, bringing together all kinds of people, professional as well as
amateur, fostering both the production of knowledge and a sense of community. The
resulting material construction is a hybrid of modern and ecological aesthetics: a simple,
rectangular box, organized on the basis of a grid plan, yet materialized in rammed earth
and hempcrete, examples of what we earlier described as hairy materials. The project itself
as well as its representation in architecture media and at biennales testifies to a resurfacing
361
Pauline Lefebvre, ‘Hairy Materials: On Holding Together Aesthetic and Ecological Concerns’, OASE
Journal for Architecture 112 (2022): 113–26.
165
interest in rethinking the material processes through which we build architecture today,
with all of the implications it brings along.
Finally, the CopenHills Energy Plant and Urban Recreation Center in Copenhagen,
Denmark, by the Danish Bjarke Ingels Group (BIG). The project is presented by the
architects as an example of so-called hedonistic sustainability, which relies on
technological solutions to mitigate its environmental impact without requiring structural
changes in the way people lead their lives. This claim refers to the additional programmatic
functions of a ski slope, a climbing wall and a scenic hiking path on the ‘mountain’ roof,
in addition to the waste incinerator within. But what these programmatic functions
demonstrate is exactly the ‘way of knowing’ the natural world produced through
technological control: as a system of ‘ecosystem services’, both in utilitarian (energy
production) and recreative terms (mountains are for human fun). While such ‘greener’
energy installations might be absolutely necessary to reduce environmental impacts, the
building as a cultural artefact still seems to embody a very modern perspective of the
natural world, which can be appropriated and re-created for purely anthropocentric goals.
A Politics of Vitality?
As these projects demonstrate, the debates Ruskin and Banham engaged in are again
becoming central in our contemporary ecological sensibility. They are attempts to
hybridize the binaries underneath the themes of nature, materiality and technology. But
perhaps a more fundamental perspective is needed, that goes beyond these three
categories. Maybe what is fundamentally at stake in the ‘ecologization’ of society, after its
modernization, is the recognition of a certain vitalism beyond human intentionality. At a
historical moment where the environment seems to be dying off, we are once more
reminded of how alive it really is, and how crucial it is for both human and non-human
life to contribute to and foster this aliveness. Here we might return to Ruskin again, as this
was indeed one of his major concerns, both in his writings on art and architecture, which
might be described as a ‘vitalist aesthetics’, and in his writings on political economy, which
could be understood as driven by a ‘politics of vitality’. Indeed, in the case of the latter,
Ruskin was explicitly concerned with developing a value system based on the notion of
life. As he writes in Unto This Last:
Valor, from valere, to be well or strong (ύγιαίνω);—strong, in life (if a man), or
valiant; strong, for life (if a thing), or valuable. To be ‘valuable,’ therefore, is to ‘avail
towards life.’ A truly valuable or availing thing is that which leads to life with its
whole strength. In proportion as it does not lead to life, or as its strength is broken,
166
it is less valuable; in proportion as it leads away from life, it is unvaluable or

malignant.362
From this perspective, it makes no sense to cling to the modern binaries that define the
themes of nature, materiality and technology. The natural is not opposed to the human,
the material not to the immaterial, and the technological not to the organic, as long as all
things, in the entanglement of humans and non-humans, strive towards life and away from
death, which is not simply an engineering problem, but also a matter of care and beauty –
an intersection from which an ecological sensibility emerges. Spuybroek draws a similar
conclusion at the end of The Sympathy of Things, when he writes that ‘in vitalism, life is
larger than technology, culture, or nature, separately or together’.363 He illustrates this
statement with the following examples, suggesting the possibility of a politics of vitality, a
way of acting in the world:
All we have to concentrate on is what the hybrid contributes to life. So, for example,
when Monsanto promotes the spread of monocultures, it should be fought
relentlessly. But when a state environmental department decides to remove all the
fir trees from a forest because they are not indigenous, it should be fought just as
hard.364
Other contemporary authors seem to argue in favour of such a politics of vitality as well,
although often in different terms. For example, Indian novelist and writer Amitav Ghosh
concludes his book The Nutmeg’s Curse with a call for a ‘vitalist politics’: ‘The idea of a
vitalist politics may seem improbable at first, but it takes only a moment’s reflection to
realize that some of the most effective political movements of modern times have derived
their energy from vitalist sources.’365
As examples, Ghosh mentions not only the struggles led by people such as Mahatma
Ghandi in India or the Davi Kopenawa in South America, but also the struggles ‘in the
very heartlands of European modernity, manifesting itself in anti-enclosure movements,
peasant revolts, and sometimes even more stridently vitalist forms of protest such as those
associated with the Diggers, Ranters, and Levellers of the seventeenth century.’366
As Ghosh notes, while many of these struggles target the colonialist and imperialist
structures of extractivist capitalism, they are also driven by a different cultural narrative,
which requires ‘a seismic shift in consciousness for those who remain wedded to the
conception that humans are the only ensouled beings and the Earth is an inert entity that
362
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, XXVII:84.
363
Spuybroek, The Sympathy of Things: Ruskin and the Ecology of Design, 253.
364
Spuybroek, 254.
365
Amitav Ghosh, The Nutmeg’s Curse: Parables for a Planet in Crisis (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2021), 235.
366
Ghosh, 235.
167
exists in order to provide its rulers with resources.’367 One way to describe this ‘shift in
consciousness’ would indeed be to describe it as the emergence of an ecological
sensibility that, beyond the categories of nature, materiality and technology, strives
towards life. As such, the distinction is not a modern one between the natural or the
human, the material or the immaterial, the technological or the organic, but rather a
vitalist one, between life and death. Or, as Ruskin already wrote in Unto This Last, using
full caps: ‘THERE IS NO WEALTH BUT LIFE.’368
367
Ghosh, 242–43.
368
Ruskin, The Complete Works of John Ruskin, 1908, XXVII:105.
168
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List of images
Figure 1: Bosco Verticale, Milan, Italy, Stefano Boeri Architetti, completed in 2014
(photography by Paolo Rosselli). .............................................................................................16
Figure 2: Fort V, Edeghem, Belgium, BC Architects & Studies, completed in 2018
(photography by Thomas Noceto). .........................................................................................17
Figure 3: CopenHill Energy Plant and Urban Recreation Center, Copenhagen, Denmark,
Bjarke Ingels Group, completed in 2019 (photography by Dragoer Luftfoto). ..................19
Figure 4: Ice Watch, London, United Kingdom, Olafur Eliassion, 2014 (photography by
Martin Argyroglo). ....................................................................................................................26
Figure 5: St Maurice, J.M.W. Turner, 1826-1827 (illustration in Samuel Roger’s Italy: A
Poem, 1830). ...............................................................................................................................57
Figure 6: Swiss Cottage, printed in The Poetry of Architecture, John Ruskin, 1837. ..........61
Figure 7: Ornaments from Rouen, St Lo and Venice, printed in The Seven Lamps of
Architecture, John Ruskin, 1849. ..............................................................................................69
Figure 8: The view south from Griffith Park, printed in Los Angeles: The Architecture of
the Four Ecologies, Reyner Banham, 1971. ..............................................................................72
Figure 9: Sunset, screencap taken from Reyner Banham Loves Los Angeles, dir. Julian
Cooper, 1971. .............................................................................................................................77
Figure 10: Reyner Banham cycling on the Silurian Dry Lake, California, 1981
(photography by Tim Street-Porter). ......................................................................................79
Figure 11: Taliesin West, Arizona, Frank Lloyd Wright, 1937 (photography by Julius
Shulman).....................................................................................................................................83
Figure 12: The interior of Joseph’s Paxton Crystal Palace during the Great Exhibition in
1851, London, England (coloured lithograph by J. McNeven, 1851). .................................95
Figure 13: Hunstanton School, Norfolk, England, Alison and Peter Smithson, completed
in 1954 (photograph by de Burgh Galwey). ..........................................................................108
Figure 14: On 17 February 2020, as part of their ‘End of Building Sites’ campaign,
activists of Extinction Rebellion blocked cement factories of the Lafarge-Holcim group
and Cemex in Paris, France (photography by Extinction Rebellion). ...............................110
Figure 15: Musée cantonal des Beaux-Arts Lausanne, Lausanne, Switzerland, Barozzi
Veiga, completed in 2020 (photography by Matthieu Gafsou). .........................................112
Figure 16: Mudac and Musée de l’Elysée, Lausanne, Switzerland, Aires Mateus,
completed in 2022 (photography by Matthieu Gafsou and Itten+Brechbühl SA). ..........113
Figure 17: La Città Nuova, Antonio Sant’Elia, 1914. ...........................................................128
Figure 18: Illustration for Banham’s article ‘A Home Is Not a House’, François Dallegret,
1965. ..........................................................................................................................................130
Figure 19: Detail of Lloyd’s building, London, England, Richard Rogers & Partners,
completed in 1986 (photography by Timothy Soar). ..........................................................133
Figure 20: Plan of the House of the Future, shown at the ‘Daily Mail Ideal Home
Exhibition’, London, England, Alison and Peter Smithson, 1955-1956. ...........................152
182
Biography
Bart Decroos (PhD) is an architect and researcher based in Antwerp. He obtained his
doctoral degree (fellowship of the Research Foundation Flanders FWO) at the University
of Antwerp with a dissertation titled The Ecological Sensibility: Between Ruskin and
Banham. His research focuses on the intersection of ecological theory, modern
architecture history, and contemporary practices. Additionally, he is an editor at OASE
Journal for Architecture and writes regularly for architecture magazines. Previously, he
worked at the Flanders Architecture Institute and architecten de vylder vinck taillieu.
Publications
Journal Articles
Patteeuw, Veronique, Bart Decroos, and Mariusz Schwarz. ‘A Conversation with Karel
Martens’. OASE Journal for Architecture 100 (2018): 211–64.
Van Gerrewey, Christophe, David Peleman, and Bart Decroos. ‘Schools & Teachers : The
Education of an Architect in Europe’. OASE Journal for Architecture 102 (2019), 2–13.
Decroos, Bart, and Lara Schrijver. ‘“Give Me Some Wiggle Room” : How to Feel at Home
in the Gap between Design, Building and Decay’. Architecture and Culture 7, no. 1
(2019): 51–68.
Decroos, Bart, Véronique Patteeuw, Aslı Çiçek, and Jantje Engels. ‘The Drawing as a
Practice’. OASE Journal for Architecture 105 (2020): 13–24.
Decroos, Bart. ‘Perception through Drawing’. OASE Journal for Architecture 105 (2020):
33–43.
Decroos, Bart. ‘A Construction of Time’. OASE Journal for Architecture 105 (2020): 120–
23.
Palmboom, Frits, Bruno Notteboom, Kornelia Dimitrova, and Bart Decroos. ‘The
Drawing in Landscape Design and Urbanism’. OASE Journal for Architecture 107 (2020):
1–10.
Decroos, Bart, Kornelia Dimitrova, Sereh Mandias, and Elsbeth Ronner. ‘Ecology &
Aesthetics’. OASE Journal for Architecture, no. 112 (2022): 2–10.
Book Chapters
De Caigny, Sofie, and Bart Decroos. ‘Engaging Léon Stynen : Contemporary

Interventions in the Royal Flanders Music Conservatory’. In De Caigny, Sofie et al.
[Edit.], Léon Stynen : A Life of Architecture, 1899-1990, 318–25. Antwerp: Flanders
Architecture Institute, 2018.
Decroos, Bart. ‘Forgetting Vitruvius’. In Decroos, Bart et al. [Edit.], Unless Ever People,
324–30. Antwerp: Flanders Architecture Institute, 2018.
Decroos, Bart. ‘Zichtbare Steden : Over de Architectuur van Het Fragment’. In Van
Bockstal, Koen, and Jantje Engels [Edit.], Radicale Ensembles, 74–83. Antwerp: Academic
& Scientific Publishers, 2018.
Decroos, Bart, and Lara Schrijver. ‘Give Me Some Wiggle Room : How to Feel at Home
in the Gap between Design, Building and Decay’. In Troiani, Igea, and Suzanne Ewing
[Edit.], Spaces of Tolerance, 45–62. London: Routledge, 2021.
Decroos, Bart and Lara Schrijver. ‘Valuing Architecture’s Entanglements: The Many
Faces of KANAL-Centre Pompidou’. In Paine, Ashley, Susan Holden and John
Macarthur [Edit.], Valuing Architecture : Heritage and the Economics of Culture, 158–75.
Amsterdam: Valiz, 2021.
Decroos, Bart. ‘The End of the Future’. In Swinnen, Peter, and Nikolaus Hirsch [Edit.],
A.J. Lode Janssens: 1.47 Mbar, 69–80. Brussels: Civa & Spector Books, 2022.
Edited Journals
Patteeuw, Veronique, Bart Decroos, and Mariusz Schwarz. OASE Journal for Architecture
100: Karel Martens and The Architecture of the Journal. Rotterdam: nai010 Publishers,
2018.
Van Gerrewey, Christophe, David Peleman, and Bart Decroos. OASE Journal for
Architecture 103: Schools & Teachers : The Education of an Architect in Europe.
Rotterdam: nai010 Publishers, 2019.
186
Publications
Decroos, Bart, Véronique Patteeuw, Aslı Çiçek, and Jantje Engels. OASE Journal for
Architecture 105: Practices of Drawing. Rotterdam: nai010 Publishers, 2020.
Palmboom, Frits, Bruno Notteboom, Kornelia Dimitrova, and Bart Decroos. OASE
Journal for Architecture 107: The Drawing in Landscape Design and Urbanism.
Rotterdam: OASE foundation, 2020.
Decroos, Bart, Kornelia Dimitrova, Sereh Mandias, and Elsbeth Ronner. OASE Journal
for Architecture 112: Ecology & Aesthetics. Rotterdam: OASE foundation, 2022.
Science Outreach
Decroos, Bart. ‘Dialogues & Detours’. A+ : Architecture in Belgium 271 (2018): 38–40.
Decroos, Bart. ‘Het werkelijkheidseffect van de tekening’. A+ : Architecture in Belgium

273 (2018): 50–53.
Decroos, Bart. ‘Retorische architectuur’. A+ : Architecture in Belgium 277 (2019): 40–45.
Decroos, Bart. ‘The Minotaur in the Labyrinth’. A+ : Architecture in Belgium 284 (2020):
100–103.
Decroos, Bart. ‘Een burgemeesterswoning zonder burgemeester’. A+ : Architecture in

Belgium 292 (2021): 20–22.
Decroos, Bart. ‘A Fictional Interview with John Ruskin’. Archined (2020).
187
Cover image: John Ruskin, ‘Study of Moss, Fern and Wood-Sorrel, upon a Rocky River Bank’ (1875–79)

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The Ecological Sensibility:

Between Ruskin and Banham

Supervisor Prof. Lara Schrijver

The Ecological Sensibility:

PhD thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Architecture at the

Between Ruskin and Banham 43

The Golden Stain of Time 147

Towards a Politics of Vitality 163

Contemporary architecture seems to be increasingly described as sustainable, circular, re-

No matter which architecture magazine you open nowadays, or which architecture

Nature, Materiality, Technology

moralizing.12 Instead, as he also stated in an interview in 2018, sustainable architecture

From Environmental Crisis to the Anthropocene and

Indeed, our struggle to grasp the reality of something as all-encompassing as the

Towards An Ecological Sensibility?

approach to living on this planet, foregrounding multispecies collaboration as opposed to

1.3.1 Deep Ecology

1.3.2 The Gaia Hypothesis

Re-affirming the Modern

1.4.1 Sustainable Development

Ruskin and Banham

became a mainstream bourgeois ideology, precisely at a time the large-scale impacts of

From Ruskin to Bauhaus (and Banham)

Between Ruskin and Banham

Let us start with the obvious question: What is nature?

Architecture and Nature

the natural environment, revisiting these positions reminds us that we should be

The Invention of Nature

3.2.1 Picturesque Misery

dwellings with national characteristics and environmental conditions, from a Picturesque

England is a country of perpetually increasing prosperity and active enterprise; but,

3.2.2 The Essence of Nature

address these questions was Norwegian architecture theorist Christian Norberg-Schulz,

3.2.3 Imitating Nature

One of the main studies on organicism as it developed in the nineteenth century is

The Disappearance of Nature

The Return of Nature

Banham: as environmental conditions and climatological parameters to be regulated

Deprived of the ancient categories of Picturesque and Sublime; dubious as to

We seem to find ourselves in the middle of a crisis of materiality.

configurations, whether ornamental, tectonic or otherwise. As such, architecture can

4.3.1 Vital Beauty

feelings’.223 This sympathy between things is described by Spuybroek primarily as an

4.3.2 Between Ethics and Aesthetics

4.3.3 A Pathetic Fallacy?

Modern Material Truth

In recent years, to address the environmental impact of the construction industry,

Let’s start with an etymological reminder.

technology is also a way of knowing, which Heidegger describes as a ‘revealing’ or

Between Thinking and Making

The Two Cultures

On the other, rationalization is the result of industrially organized production and

The Mechanical Sensibility

influential as vehicles in the transmission of formal and technical methods which

Figure 17: La Città Nuova, Antonio Sant’Elia, 1914.

Something is happening to our sense of time.

commenced the depositing of carbon in Earth’s crust – namely, the inception of

relied on the temporal categories of nostalgia and futurism to function, followed by a

Between Nostalgia and Futurism