In praise of crisis

Wonders of memory in Genova

The choice to demolish or preserve a building or part of a city is a profound act that signifies a critical juncture. In its essence, "crisis" embodies discernment, separation, and judgment, signifying a pivotal turning point. The ancient Greek term κρίσις, derived from the verb κρίνω, encapsulates the notion of choice and decision-making. While Hinduism, through its reverence for deities like Siva and Kali, offers an interpretation of destruction as change, transformation, possibility and renewal, western mythology invariably links destruction with the ravages of war.

Human nature, rife with its dualistic tendencies, harbours both a fear and a desire for profound change—a longing for catharsis, the obliteration of the familiar world, and the creation of a tabula rasa. This intricate interplay of emotions is palpable in the etymology of "wonder”, derived from the ancient Greek θαυμά, evoking notions of horror, terror, and awe. Such sentiments find resonance in the Christian allegory of the Last Judgment, promising both destruction and renewal—a narrative of death and a rebirth that obliterates the past world from memory.

The question of what precipitates the demolition of a building prompts a discourse on the heightened interest and vitality that surround the characters, events, and places involved in that project. Architecture, as a living entity, thrives in the imaginative realms it fosters beyond its materiality. Even in disappearance, demolition, or absence, architecture endures within the collective imagination it has inspired.

In Genova, structures and urban spaces have vanished due to the ravages of war, urban redevelopment projects, or the dismantling of disused infrastructure and temporary installations. Each transformation, demolition, and crisis begets unique circumstances, giving rise to diverse forms of memory and the poignant relationship with the void left in their wake. This essay endeavours to shed light on three distinct Genoese experiences, fostering a dialogue on the myriad ways in which transformation shapes memory and the complex interplay with the absence it leaves behind.

The choice to demolish or preserve a building or part of a city is an act of destruction and marks a moment of crisis. In its essence, "crisis" embodies discernment, separation, and judgment, signifying a pivotal turning point. The ancient Greek term κρίσις, derived from the verb κρίνω, encapsulates the notion of choice and decision-making. Diverse influences such as politics, culture, societal norms, and religion shape our perception of destruction. While Hinduism, through its reverence for deities like Siva and Kali, offers an interpretation of destruction as change, transformation, possibility and renewal, western mythology invariably links destruction with the ravages of war and annihilation. At the dawn of Western culture, destructive force defines itself in stark contrast with love, ἔρις versus ἔρως. Freud's conceptualization of destrudo as a counterbalance to eros, laden with hatred and discord, reinforces the prevailing view of destruction as a negative force bent on annihilation¹. In the annals of Western utopian thought, virtuous associations with destruction are scant.

However, Guglielmo Bilancioni's essay, "Unbridled Mourning: Ecstasy and Excess at Burning Man"² , illuminates a rare Western enclave where destruction assumes a generative force. Bilancioni's narrative delves into the emotive tapestry surrounding rituals of destruction, epitomized by events like the Burning Man, Zozobra, and the Wicker Man—ceremonial spectacles intertwining the destruction of fetishes and human sacrifices. “The passion for destruction is a creative joy," proclaimed Bakunin, immortalized in the graffiti adorning Parisian walls during the tumultuous '68. It underscores a fundamental human paradox: the simultaneous attraction and fear towards radical change. This duality manifests as a desire for metamorphosis, the craving for catharsis, and the audacious pursuit of a tabula rasa. A clean slate upon which to inscribe new narratives.

It mirrors the primal fear and fascination woven into the fabric of the Christian eschatological narrative, the Last Judgment, a divine decree heralding both death and rebirth, destruction and redemption - the damnatio memoriae of the previous world. The judgment itself, a process of fixating a moment to assess and control, carries the weight of memory—a selective remembrance that simplifies reality through condemnation and rejection. Heaven and hell, with their religious narrative of life after death, offer solace in the face of existential emptiness and mortality. Yet, this construction of an afterlife realm serves to imbue the chaos of existence with fantastical imagery, a means to impose order upon the inherently uncontrollable. Imagination, fantasy, memory, remembering, and oblivion are all powerful tools for manipulating reality.

This intricate interplay of emotions is palpable in the etymology of "wonder", derived from the ancient Greek θαυμά, evoking notions of horror, terror, and awe. In Remo Bodei's exploration of aesthetic history, “Forms of Beauty”^⁠3, the interplay between beauty and destruction surfaces notably in the 16th century with the Copernican revolution. Here, humanity's insignificance in the grand scheme of cosmic forces evokes a sense of vulnerability and awe—a precursor to the modern sublime. This sublime consciousness, rooted in the acknowledgement of nature's unfathomable power, evokes a profound eco-anxiety—a distressing realization that our actions may precipitate our destruction. Indeed, our fear of nature's wrath parallels our destructive tendencies towards it. As the world teeters on the brink of immense possibilities and inevitable demise, the spectre of destruction looms large, breeding both apprehension and desire. "The world is immense, but it will end; it has existed for so long, but it will be destroyed"⁠⁴. In this cyclical dance of destruction and creation, humanity confronts its deepest fears and desires, navigating the turbulent waters of change with an unwavering resolve to forge anew.

The question of what precipitates the demolition of a building prompts a discourse on the heightened interest and vitality that surround the characters, events, and places involved in that project. Architecture, as a living entity, thrives in the imaginative realms it fosters beyond its physical consistency⁵. It transcends mere materiality to embody symbols, myths, stories, and histories. Consequently, the disappearance, demolition, or absence of a structure does not equate to its non-existence. Aldo Rossi contends that what evades demolition becomes a monument⁶, yet paradoxically, sometimes the contrary can happen: the very thing that is demolished becomes a monument. Blair Kamin in the opening of the chapter “Raising Up a Fallen Sky” vividly describes the idea of the impact of the World Trade Center's sudden disappearance on the New York skyline and the American psyche, likening it to the hypothetical scenario of the Sears Tower being abruptly erased from the Chicago skyline, leaving nothing but blue sky in its wake⁷.
In Eastern culture, the destruction of buildings is perceived as a natural facet of existence—a consequence of the perpetual cycle of creation and rebirth, an occasion to teach young generations how to build. The photographic project History Images 2002–2004 by Sze Tsung and Nicolás Leong captures the sublime transience of spaces, documenting cities in China transforming. Through their lens, they capture the essence of a profound evolution: the evocation of past histories erased, the construction of absences, and the anticipation of future narratives. Their project serves as a poignant portrayal of cities in flux, where traditional buildings, neighbourhoods, and natural landscapes are gradually vanishing, giving way to construction sites that obscure any trace of their former existence. Yet, amidst this erasure of the past, there lies the palpable anticipation of future histories, embodied in the emerging skylines of newly built cities, waiting to unfold their tales⁸.
Contrastingly, Western culture perceives destruction as a subtraction of memory—a lament for the loss of the past, teetering on the brink of oblivion. Despite Freud's portrayal of destruction as an instinct leading only to disaster and suffering, he posits demolition as an indispensable tool for urban development. In his seminal work Civilization and Its Discontents, Freud draws a parallel between the preservation of memory in the human psyche and the layers of history in a city like Rome. He elucidates that if Rome were akin to a human psyche, it would embody a repository where every memory is preserved, a notion patently unattainable for a physical space. Only through the collective consciousness can the human mind weave a process of mental preservation, transcending the limitations of physicality. Freud's insight underscores a pivotal shift in understanding—where forgetting no longer signifies the annihilation of memory, but rather, its latent preservation awaiting rediscovery. 

Since we overcame the error of supposing that the forgetting we are familiar with signified a destruction of the memory-trace - that is, its annihilation - we have been inclined to take the opposite view, that in mental life nothing which has once been formed can perish – that everything is somehow preserved and that in suitable circumstances […] it can once more be brought to light⁹.

Françoise Choay further explores this concept in her text "De la démolition”, drawing upon Freud's wisdom to elucidate the intrinsic link between new construction, demolition, and preservation. Her work, encapsulated in the volume Metamorphoses Parisiennes¹⁰, delves into the complexities of urban transformation, revealing how modification disrupts the city's image, yet remains vital to its essence. The exhibition Metamorphoses Parisiennes, curated around these themes, showcases pivotal operations that underscore the indispensable role of modification in the city's evolution. Through demolition, forgetfulness, unveiling, modification, and replacement, the exhibition illuminates the dynamic interplay between preservation and transformation—ultimately underscoring that the essence of the city lies in its perpetual state of flux.

RAAAF's Bunker 599 epitomizes the transformative power of partial demolition in redefining the memory of a structure. By slicing an abandoned bunker in half, the intervention transforms an obsolete relic into a Dutch national monument, enshrined in the UNESCO World Heritage list. Similarly, Gordon Matta Clark's Splitting (1974) cuts in two of a suburban villa, together with a series of building cuts (1972-78), in which he carved out sections of entire structures, treating them as spatial compositions. The most famous one is an old frame house in Englewood, New Jersey that was slated for demolition. RAAAF studio continues to experiment with demolition: in 2018 it realized Deltawerk. In this case, the object of memory was a large infrastructure - the Dutch Delta Works. A devastating force of deliberate destruction destroys the form of the site, generating an unpredictable and distressing scenario, a hardcore ruin¹¹, so hardcore that it becomes a monument and transcends its past. Through these interventions, demolition emerges not as an end, but as a catalyst for reimagining memory and reshaping the urban landscape—a testament to the enduring vitality of architecture in the face of change.
In the soul of Genova, echoes of destruction linger, intertwined with a sense of fear and apprehension. There's a palpable dread stemming from nature's fury, represented by the haunting memory of the last catastrophic flood of 2011. Moreover, there's a profound unease fuelled by the spectre of heedless progress, epitomized by the tragic collapse of the Ponte Morandi in 2018 (fig. 1). Adding to the disquiet is the lingering sense of disillusionment brought about by sluggish urban transformations, exemplified for instance by the protracted refurbishment projects of Padiglione S (fig. 2), Ponte Parodi or Hennebique, long abandoned structures on the sea.

However, amidst the shadows of apprehension, in 2001 five¹² Genoese architectural firms designed the GE -1% manifesto as a beacon of contemplation. This innovative endeavour challenges conventional wisdom by proposing a radical concept: a Genova where 1% of its housing stock is deliberately demolished. The project, encapsulated in its title, invites introspection on the potential of selective demolition within a densely populated urban landscape. Through GE -1%, the architectural studios ignite a discourse on the transformative power of partial demolition, prompting us to reconsider the dynamics of urban renewal and the delicate balance between preservation and demolition in the ever-evolving fabric of Genova. Their manifesto states demolition as a positive act, where demolition can be the occasion to make space, create parks, move better, rebuild better, save energy, and secure¹³.
Together with Francesco Bacci and Valter Scelsi a few years ago we drew the Pianta Analoga di Genova, a map that crystallizes the city's representation through a composition of space-time drifts experienced between 2017 and 2021. A snapshot of a state between present, past and future. A present to which other presents will follow. The map is the representation of apparently vanished architecture: architecture that was demolished or bombed or architecture that was designed but never built. In both cases, it is the physical materiality that we cannot touch. The destroyed buildings or parts of cities have been demolished either by the war or by modern planning, to make room for other spaces and buildings. Or they are buildings that have been moved. Others are disused infrastructure or temporary projects dismantled. These unfulfilled promises generate contradictory emotions: relief, disillusionment, or joy. Each transformation, each destruction, and each crisis has led to different situations.
Three episodes follow, shedding light on the Genoese experiences, fostering a dialogue on the myriad ways in which transformation shapes memory and the complex interplay with the absence it leaves behind.

At times, the aftermath of destruction breeds a sense of horror vacui—a fear of emptiness that stirs deep-seated performance anxiety, compelling individuals to navigate the delicate process of transforming voids into vibrant spaces. The act of replacing something that proved inadequate evokes a comparable unease, akin to the disquiet of inhabiting a home marked by a harrowing past—a space fraught with the lingering echoes of tragedy.

From a broader perspective, the demolition of what is labelled as an “architecture failure” gets into this category. The demolition of the Quartiere Diamante or Dighe di Begato in Genova is a case in point (fig. 3). More than anything it happens when it’s about people’s houses and living. The demolition of megastructures -in Italy and abroad- is a big issue that brings with it a lot of political media hype. Often, however, the discussion is not mature enough and projects giving another life to those places do not follow. The decision to demolish, especially large media-acclaimed interventions, generates different reactions in those who witness this process. Moreover, experiencing that void, what’s after the before, is a trauma that forces one to process all similar cases that might fall in the crosshairs of destruction. 

The Dighe di Begato stood as a monumental housing complex of remarkable scale, conceived within the framework of urban and architectural theories. It was predicated on the notion that the rational organization of living spaces holds an emancipatory quality, offering solutions to societal challenges while fostering societal improvement. However, the monumentalization of public housing for economically disadvantaged individuals, often associated with social issues, provoked disdain among citizens. The belief prevailed that such grandiose structures would only magnify the presence of poverty, contrasting starkly with the discreet presence of the wealthy. Thus, these realised "utopias", envisioned as urban microcosms accommodating thousands, and conceptualised as alternative models to traditional settlement patterns, faced swift condemnation and calls for demolition. Between the 1950s and 1980s in Italy, housing design, particularly in the realm of public housing, shifted towards morphologically intricate solutions, aiming to disrupt the prevailing trends of zoning and haphazard suburban sprawl. The physical and cultural destruction of a category of buildings leads to the discussion about the destinies of similar architectures in the territory. The same has happened to the famous case of Pruitt Igoe in Saint Louis, Missouri and now also Le Vele in Scampia is nearly entirely demolished. Others, like Bijlmermeer in Amsterdam, Trellik Tower in London, and Le Corbusier's five Unités d’Habitation, endured similar struggles, facing scrutiny and, in some cases, partial or total demolition. 

The landmark buildings of the Quartiere Diamante, in the hillside of Begato, were built in 1980 and consisted of 1600 dwellings spread over some 20 floors and capable of housing some 3500 tenants. It was made of two imposing buildings, commonly referred to as the Diga Rossa and the Diga Bianca because of the colour of the cladding, which, just like a water dam, cut through the valley from east to west, giving the possibility, thanks to some pedestrian walkways suspended in mid-air and connecting the two blocks, to pass from one slope to the other without ever leaving the building. The complex had a strong environmental and landscape impact, completely obstructing the skyline. Completing the image of the neighbourhood were a few businesses, a convenience store, a bar, a pharmacy, and a tobacco shop. It soon became a citadel full of social problems and was left to its own devices: media hype blamed the building's forms and spatial solutions for the unworthy living of those nearly 4000 people. Politics rode the wave of this blaming. 

Giovanna Franco published an essay about Dighe di Begato regeneration where she collected the main voices related to the project, commenting on the texts from Piero Gambacciani (1978), Buscaglia (1978), and Castagnola (1980) to Roberto Bobbio (2010), arguing positive and negative aspects of the huge building¹⁴. In the same year, Riccardo Miselli curated a publication that compiled projects from a design studio focused on the reuse and regeneration of the housing complex¹⁵. However, despite the cultural debate generated around the value of this project, the public administration has decided to proceed with the demolition.

Just like in "The Burning Man", we choose our fetish, our target to demonise: architecture that has failed in its forms. Let's demolish it, so we can get rid of all the problems it has generated. In the 2000s, the walkways had been demolished, considered failed spatial solutions to be forgotten. In 2020, demolition of the complex began, ending in 2022. Only a small portion of the Diga Bianca remains standing. Having achieved this, we are now ready to witness the revolution: We did it. Now what? Who will have the courage to propose and implement what kind of solution for a place haunted by so many demons? We have identified the pars destruens, we have destroyed it, now in what consists the pars costruens?

Today Pruitt Igoe appears as an almost vacant land (fig. 4). The housing complex consisted of 33 eleven-story concrete apartment buildings, clad in brick, on a 57-acre site, completed in 1955. Just 17 years later, the complex was completely demolished. Today, there are very few remaining buildings in that lot: much of the area consists of graded vacant lots where grass grows freely.

The tale of Via Madre di Dio and the Centro dei Liguri (fig. 5) reveals a paradox: demolition often sparks a renewed desire for destruction. Once a vibrant neighbourhood within Genova, Madre di Dio bore the scars of heavy bombardment during World War II, yet it pulsated with life—an eclectic mix of shops, artisans, and taverns nestled in the heart of the city. In the aftermath of the war, Genova's historical centre underwent preservation and reconstruction efforts, punctuated by forays into modern architecture. The 1970s saw the complete obliteration of the Madre di Dio neighbourhood to make way for the Centro dei Liguri and Centro Direzionale Madre di Dio—a bold urban experiment characterized by two imposing structures, one crimson-hued and the other stark concrete, connected by the Giardini Baltimora, a multilevel park facilitating pedestrian flow.

The displacement of Madre di Dio's inhabitants, predominantly impoverished renters, to suburban housing complexes marked a stark transition. Over time, the demolition of Madre di Dio has acquired a romanticized veneer, obscuring its dense, war-ravaged, yet vibrant past. The construction of Centro dei Liguri and Centro Direzionale Madre di Dio, however, mirrors the plight of Dighe di Begato, labelled as a failure and facing calls for demolition amid controversy.

Despite efforts such as the Maledetti Architetti guided tours organized by the Municipality and the Ordine degli Architetti of Genova (register of architects), aimed at elucidating the merits of the misunderstood project, publications addressing the contentious topic remain scarce. The looming threat of demolition persists, fuelling the notion of a haunted lot, bereft of cultural redemption. Should Centro dei Liguri meet its demise, it would further exemplify the narrative of megastructures deemed failures by media and political discourse—an unwelcome denouement in the annals of urban renewal.

Sometimes destruction generates new, powerful memories. Persistent imaginations. More truthful distortions of the madness of reality. Willingness for new memory. A haunted ground, impregnated with traces. Destruction does not erase memory; indeed it can be the springboard for imagination and fantasy. It makes you question reality, melting memory with imagination. This is the case of Santo Stefano Vecchia church (fig. 6).
Santo Stefano Vecchia church is a significant example of Romanesque architecture built in 972. In 1908, a new church was constructed next to the old one. In this instance as well, the world word bombing destruction had its part. While Santo Stefano Nuova succumbed to bombing, its older counterpart partially endured the onslaught. Santo Stefano Nuova was never rebuilt, meanwhile, Santo Stefano Vecchia was reconstructed. Looking at the images of the bombing, it seemed that the church had lost the third nave, the one to the south. Actually, it is not the third nave that was demolished, but a chapel posthumously added to the original old church. This is because the church has a single nave. The missing third nave is a memory that never existed in the material reality. Karl Schlögel in In Space We Read Time argues this very concept: 

Places are reliable witnesses. Memories are flexible, to the extent that pasts can be imagined and invented. Places, on the contrary, do not adapt: they have always been where they are. They have a life of their own. A kind of veto right. It is the mountains that continue to exist even when the faith that moved them has long since vanished. They are the plains that continue to exist even when all the toil has been accomplished. They are the surfaces on which the traces left by generations long remain visible¹⁶.⁠

Memory and imagination have a common function: to make present something that is absent. Information becomes fixed in memory once we turn them into images, into eidola of life moments. Memories crystallize as images, preserving life's fleeting moments, while imagery transcends time, not necessarily tethered to actual events¹⁷.
Raffaella Fontanarossa unveils, as articulated by Bruno Gabrielli, the origins of the misleading narrative depicting Genova as Europe's largest historic centre. Influential art historian Caterina Mercenaro, driven by political motives to advocate for the mayor's attention to the city centre, fabricates this resounding falsehood. Contrary to popular belief, Genova is recognised as one of the smallest historic centres in Italy. Yet, in truth, this of Europe's largest historic centres is not just a Genoese narrative; many cities have attempted to call themselves as such. The result has fuelled a penchant for the dispersion of urban physicality and a discussion of what size means: whether vastness, whether density, whether volumetric (fig. 7). How much does it matter whether a past event actually occurred? Yet, the crux lies not in the veracity of past events, but in their impact on collective memory.

In praise of crisis, we uncover the profound layers of memory etched into Genova's very fabric. From the tumultuous waves of history to the quiet moments of reflection, each epoch leaves its indelible mark upon the city's collective consciousness. In the heart of Genova, amidst its labyrinthine streets and storied piazzas, lies a city steeped in the wonders of memory—a tapestry woven from the threads of past and future. In certain instances, destruction may represent a devastating and irreparable loss for some, while for others, it presents an opportunity for renewal and growth. As the flames consume the roof, there arises a moment to seize the sky and revel in the brilliance of the moon and stars⁠¹⁸. The essence of transformation emerges from the ashes, offering a glimpse into the profound beauty that often follows moments of upheaval.