Petrified ruin: exploring the abandoned city of Pripyat

27 09 2010

Entering Pripyat

Pripyat was built in 1970 to house workers at the nearby Chernobyl nuclear plant. It’s now an empty city, abandoned in 1986 after the worst nuclear accident in history. Recently, Chernobyl and Pripyat have become unlikely tourist destinations and my visit in October 2007 was arranged through a travel agency in Kiev. Visiting Pripyat is a disconcerting experience: because it is the largest post-War ruin in existence, the empty streets and buildings feel like a real-life version of countless ruined cities in post-apocalyptic cinema.

If one is a lover of industrial ruins, as I am, walking through the empty, decaying buildings of Pripyat might seem to represent an opportunity for extreme pleasure – a place, in the words of Tim Edensor, ‘which offers spaces in which the interpretation and practice of the city becomes liberated from the everyday constraints which determine what should be done and where, and which encode the city with meanings’. So, for example we have surprise in the arbitrary arrangements of once ordered things – broken strip lights in a supermarket (1):

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…or the sudden reappearance of utopian objects from the past – socialist icons left in a room in the palace of culture (2):

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…or the excess of meaning generated by inexplicable objects and juxtapositions – rusted hat stands alone in a decaying room (3):

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For Edensor and others, such experiences are potentially transformative, ‘suggesting new forms of thought and comprehension, and … new conceptions of space that confirm the potential of the human to integrate itself, to be whole and free outside of any predetermined system’. Yet, such positive assessments of industrial ruins tend to present them as alternative spaces within the ordered, modern city. It is one thing encountering an industrial ruin in the midst of the ceaseless life of the city; it is quite another if all is ruin, if there is no counterbalancing order at all.

As one proceeds through Pripyat, the sense of ruin quickly becomes overwhelming: the very qualities of fragmentation, plenitude, discontinuity and defamiliarisation that Edensor celebrates, soon overwhelm. Scale overrides the positive attributes of these qualities: the strange beauty of peeling walls in corridors soon become only reminders of the vastness of all that is not seen; the decay of the conventional architectural signs of civilisation – hospitals, schools, supermarkets, hotels – a wearisome succession of incommensurable losses (4):

4

And the decay seen is not what it seems: not a product of the return of natural processes of decomposition, but from two decades of systematic looting; a consequence of the residents being forced to leave all their belongings behind when the town was evacuated. Finally, juxtapositions of objects become unbearably poignant – children’s toys left on the decaying remains of a merry-go-round (5):

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…or simply sinister – a rusty gynaecological chair and gas mask in the grounds of the hospital (6):

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Indeed, for the ‘voices of Chernobyl’ – those who experienced the accident and its aftermath at first hand – the site represents something much more than a technological ruin: for one witness ‘Chernobyl was a way into infinity…it shattered existing boundaries’; for another ‘the World no longer seemed eternal as it had done before … we had been deprived of immortality’. For many Chernobyl represented the end of communism, even if its final collapse was delayed until 1991. Before Chernobyl they were protected by the Soviet state apparatus; after it, they were forced to become individuals again, left alone in their own private zones. The sense of Chernobyl as both technological and cosmic catastrophe is embodied in the experience of the spaces of Pripyat and more specifically, in the ‘city-like’ quality of it. With its endless blank corridors, disorientating repetition, and the evidence of violent human agency at work in its spaces, Pripyat is more ruined city than collection of industrial ruins, inviting meditation on loss on a cosmic scale.

Read more about my research on Chernobyl and Pripyat here

See more of my photographs of Chernobyl and Pripyat here





Dead Cities

12 10 2009
Serjilla, 2008, oil pastel on chalk & ink

Serjilla, 2008, oil pastel on chalk & ink

In the Syrian countryside south of Aleppo lie the Dead Cities, a series of ancient ghost towns between the Aleppo-Hama highway in the east and the Orontes River in the west. Dating from before the 5th century, these sites – around 600 in total – range from single monuments to whole villages, as in the case of Serjilla, which is complete with houses, churches, mills, baths and even a wine press. It is a mystery why the towns were abandoned in the late-5th century but some now form part of present-day villages, with a few people even inhabiting the ancient ruins or incorporating them into their own houses.

Serjilla is the most complete site and has en eerie quality because of its extraordinary state of preservation; walking through the site it seems as if the inhabitants have only recently departed. Whole houses are preserved with clean and sharp-edged stone walls, columns and windows. All around are the scattered fragments of early Christian iconography – fishes, crosses, wheels, stars, and spirals – set against the rusty-coloured soil and close-cropped grass.

Serjilla, Syria, September 2008

Serjilla, Syria, September 2008





Victor

10 09 2009
Victor, 2006, pencil, acrylic and watercolour on chalk and ink

Victor, 2006, pencil, acrylic and watercolour on chalk and ink

The area around Cripple Creek in Colorado is filled with the remains of buildings put up during the gold rush at the end of the nineteenth century. Nearby, the small mining town of Victor, around 10,000 feet above sea level, is a place frozen in time and is now marketed as a heritage tourist attraction. Out of season, the place feels like a melancholy failure because mining still carries on in the surrounding hills, the nineteenth-century town now barely affected by these retrieved riches. On the slopes above, the old mine buildings are staggering pieces of timber construction that now appear on the verge of collapse. Stacked up on the hillsides, these simple buildings, strewn with abandoned pieces of machinery, each have their own distinct sense of personality: some stand proud and aloof, some are warm and homely, others are eccentric or outlandish. At 10,750 feet, the highest mine is a simple shack, looking out over a vast panorama of snowy peaks and surrounded by the new open-cast mines that seem distinctly inhuman by comparison.

An abandoned shack in Colorado

An abandoned miner's shack in Colorado








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