Chronopolis: Detroit’s time zones

8 05 2015
The Imagination Station opposite Michigan Central Station

The Imagination Station opposite Michigan Central Station

In a peculiar instance of art imitating life, I happened to read J. G. Ballard’s 1960 short story ‘Chronopolis’ during a recent stay in Detroit. In Ballard’s tale, set in a future city (the Chronopolis of the title), the population have completely abandoned the notion of sequential time, resulting in a city that is ‘effectively an enormous ring, five miles in width, encircling a vast dead centre forty or fifty miles in diameter.’ Hiding his own interest in the now forbidden timepieces of his ancestors, the central character Conrad sets off on a journey into this abandoned city, meeting the renegade Marshall, and restarting the city’s clocks once again. Typical of Ballard’s writing, this seemingly fantastical story was eerily prescient of the fate of the city in which I read it. Detroit’s decline is always narrated with shocking statistics and chronological landmarks: the riots/rebellion of 1967 which precipitated the flight of Detroit’s white residents to the burgeoning suburbs; the even-more catastrophic exodus (250,000 residents) in the wake of the collapse of the housing market in 2008; and the city’s declaration of bankruptcy in 2013. Recent commentary on Detroit has tended to emphasise two seemingly opposing temporal conceptions: the city as a place of vacant land and ruins that have succumbed to the slow rhythms of nature; or the city as still waiting, in the words of its motto, to rise from the ashes.

Clock in the former Cass Technical High School. Photograph by Andrew Moore, 2010

Clock in the former Cass Technical High School. Photograph by Andrew Moore, 2010

Both of these conceptions result from an understandable desire to apprehend the meaning of Detroit. As a city with less than 40% of its former inhabitants and with nearly one third of its vast area (138 square miles) now vacant land, Detroit seems to confound everything we expect of a city. As the photographer Andrew Moore put it in his 2010 book Detroit Disassembled, there’s a sense in Detroit that ‘the past is receding so quickly that time itself seems to be distorted’ – perhaps nowhere better pictured than in Moore’s own image of a half-melted clock in the former Cass Technical High School (now demolished). Like other photographers of Detroit’s ruins, Moore isn’t convinced that the city will rise again; rather, it is nature that is Detroit’s true engineer: ‘Janus-faced’, it ‘renews as it ravages this shadowed metropolis’.

The Heidelberg Project on Detroit's east side.

The Heidelberg Project on Detroit’s east side.

At the same time, people (mainly young white professionals and creative types) are moving back into the city’s core: the billionaire Dan Gilbert has bought up dozens of formerly vacant buildings downtown; while the surrounding areas of Midtown, Corktown and Eastern Market are seeing new apartments being built and boutique shops opened. Here, the talk is of renovation and renewal, of productive forward-looking time regained after the blank wasted time of abandonment.

Clock above the entrance to the abandoned CPA Building on Michigan Avenue, Corktown

Clock above the entrance to the abandoned CPA Building on Michigan Avenue, Corktown

Can both of these time zones exist in the same city? Indeed, they can and do – and more besides. At Tyree Guyton’s world-famous Heidelberg Project on Detroit’s east side, a hand-painted clock (fixed on just after 3.45) is fastened to a pole overflowing with decrepit soft toys and wooden crosses: a time that pinpoints, abet allusively, a past tragedy (all over the city, poles covered in toys signify and memorialise sites of murders). Meanwhile, in Corktown on the near west side, the one remaining hand on the clock over the entrance of the abandoned CPA building points forever at the number 6. Looming just across the road, Detroit’s most iconic ruin – Michigan Central Station – used to contain within it a clock that stopped forever in the mid-1960s at one minute to seven, signalling the beginning of the end for this architectural behemoth.

Former Michigan Central Station, Corktown

Former Michigan Central Station, Corktown

In Detroit of all places – once the epicentre of clock-based time in the Fordist mass production of cars – these frozen clocks seem to mock any attempt to temporalize the city. What is the past, present or future if time has forever stopped? The answer Ballard gives us in ‘Chronopolis’ is typically ambiguous: if we abandon time, we can never get it back as it once was. This seems to be what makes Detroit such a troubling (yet exhilarating) city: its future is now radically unknown.





Palaces of commerce: Manchester’s Victorian warehouses

14 11 2012

Warehouse (c.1865), 1 Central Street, Manchester

Manchester is a city known for its cotton mills, but it is its textile warehouses that remain the distinctive element in its street-scape and make it unlike any other city in England. From the mid-19th century onwards, the marketing of textiles came to dominate Manchester’s economy. For this reason it is the commercial warehouses, built by the manufacturers, wholesalers, independent merchants, traders and packing companies during the century after 1840, that are the most potent visual symbols of the city’s Victorian character.

Warehouse buildings of the 1820s and 1830s had little architectural pretension and they tended to follow Manchester’s mills in adopting a strictly utilitarian approach. As trade further accelerated and the city’s merchants became wealthier, the architectural style of warehouses changed, the merchants aspiring to premises of more impressive appearance to reflect, to potential customers, their growing stature. From the 1840s, they achieved this by adopting the Italian palazzo style, inspired by the 14th and 15th-century architecture of Florence, Genoa and Venice. The palazzo style was justified primarily on associational grounds: Renaissance street architecture in Italian cities were seen as developing in line with their expansion as centres of trade, just as Manchester was in the mid-19th century.

1. Edward Walters, warehouse (1855-56), 36 Charlotte St, Manchester

 

A typical surviving early example is Edward Walter’s warehouse fronting Portland and Charlotte Streets, built from 1855-56 (1). The windows here are indicative of the function of each floor of the warehouse – the large windows on the first floor light the main showroom, while the top-level windows are both smaller and more numerous as this is where the lightest and most delicate goods would have been stored and inspected. Each storey is boldly defined by a stone string-course, as are the lines of the window arches, and the parapets on the four corners of the roofline serve to emphasis the vertical dimension as well. The clear visual emphasis on ‘massiveness’ here is in keeping with the projection of an image of strength and solidity, but it also reflects wider principles in Victorian architecture at this time, which were dominated by the influence of John Ruskin and his writings on architecture.

2. Travis & Mangnall, Watt’s Warehouse (1851-56), elevation from Chorlton St

3. Cast-iron staircase in the interior of the Watt’s Warehouse (1851-56)

In the 1850s, some warehouse designers, such as Travis and Mangnall, who designed the Watt’s Warehouse in Portland Street (2), began to move away from the Palazzo Style. Now the Britannia Hotel, the Watt’s Warehouse was a vast building built for S. & J. Watts, the largest wholesale drapery business in Manchester. His enormous warehouse – 300-ft long and nearly 100-ft high – is more eclectic in its architectural style. The general outline resembles the Fondaco dei Turchi in Venice, but each of the six floors is given a different treatment, ranging from Italian Rennaissance to Elizabethan and culminating with wheel roundels in the roof towers. Inside, the warehouse had four large internal wells and a system of circulation which segregated customers, staff and porters. The original sumptuous cast-iron staircase is preserved (3), with its cantilevered bridges spanning the six floors, all made out of richly ornamented cast iron.

4. Dugdale’s Warehouse (1870s), Princess Street, Manchester

5. Corner view of Charles Clegg’s warehouse (1869) at 101 Princess Street, Manchester

From the 1860s until the turn of the century, Manchester’s warehouses proliferated in a wide variety of architectural styles, the best preserved now clustered along Princess Street. A high proportion of these warehouses were by the architects Clegg and Knowles, with Charles Clegg the leading designer, and all are roughly the same height of four or five stories with almost no gap between the frontage and the street. Of the many surviving examples, we have Dugdale’s warehouse from the late-1870s, in a loose Gothic style with an open arcaded parapets and tall chimneys (4); Charles Clegg’s 1869 warehouse at 101 Princess Street in an immaculate Renaissance style with brick with sandstone dressings (5); and 74 Princess St, built in 1880 in the Scottish baronial style by the architects Corson and Aitken (6).

6. Corson & Aitken’s warehouse (1880) at 74 Princess St, Manchester

Many of these Victorian warehouses have now been converted into flats, hotels or restaurants, their former use now difficult to detect from the outside. Yet, such is their number and sheer bulk that some inevitably remain in a kind of architectural limbo, either part-occupied or awaiting redevelopment. In an early warehouse by Edward Walters on Charlotte Street (1855), a group of tenants have only very recently redeveloped its interior. On my first visit in early 2012, amidst piles of rotting wood and the original cast-iron columns, were traces of the building’s last tenant – the textile retailer, Lilian Stewart Ltd, who, like many others in Manchester, gave up the business in the 1970s (7). With the company’s name still seen on one of the doors (8), the space suddenly became imbued by the still-living past, filled with unexpected possibilities and stories waiting to be told. However, on returning six months later, that space was already transformed into a whitewashed shell in preparation for its new life as a luxury apartment.

7. Interior of Edward Walter’s warehouse (c.1855) at 34 Charlotte Street, Manchester, in early 2012.

8. Interior of Edward Walter’s warehouse (c.1855) at 34 Charlotte St in early 2012.





Communal reading and everyday life

13 04 2012

Taking an everyday journey on the London Underground in August this year, I witnessed many different types of reading; in the carriage in which I travelled, a middle-aged couple jointly consulted a London guidebook; a man next to me perused a map of the Underground; a young woman opposite studied some hand-written notes; two passengers read the newspaper; while one was engrossed in a novel. Finally, whilst observing my fellow passengers, I scanned the advertisements on the walls of the carriage. In short, I witnessed and engaged in varied kinds of reading at work on equally varied kinds of reading material.

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On the same day I took this photograph of a group sitting on a bench along the South Bank. These three Italian visitors were engaged in an act of shared reading common to any group visiting a new city: in the centre the older female holds a London guidebook so that the other two people can read it. She looks down at the text, as does the male figure to the left, presumably her partner. Meanwhile the girl on the right, presumably her daughter, looks ahead, not reading the guide, but nevertheless closely tied in with the act of reading by the other two figures. This kind of reading would almost certainly be interrupted by other activities: conversation about decisions to be made or unrelated matters, or observations of surroundings. Finally, we can imagine this kind of shared reading replicated countless times across London at every moment of the day, perhaps more numerous and visible in areas popular with tourists.

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When studying readers of the past, such shared reading must be considered alongside the traditional emphasis on readers of literature, absorbed in their books in splendid isolation, such as those seen in David Vincent’s Bread, Knowledge and Freedom: a Study of Nineteenth-Century Working Class Autobiography (1982), which states that ‘reading is a solitary activity’ (p. 125) despite the cover illustration showing a group of Victorian working men collectively reading a newspaper. Bringing to light the experience of shared reading, such as that seen in this photograph, might tell us much about reading as a ‘functional’ activity, that is, one that presupposes concrete acts in the world. By studying such experiences in the past, and analysing the relationship between reading and action, we will uncover varieties of everyday experience that have so far remained ignored by historians, but, like other forms of reading, warrant our close attention.

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History at a glance

18 04 2011

‘Historical chart. Representing at one view the rise and progress of the principal states & empires of the known world’, c. 1780s. Designed by Adam Ferguson, copper engraving by A. Bell, hand coloured. 575 x 249 mm (Paul Dobraszczyk)

In the nineteenth century, historical charts, or chronologies, emerged as a popular method of showing comparative historical development; that is, by means of graphs or tables on which were plotted the development of different civilizations over time. In this case, time is represented on the vertical axis and read from top to bottom, while different-coloured bars on the horizontal axis represent various empires, which are labelled at the top of the page in twelve columns. The columns are in some cases further divided by means of colour alone: Britain into Scotland, Ireland and England; and Spain into Portugal. From top to bottom, the width of the areas of colour varies according to the geographical reach of each empire – for example, in the middle of the chart is a large area of pink, indicating the extent of the Roman Empire across many other countries.

The source of this particular example is the Encyclopaedia Britannica, whose second edition (1777-84) included this historical chart as a foldout plate. When the third edition of the encyclopaedia was published in 1797, the chart’s timeline was extended to 1800. The development of historical charts like this one was pioneered by Joseph Priestley in the eighteenth century, with his graphic method of presenting time as a line, and was later taken up by Major James Bell, who published the first edition of his A compendious view of universal history & literature in a series of tables in 1820. Bell’s charts were displayed at the Great Exhibition in 1851 in the form of a long roll, unfolded to give a sense of historical development ‘in one view’. The chart illustrated here was designed by Adam Ferguson (1723-1816), a prominent Scottish philosopher and historian, and published long before Bell came to dominate the field.

The sense of perceiving history as a totality, by means of comparative development of empires, developed from sixteenth-century historians such as Joseph Scaliger (1540-1609), who founded the study of chronology. Historical tables were probably used mainly in education, whether in schools or in the home of those who could afford such lavish publications. As educative tools, the ‘in one view’ format of the chart was designed to aid memory: organising historical data into spatial formations on the page was believed to imprint it on the memory of the reader/viewer much more effectively than words alone.








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