The beautiful rhyming scheme of anti-avalanche fences, or mountain implants, as photographed by Lois Hechenblaikner.
Which remind us that we are still waiting to hear of a competition for a new ex-urb community development sited, as per international trend, deep into the wilderness, and programmed to co-exist successfully with wildfires, 100-year floods, rock falls, outbreaks of new super-viruses, snow avalanches, or some other human-induced disasters.
An interesting article about another construction boom was published yesterday in the The New York Times.
Some countries have strategic oil reserves; others stockpile rice or wheat. The island nation of Singapore has emergency reserves of imported sand.
The sand is there to secure Singapore’s insatiable demand for concrete, a reminder of its vulnerability as a nation without a hinterland to supply it with vital resources.
The government is now being forced to tap its sand hoard after its usual supplier, Indonesia, abruptly banned exports in February, citing the impact of a recent Singaporean construction boom on Indonesian beaches and island environments.
The ban touched off the latest in a string of disputes between Singapore and its neighbors over water, land reclamation, satellite concessions, corporate takeovers and the flight patterns of the Singapore Air Force, just to name a few.
In searching for more background on the embargo, we learned that the vast majority of sand Singapore imports go to reclaim land. This new real estate is then developed into industrial parks, commercial and housing developments, port and airport facilities, and other critical infrastructure. Over the last four decades, these projects have increased the country's physical footprint by nearly 20%, and more are planned in the coming decades.
This territorial expansion, however, came at the expense of its own hills — not very tall ones, but hills nevertheless — which were sheared flat, their truncated peaks dumped into the sea. And then there are the islands in the Malaysian and Indonesian archipelagos, some of which are now in danger of disappearing, if not already fully submerged beneath the waves. Large tracts of mangrove forests along the coast were consequently destroyed — suffocated by a flood of pulverized hills and islands, as it were, soon to be followed by another deluge, courtesy of global warming.
Indonesia previously banned such exports, but a robust trade in illegal sand did little to curb the environmental degradation. If anything, this geological thievery provided for some curious incidents on the high seas. For instance, back in 2002, the Indonesian navy sent two warships to capture seven vessels suspected of smuggling sand to Singapore. Not banned military technology or illegal immigrants or weapons-grade enriched plutonium or even an actual atomic bomb — but sand.
(24: The Movie? You buy a MacMansion in a remote barrier island, but the beach behind your house isn't quite up to your standard of an ocean-side paradise. Thus, you decide to purchase several tons of sand, precipitating an action-packed thriller half-way around the world involving your landscape architect, geologists, shadowy international trade syndicates, government trade ministers, corrupt provincial governors, local paramilitaries, environmentalists, fugitives, container ships staffed by multinational sailor-for-hires with dubious histories, warships, dredgers, and, yes, illegal sand. Of course, Jack Bauer will have to navigate through all the assorted plot points to prevent a disruptive regional conflict from erupting.)
Anyway, to go back to Singapore's emergency stockpile, the image of mountain ranges made up entirely of finely grained immigrant soil, rising and diminishing in response to economic demands and international geopolitics, within or along the periphery of a crowded metropolis, is outrageously fascinating. At the very least, it might inspire an interesting art installation.
Javanese hills and Bornean ridges simulating Singapore's erased topography.
There was a very interesting article a couple of days ago in The New York Times concerning the current construction boom altering the landscape of Mecca.
In addition to the ongoing projects to improve the city's pilgrimage infrastructure, the article tells us that “an entire mountain is being flattened to make way for a huge hotel and high-rise complex. And elsewhere, cranes dot the skyline with up to 130 new high-rise towers planned for the area.”
Quite a few more cranes are to be found in another multi-billion dollar complex, the Abraj al Bait, under construction just across from the Kaaba. The tallest of its towers, a hotel, is projected to be the seventh highest in the world and will loom high over Islam's holiest site.
Perhaps in keeping with the city's historical status as a major commercial center, a mall recently opened as part of the same development. This mall, we read, is “outfitted with flat-panel monitors with advertisements and announcements, neon lights, an amusement park ride, fast-food restaurants and a lingerie shop.” And Cartier, Tiffany, H&M, Topshop and, of course, Starbucks.
Not surprisingly, some feel that “Mecca is becoming like Las Vegas.”
Quoting the article:
Progress has exacted a heavy price in Mecca. More pilgrims than ever can come here, thanks to billions spent on tunnels and infrastructure to accommodate them. But in exchange, the city’s once famed night market, where pilgrims brought their wares to sell, is gone. The Meccan homes and buildings that filled the area near the mosque were demolished in the 1970s to enlarge the mosque. The neighborhoods and families who lived near the mosque and welcomed pilgrims have long since moved away.
And again (with apologies):
Dr. Ahmed of London has cataloged the destruction of more than 300 separate antiquity sites, including cemeteries and mosques. He says the house where the Prophet Muhammad lived was razed and today a dilapidated library, with its windows and doors shuttered, stands in its place.
Or, to mutilate Clifford Geertz: nothing changes or alters like the unconditionally and unalterably sacred.
Via the awesome gravestmor, who earlier alerted us to the movie trailer of the Mexican documentary feature, En El Hoyo, we learn that on February 23, “after rumbling for weeks, part of a poor Guatemala City neighborhood plummeted some 30 stories into the Earth.”
According to National Geographic News, “the reportedly 330-foot-deep (100-meter-deep) sinkhole swallowed about a dozen homes and is so far blamed in the deaths of three people—two teenagers, found floating in torrent of sewage, and their father, who was pulled from the chasm.”
While everyone knows who the real culprit of this terrestrial villainy is, Guatemalan officials nevertheless blame rainstorms and a ruptured sewer main for the sinkhole. “After the collapse, the seemingly bottomless depths gave off tremors, sounds of flowing water, and the scent of sewage,” we also learn.
It's at times like this when we wish there was a secret cabal of landscape architects, all possessing extraordinary design abilities and astounding planning skills: The League of Super Amazing Landscape Architect Friends.
Holed up in their subterranean lair designed, of course, by Barco, they wait, surveilling seismic monitors, Google Earth imagery, RSS news feeds, global hydrographs and ambient air sensors, until a new geological wound on the surface of the earth calls out for them.
When another giant sinkhole suddenly appears in another major city, a red light flashes immediately on one of their giant screens, sirens blaring. Within minutes, they are parachuting down towards the disaster zone. And mere seconds after they've landed, they already have sketched out the schematics for a fantastic vertical park, sure to draw thousands of tourists, mountain climbers and well-funded graduate students of garden history, who will come for exactly one hour to analyse the site and then spend the rest of their fellowship money whoring and boozing it up. The park won't erase the tragedy, obviously, but it might serve as a fitting memorial. Plus much tourist revenue will be generated.
Or when a mayor too powerful for everyone's good decides to build a multi-billion dollar stormwater deep tunnel, representatives from the league will rappel down City Hall, to the dumbstruck faces of aldermen, to offer inexpensive municipal stormwater management alternatives. Tax payers across the city will rejoice.
Is there an open-pit mine polluting your watershed? Have no fear, Julie Bargmann's protégé will come to the rescue.
Have you spotted another coastal development? Send an anonymous tip to the league and a Super Amazing Landscape Architect Friend or two will pay the developers a visit to point out the idiocy of their whole plan with powerpoint presentations.
During brief lulls in CNN's wall-to-wall coverage of Anna Nicole Smith, we try imagining the complex of rooms from where the Super-Versailles might be monitored and controlled in real-time.
Could they be cavernous, hermetically sealed, climate controlled, an ambience of hard drives whirring and clicking, the smells of days-old coffee and hot rubberized circuitry mixing with endlessly recycled, zealously filtered air, entombed inside a mountain?
Or the opposite of everything imagined above?
Thankfully, the wonderful, if unfortunately non-English, blog Approximation points us to Barco, a Belgian company which specializes in designing and developing solutions for large-screen visualization. A leader in professional markets, so we are told, they have equipped the control rooms of NASA, traffic management centers, national power grids, broadcast studios and military combat rooms. They also outfitted the FIFA World Cup international media center, which served an audience numbering in the billions.
And they even supplied the LED technology for Millennium Park's Crown Fountain.
So from multiple case studies found on their website, it becomes easier to visualize the control room of our very own Super-Versailles. Wall-to-wall cinematics, endless streams of numbers, thousands of hours of hydrological voyeurism saved for the archives or for later viewing and efficiency analysis. Beyond what Warhol ever imagined. In fact, Barco may have one-upped him, John Cage, Nam June Paik, and Alfred Hitchcock.
And among all the trillions of electrified pixels, a lone landscape architect — perhaps he's a descendant of Arnold de Ville or Harold N. Fisk, but definitely has watched Dr. Strangelove and TheMatrixReloaded one too many times — meticulously tracks the migration of a single water molecule: from that first dangling raindrop from a Category 5 hurricane all the way to its first contact with the earth, and then through its frothy journey from rivulets to streams to rivers to cataracts to reservoirs to the fountains of Rome.
Because he has to; the Super-Versailles must follow the script absolutely.
Of course, since he reads too much BLDGBLOG, he'll program scenarios of miniscule critical systems failures. For fun, he'll flood a street or two; drain the Trevi Fountain for a day just to piss off tired, sweaty tourists; and trap honeymooning couples on a Disney cruise ship in the Panama Canal. Mildly inconsequential events of topographical hysterics to pass the hours away.
Going through an archive of half-forgotten bookmarks, we discovered this FORGEMIND.archi.mediaarticle on Enric Miralles and Carme Pinós' Igualada Cemetery located near Barcelona, Spain.
You'll read something about “time architecture” and about life journeys and about space-time-metaphysical continuum and about layering of memories and such. But you'll be forgiven if you skip the whole text and simply peruse the photos, which are many, capture perfectly the essence of the site, and unequivocally support what we've long suspected: that the Igualada Cemetery could be a model for an entirely new flood control system, one that is part levee, part diversionary canal, part city of the dead.
The authors may suspect this as well: “The project is conceived,” they write, “as an earthwork that transforms the surrounding landscape and also as a metaphor for the river of life. A processional route descends from the entrance, where crossed, rusting steel poles which double as gates, proclaim the start of the journey along a winding path where railway sleepers are set into the concrete surface towards the burial area. The route is lined with repeatable concrete loculi forming retaining walls.”
A landscape of concretized rigidity and suppleness, of permanence and impermanence, protecting the living from surging waters, avalanches and supersonic pyroclastic mud flows while welcoming those it could not save.
