Out with the old...

Same pictures, different look: just got myself Adobe Lightroom and it's pretty nice. Here are some of my Bishopsgate pictures, edited and, frankly, looking a little better for it. Enjoy.

My Essay on Bishopsgate

‘Yesterday’s Foe is Today’s Friend’[1]

The ghost of the bomb threat being performed in the architectural space of Bishopsgate

For the purposes of this essay, let me propose that the day April 23^rd 1993 never existed. This date marks the bombing of Bishopsgate, London, and a day that devastated the heart of the capital’s financial district. That is not to say the day literally never existed; it has not been forgotten, even though we might think we have. It has, as I will argue, been repressed and maladroitly concealed under the clothes of architecture. If we look to the larger-scale destruction of the World Trade Centre in New York, September 11^th, 2001, we can see how the Bishopsgate bombing could be seen as a forgotten event. After the disaster, the site of the World Trade Centre was made into what Marc Auge calls a ‘spectacle of ruins’[2] and was subsequently branded Ground Zero – not just any ground zero, but the Ground Zero, a term that is now married to that event.

Curiously, the grief that was caused by the event of the World Trade Centre was not forgotten or repressed, but it was remembered – almost to a degree where it could be called accelerated remembrance. In the cinematic realm, a few years after the disaster, there were films that portrayed (or, more accurately, assumed) the events of that day such as World Trade Centre (Dir. Oliver Stone, USA, 2006) and films that were overtly obvious exercises in mirroring the heroism of the men in 9/11, like Ladder 49 (Dir. Jay Russell, USA, 2004). Lebbeus Woods writes in his blog entry ‘Doom Time’ that 9/11 ‘evoked an essential truth about human existence, a truth so disturbing that it is usually cloaked in denial: we are all going to die.’[3] Thus, sites of conflict are remembered and engaged with, because they act out the fragility of life. This is ‘history,’ as Auge writes, that ‘is on our heels, following us like our shadows, like death’.[4] If Auge is correct, then it is suffice to say that the Bishopsgate bombing has not been forgotten, but is lurking in the everyday: in the architecture, the health & safety signage and the pamphlets we pick up and needlessly accumulate.

Essentially, Bishopsgate’s architecture, signage and pamphlets will serve as an entry into the study of the anxiety and paranoia that is being performed in the city – a city that Tim Etchell’s writes, is ‘thick with the ghosts of politics’[5] Seventeen years ago, the IRA bombing of Bishopsgate led to an ‘upping of the security ante’[6] by introducing what the Daily Express termed a ‘ring of steel’ that was ‘thrown around the Square mile’ of the financial district’[7] Although these military style checkpoints have physically disappeared, it could be argued that this ring of steel still maintains its presence in Bishopsgate. The thick veil of architecture keeps us at an anaesthetized distance, where we are seemingly blind to the anxiety that is written in the texture of the city.

However, there are patches in this veil. I declare in this essay, that through the use of my own photography and wanderings (albeit tactical wanderings) of the area[8], in conjunction with the help of critical and philosophical lenses offered by other writers, I can directly engage with the space of Bishopsgate and, contrary to my paper’s title, prove how it is still being dominated by the past. My view of Bishopsgate is from street level. I am not gifted with, as Michel De Certeau writes, the position of the ‘solar Eye, looking down like a god.’[9] My viewpoint is one associated with the everyday. Therefore, in order to confront Bishopsgate, I will look to sites of faith and secondly, the ‘empty spaces’ of the everyday, with an emphasis on non-place[10] and CCTV. There needs to be a direct engagement with the event and the site of conflict, to make clear the ‘opaque past and...Uncertain future’[11] that de Certeau writes of.

Beginning with sites of faith, I found that of all the sites I visited, none were as poignant and, ultimately, confusing, as those of St. Ethelburga’s church and its neighbouring church, St. Botolph’s. St. Ethelburga’s church was completely demolished by the bombing, whereas St. Botolph’s only suffered minor damage, but still bears the ‘sacred scars’[12] of April 23^rd, 1993. To begin with, let us consider St. Ethelburga’s church, a place which is called a ‘Centre for Reconciliation and Peace’ by the people who teach there. The church contains a ‘Tent’, a structure within a structure, which is a ‘special meeting place for people of all faiths’ and, in their booklet ‘The Spectrum’, it is a ‘dignified atmospheric space, based on the principles of sacred geometry, made of goats’ hair in a traditional Bedouin style.’(See Figure 1) The language of faith is bred with the language of architecture, even in this booklet. ‘Sacred’ and ‘geometry’ sit next to each other in a seemingly innocent harmony, two terms that, to me, are strained.

An example of this strain is apparent in the church’s physical relationship with its place, which, according to de Certeau, is an ‘indication of stability.’[13] The church is located in between two office blocks (See Figure 2). Visually, it is not just located between these office blocks; it is dwarfed. ‘The Spectrum’ may write about peace and understanding, but the building itself is involved in an unfair negotiation of geometry. The ‘financial district,’ Harvie writes, ‘constantly declares its authority through a physical presence that is silent and solemn – but monumental and foreboding’[14]. In terms of place, Harvie is correct. Internally, the church, through its pamphlets and educational talks (discussed below), gives the impression of comfort and peace. Externally, the church sits uncomfortably between the imposing financial architecture. Its place –not space – is increasingly at odds with what de Certeau calls an ‘indication of stability.’ The site of the church is caught in a war with the buildings that dominate it, a sort of macrocosm of conflicted countries, creating a sense that the church cannot reconcile with the financial buildings it neighbours.

However, if we stay with this idea of instability, we must understand that the church was rebuilt after the bombing and was not a ‘simple matter of restoration’[15]. Lebbeus Woods suggests in his essay ‘No Man’s Land’ that the ‘destruction and degradation’ after the event can never be ‘erased, but only transcended.’ Furthermore, Woods thinks that if we are to believe this can be erased, then we are engaged in a ‘game of pretense’; things must ‘move on from what they actually are, continually becoming, continually redefining themselves’[16]. True, the building of the church has redefined itself, and it is a ‘sign of life transforming itself,’ but on a second reading, I still find Woods’ notion that the past violence of an area is a ‘closed chapter’ or, more bewildering, a ‘complete history’[17] is difficult to take. If it was a complete history - if the church was trying to completely redefine itself - why does it stage educational talks on the violence of terrorism? Why is the reception area abundant with prayer cards on violence? (See Figures 3 & 4) The place of worship and its relationship with the past, an apparently a completed history, in anything but and is in fact defined, and continues to grow, because of that very event that devastated its structure.

In contrast to the church of St. Ethelburga’s, St. Botolph’s was not destroyed, but contains no less anxiety within its architectural structure. I say within, because unlike St. Ethelburga’s, St. Botolph’s did not hold much interest as an external piece of evidence; it was on inside where it presented complications. As an inception into the anxiety being performed in St. Botolph’s, I would like to use two pieces of evidence. Firstly, there is the social night which the church holds every Wednesday after work, which I went to, which is called ‘Abundant’ (See Figure 5). Secondly, just beside the entrance of the church is a sign called ‘Swine Flu’ Pandemic: Guidance notes for clergy in the Diocese of London’ (See Figure 6). The ‘Abundant’ leaflet defines itself in four words: ‘Rest,’ ‘Relax,’ ‘Refresh,’ and ‘Feed.’ On the reverse side of the leaflet, the church describes this social night as a ‘relaxed and sociable stop-off point between work and home’ where you can unwind from the ‘stress of the day’ and ‘consider questions of faith and spirituality.’ The social gathering is apparently an anodyne to the world of work.

From this social night, I gathered two things. Firstly, I should prioritise this as a space over place. De Certeau puts forward that ‘space is a practiced place’; the street is ‘transformed into space by the walkers.’[18] Auge, on Certeau’s idea of space, calls it a ‘frequented space’ and an ‘intersection of bodies.’[19] Thus, by walking into this church, interacting with the other people and analysing it internally, I make it into a space. Secondly, if I see this church as a space, it is a space that is curiously ambiguous; the leaflet mentions it is a ‘stop-off point between work and home.’ The leaflet illuminates the dissemination of our everyday routine; we work, we refresh ourselves, we feed, we relax, we walk, we talk, we consider. As Henri Lefebvre observed in The Production of Space, ‘work time falls into line with family life time and leisure time, if not vice versa...everyday time becomes both homogenous and dispersed’[20].

Furthermore, the space of the church made me feel the antithesis of what it purported to offer me on the leaflet. The self conscious labelling of these offerings, juxtaposed with the swine ’flu sign at the door, engenders a feeling of anxiety that has travelled from the external to the internal. The sign, inside this area of faith, contains the sort of language that you would associate with post-disaster newspaper reports, or televised warnings. For example, the sign engages in what I drew our attention to earlier, in the form of Lebbeus Woods’ ‘game of pretence.’ The sign signals the ‘importance of washing your hands’ – but, during the act of communion, it ‘would be a great reassurance’ if the ‘congregation sees this happening.’ The act of washing hands is the correct procedure to prevent the spread of the swine flu, but the fact that the congregation need ‘reassurance’ is suggestive of anxiety.

This anxiety is medical, and is seemingly divorced from the anxiety I am concerned with, the anxiety of the bomb threat. However, both work on feeding the paranoia of ‘everyday practices, of lived space, of the disquieting familiarity of the city.’[21] The vocabulary of disease has been amalgamated with the vocabulary of threat. Therefore, we can perceive the effect that language has upon the internal structure of the church. The reassuring abundance of verbs (rest, refresh, relax) are constantly at odds with the anxious language of the swine flu sign (stress, workload, overarching anxiety). The effect witnessed here is similar to the site of St. Ethelburga’s; the language of anxiety is woven into the architecture. Language has, as Simon During mentions in his work Cultural Studies: A Critical Introduction, become a sort of ‘metalanguage – words about acts and about the words that accompany actions’ and have ‘taken the place of language; in other words we are surrounded by emptiness, but it is an emptiness filled with signs!’[22] I will come back to the idea of emptiness and signage later in the essay, but for the current point, Lefebvre observes the changing nature of language – a language I believe to be married to the architecture and the paranoia of the ‘modern world’ it inhabits.

However I feel like the structure of the church is garnering too much scrutiny; although my gaze is centred upon the church, these sites of faith are silently powerful in their breeding of paranoia and anxiety because they force us to look ourselves. The Daily Express wrote four days after the bombing that the glass from the offices covered the streets and that ‘this street looked like a mirror’[23]. This quote is hauntingly apt in its relationship to paranoia. The churches, sixteen years later, are buildings we associate with the ‘history that haunts our landscapes’[24]. They are, as the Daily Express suggested, mirrors that are held up to us, constantly reminding us of what Lebbeus Woods referred to as the ‘essential truth about human existence’ – that we are ‘going to die.’[25] Paranoia then, takes on a Lacanian mode, linking the mirror stage with its ‘insufficiency,’ ‘anticipation’ and the ethereal ‘lure of spatial identification.’[26] The paranoia does not arise from the fact that we see our mortality reflected in the architecture, but the fact that we are shown glimpses of it - fragments. The site of faith denies us totality or the finished product and thus we are denied a ‘completed history,’ the paranoia and anxiety arising from our anticipation of what might happen next. The bombing, it seems, will never be a completed history.

Moving from sites of faith, I will now focus on the empty spaces of Bishopsgate. Bishopsgate is very much exists in ‘l’ere du vide’[27] – the era of emptiness. On the one hand the area is replete with office buildings that are used for a purpose. However, on the other hand it is also filled with empty spaces that are reserved for offices and currently have no use at all (See Figure 7). Additionally, in terms of signage, or as Auge calls them ‘codified ideograms’[28], we are constantly reminded of the abundance of space that is for sale, but not for us. The signs depict space to the reader numerically; there is ’32, 485 square ft’ of office development available (Figure 8). Secondly, one offers ‘flexible office space’ and can be delved into on the internet at www.targetspace.co.uk (Figure 9). Finally, there is the Leadenhall building, an imposing silver sign which tells us how it offers not only ‘614,000 sq ft’ but also the ‘highest quality of office space’ (Figure 10).

How does this empty space orientate the way we think about it? Firstly, the fact that such a large amount of space on ‘offer’ is not available to us at all suggests that the space is not merely mathematically geometric but a ‘social space’[29], one that is under surveillance. Thus abundance is in fact redundant – the office space could be used for other purposes, but it seems to stay in a status of perpetual emptiness, offering so much, but paradoxically nothing at the same time. Furthermore, if we look to Figure 7, the image of the empty office, notice the amount of reflections being cast; light from the ceiling being duplicated on the relatively untouched floors. There is also light being reflected from outside and outlines of structures behind where I was stood. As I gaze into the windows, I also see all that is behind me, reflected. This is an interesting image; a lattice effect of blurred, indistinct imagery. The architecture of the elsewhere is at once being reflected and cast onto the canvas of emptiness, which in this case is the window.

What does this lattice effect of imagery say about the anxiety of Bishopsgate though? In The Urban Revolution, Lefebvre writes that:

The urban space is concrete contradiction...the urban centre fills to saturation, it decays or explodes. From time to time, it reverses direction and surrounds itself with emptiness and scarcity. More often it assumes and proposes the concentration of everything there is in the world, in nature, in the cosmos; the fruits of the earth, the products of industry, human works, objects and instruments, acts and situations, signs and symbols[30]

I find that my photography and the lattice effect it has produced through the reflections of the window are embodied in what Lefebvre has written on the urban space. Looking into the window of this glass structure, we naturally get a reflection; in reflecting all that around us, we are crowded with an over abundance of the architecture that surrounds us. In this apparent space of emptiness then, anxiety creeps forth in two modes; firstly, that we feel alone, suggestive of being watched and secondly we feel crowded, overwhelmed and claustrophobic. This claustrophobia is caused by what Lefebvre calls the ‘concentration of everything.’ Emptiness, in this case, is anything but; even in the reflections of empty office buildings we can ascertain the overabundance of the city. Lights, bricks, mortar, steel, glass; it all adds to the canvas. Thus Lefebvre writes that ‘there is a twofold blindness, whose emptiness and virtuality are masked by plenitude’[31]. Therefore the empty spaces of the financial district create anxiety by reflecting and thus duplicating the city around us. We simultaneously feel crowded and completely alone.

As mentioned before, in this space of emptiness there are two modes of anxiety. The first, which we have just discussed, is the abundance of ‘everything,’ an emptiness masked by ‘plenitude.’ However, on the other hand there is the anxiety of feeling alone – alienated – in these areas. Are we truly alone in the space of Bishopsgate though? The alienation of the area is performed through our consciousness in regards of the CCTV and signage of the area. Bishopsgate, especially after the bombing of 1993, increased its security and we are conscious of this when we explore it. Obvious security cameras are placed above ATM machines (see Figure 11) to prevent fraud and other crimes, but there are some security cameras which are not so explicit in making their presence understandable.

For example, just behind the Heron Tower, which, incidentally, is still in construction (See figure 12), there is a barren car parking area that is home to two security cameras (See Figure 13). Although it is empty, the positioning of the cameras is a warning. You are under surveillance. You are not allowed in this area. You must not look in this car park. These warnings also manifest themselves in the areas signage. Most of Bishopsgate is under construction, as well as being home to the city’s finance; thus the signs are on every wall you walk past. For example, near 30 St Mary Axe, there are over five signs that warn you of the CCTV (See Figure 14). The Heron Tower, which is still under construction, warns you that if you enter, your life is at risk by way of a hyperbole of signage (See Figure 15). If we use Michel Foucault’s panoptical theory, we can ascertain that we are always in a ‘state of conscious and permanent visibility’ in these areas, which ‘assures the automatic functioning of power’[32].

The anxiety born from this is not merely that we are conscious we are being watched by someone on the other end on a security monitor. The anxiety, it seems, is born out divisions and denial of entry. There are two instances where security and signage made me anxious in Bishopsgate. The first was as I was photographing 30 St Mary Axe, better known as the ‘Gherkin building,’ designed by Lord Foster. As I took photographs of the building, I wanted to take a picture of the ramp leading to the parking lot. Consequently, I was violently told to move by a security guard who told me I was not allowed to take photographs of the area. The second instance took place just after the first. I went to photograph some more office buildings and as I took a picture of the windows, someone closed the blinds and knocked on the window telling me to leave (See Figure 16).

This act of shutting me out, whether by force or by the simple task of a divider, roused a sense of paranoia in me. The fact they can see me and that they can watch me, but I am denied the allowance to return the gaze creates an unfair relationship. Again, this adheres to Foucault’s panoptic theory; we are similar to the ‘inmate’ who ‘must never know whether he is being looked at at any one moment; but he must be sure that he may always be so’[33]. We are observed, but we may not return our observations. Anxiety, then, is at once caused by absence and presence; absence of knowledge of who is watching us and presence of the apparatus that they used to watch us with.

Perhaps this excess of security is to be expected after the bombing of 1993. The TPS director of terrorism and security Chris Bowes mentions Bishopsgate in his article ‘The changing nature of the bomb threat’; he also mentions how that with ‘the terrorist threat on the doorstep, we can no longer cross our fingers and hope for the best’[34]. Although the security is for the safety of the general public, the security cameras of Bishopsgate seem like theatrical props that are signifiers of the bombs lasting residue on the area. Again, this signifies that Bishopsgate is far from being an area of ‘completed history.’ Bishopsgate, as well as other areas affected by scars of conflict, is surrounded by mementoes and visible wounds; the CCTV although protective, is a sign of anxiety.

These visible mementoes of conflict not only evince themselves in the architecture, but through the buildings we see on television too. It seems a fitting way to conclude the discussion on Bishopsgate through another lens; to look at it, but not with our eyes. In his book City of Panic, Paul Virilio mentions that ‘contemporary disasters’[35] that take place in the city, ‘contemporary metropolis of the disasters of progress’ and that through the medium of technology (television, satellite imagery), the ‘image loop has become the signature of contemporary disasters’[36]. Bishopsgate is not as well documented as, say, the 9/11 disaster. After 9/11, we not only got films about the disaster, but we saw the actual collision of the planes and the towers repeated and looped. We saw it on television and we can see it any time we want on the internet on websites such as www.youtube.com. The imagery of conflict is burned into our consciousness. But what does the 9/11 conflict have to do with Bishopsgate?

Essentially, the looping of deinterlaced videos influences the way we look at buildings today. Bishopsgate is a performance of anxiety, a collection of signs and tokens on how the bomb threat has manifested itself within the walls and streets we inhabit. However, when we look at videos of 9/11, we begin the act of association. A tall building is destroyed. We look around us in Bishopsgate and we begin making comparisons. The Heron Tower building, the ‘advanced business life environment’ is the tallest building in London and one cannot help but make comparisons with. After seeing the videos of the World Trade Centre’s being destroyed, there is undoubtedly a feeling of anxiety towards this building; tall, authoritative and, ultimately, a sign of London’s financial wealth, there is a sense that it is a target. Bishopsgate was a target back in 1993 and has been ever since, which is proved by the CCTV, signage and architecture. The Heron Building not only represents power, but it also represents vulnerability. As it is still in construction, the people building it aim to be the tallest building in the United Kingdom by the time it is finished in 2010. This can be seen as an act of progress, of moving ever upwards. The architecture may perform power and progression through its size, but, ultimately, it is an act of progress that is walked in trepidation and embodies the atmosphere of Bishopsgate. We move upwards, but never forwards; we are bound by the past.

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[1] This line can be found on a plaque inside the rebuilt St. Ethelburga’s prayer garden. It commemorates the reconciliation of Japan and Burma.

[2] Marc Auge, Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity, p. XVII.

[3] Lebbeus Woods, Doom Time, http://lebbeuswoods.wordpress.com/2009/06/08/doom-time/, June 8, 2009, 1.37am (Accessed 20 December 2009)

[4] Auge, p. 22.

[5] Jen Harvie, Theatre & the City (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), p. XIV.

[6] David Rose, ‘Huge IRA blast rocks city’, The Observer, April 25, 1993, p.2.

[7] John Burns, ‘Bomb Barriers will shield City from the IRA’, Daily Express, Wednesday June 30, 1993, p.4.

[8] In Theatre and the City, Harvie notes how Charles Baudelaire calls this a flâneur; a ‘stroller’ or an ‘idler.’

[9] Michel De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (London: University of California, 1988), p. 92.

[10] This is in reference to Marc Auge’s Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity, especially the chapter ‘From Places to Non-Places.’

[11] de Certeau, p. 93.

[12] Claire Brunvas, ‘Something in the City’, Daily Express, Saturday April 23, 1994, p.24.

[13] De Certeau, p. 117.

[14] Harvie, p. 48.

[15] Lebbeus Woods ‘No-Man’s Land’ in Architecturally Speaking, p. 205.

[16] Woods, p. 206.

[17] Woods, p. 206.

[18] de Certeau, p. 117.

[19] Auge, p. 64.

[20] Simon During, Cultural Studies: A Critical Introduction, p. 40.

[21] de Certeau, p. 96.

[22] Henri Lefebvre, Everyday Life in the Modern World, p. 135.

[23] Stephen Grey, ‘Nobody will stop us going back to our City offices, not even the IRA,’ Daily Express, Tuesday April 27 1993.

[24] Auge, p. 59.

[25] Lebbeus Woods, Doom Time, http://lebbeuswoods.wordpress.com/2009/06/08/doom-time/, June 8, 2009, 1.37am (Accessed 20 December 2009)

[26] Jacques Lacan, ‘The Mirror Stage as Formative’, p. 1288.

[27] Henri Lefebvre, The Urban Revolution (USA: The University of Minnesota Press, 2003)

[28] Auge, p. 78.

[29] Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, p. 40.

[30] Lefebvre, The Urban Revolution, p. 39.

[31] Lefebvre, The Urban Revolution, p. 40.

[32] Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (London: Penguin Books, 1991), p. 201.

[33] Foucault, p. 201.

[34] Chris Bowes, ‘The changing nature of the bomb threat’, 23 March 2004 (Accessed 20 December 2009): http://www.continuitycentral.com/feature075.htm

[35] Paul Virilio, City of Panic (London: Berg Publishers, 2005), p. 85.

[36] Virilio, p. 90.

Bibliography

1. Auge, Marc, Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity (United Kingdom: Verso, 1995)

2. Bowes, Chris, ‘The changing nature of the bomb threat’, 23 March 2004 (Accessed 20 December 2009): http://www.continuitycentral.com/feature075.htm

3. Brunvas, Claire, ‘Something in the City’, Daily Express, Saturday 23 April 1994

4. Burns, John, ‘Bomb Barriers will shield City from the IRA’, Daily Express, Wednesday June 30, 1993

5. Burgin, Victor, In/Different Spaces: place and memory in visual culture (USA: University of California Press, 1996)

6. Certeau, Michel De, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkley: University of California Press, 1988)

7. Foucault, Michel, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (London: Penguin Books, 1991)

8. Grey, Stephen, ‘Nobody will stop us going back to our City offices, not even the IRA,’ Daily Express, Tuesday 27 April 1993

9. Harvie, Jen, Theatre & the City (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009)

10. Leitch, Vincent B., ed., The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism (London: Norton & Company, 2001)

11. Lefebvre, Henri, Everyday Life in the Modern World (London: Verso, 2005)

12. Lefebvre, Henri, The Urban Revolution (USA: The University of Minnesota Press, 2003)

13. Lefebvre, Henri, The Production of Space (UK: Wiley Blackwell, 1991)

14. Read, Alan, ed., Architecturally Speaking: Practices of Art, Architecture and the Everyday (London: Routledge, 2000)

15. Read, Alan, The Theatre of Everyday Life: An Ethic of Performance (Oxon: Routledge, 2005)

16. Rose, David, ‘Huge IRA blast rocks city’, The Observer, April 25, 1993

17. Virilio, Paul, City of Panic (London: Berg Publishers, 2005)

18. Woods, Lebbeus, Doom Time, http://lebbeuswoods.wordpress.com/2009/06/08/doom-time/, June 8, 2009 (Accessed 20 December, 2009)

19. Thank you to the Daily Express and The Observer’s Archive services for the newspaper articles.