2014/10/30

In Defence Of Lost Futures - An Introduction

“The kind of melancholia I’m talking about, by contrast, consists not in giving up on desire, but in refusing to yield. It consists, that is to say, in a refusal to adjust to what current conditions call ‘reality’ – even if the cost of that refusal is that you feel like an outcast in your own time…” (Mark Fisher, Ghosts of my Life)
I grew up in Gera, a town about 55km south of Leipzig and subject to rather drastic changes over last decades. Once a thriving and rather wealthy centre of the textile industry, the city saw an impressive number of Neues Bauen projects - both residential and industrial - realised during the years of the Weimar Republic. This period, however, was only short-lived. In 1925, after only six years in nearby Weimar, the Bauhaus had to relocate to Dessau because of nationalist and conservative pressure. Contracts became rare and by 1930, when the National Socialists won the majority of seats in the Thuringian Parliament, even academic careers became were beyond reach. Architects like Thilo Schoder, the most prolific proponent of Neues Bauen in Gera, went into exile.    
In the postwar years Gera became the capital of the newly created District of Gera, which led to further development of the city and its industrial sector. The resulting increase of the population demanded a different approach to housing. Socialist modernism provided the answer: Two Plattenbau estates were established at Gera's northern and southern periphery from 1965 on, housing about 20.000 (Bieblach) and 45.000 (Lusan) people each at the end of the 80s. Built around the small village of the same name, Lusan was the largest project of its kind in the district.
The architecture – keep in mind, this was mass-produced prefabricated housing void of any artistic expression - left much to desire, mostly because of the excessive use of the WBS 70 large-panel system buildings which varied only in height and the layout of the flats. While the five- and six-storey houses had windowed internal staircases that served two or three flats per storey, the eleven-storey tower blocks relied on dark, artificially lit corridors, central stair cases and elevators to make the best of the larger floor area. Concrete dominated the entire estate. Especially the exposed-aggregate concrete, the material that made up the majority of the slabs used for construction and paving, weathered quite fast, gradually darkening the buildings. The very fabric of this socialist utopia made it look kind of drab. Rumor has it that in the years before its completion Lusan was nicknamed “Golan Heights”, apparently for its dirt roads and nonexistent vegetation. On the other hand, it served its residents quite well. There were eleven schools, fourteen daycares, four supermarkets (either state-owned or operated by cooperatives), one restaurant, two retirement homes and one outpatient clinic. A tram line and a four-lane road connected it to the city, where thousands made their ways every day. This is where I went to school, this is where I spent most of my childhood and youth.


Before we moved to Lusan, we lived in a small three-storey house in Gera’s Untermhaus quarter, now one of the fancier neighborhoods of the city. The house was only 50 metres away from the White Elster river and has seen its fair share of floods. While I have only good memories of the place, it was always a bit glum. The backyard with its small garden was a confined and shady place lined by sheds and a washhouse, bathrooms were outside of the flats and you always had the feeling that the sun was nowhere to be seen. Lusan was different. From my room you could see for miles, there were green areas everywhere and everything was astonishingly bright and modern. Colourful murals adorned schools and tower blocks, and sculptures could be found in every square and in front of every public building. But then came the German reunification and along with it a number of changes that hit the city hard. In 1990, Gera became part of Thuringia. The loss of its administrative functions as well as its nationalized industry marked the city's slide into a deep economic crisis, which continues to today. Not only the combined textile industry was privatised, the 1990s saw also massive parts of state-owned housing sold to private real estate companies. When people moved away and renting out these icons of socialist modernism became unprofitable, tenants where offered to buy the flats they lived in. Some did, but by then so many flats stood empty, that entire tower blocks where levelled instead. This went hand in hand with people’s newfound scorn for the houses and flats they had lived in for years. With socialism defeated, its remains had to go. What wasn’t razed was either redeveloped for the affluent (I’m talking retrofitted maisonettes and spacious penthouses) or simply rehabilitated. The weathered concrete was covered in alloy panels, colorfully painted. Shopping malls were built between the tower blocks, providing a better consumer experience, just so nobody forgets that instead of the party now capital reigns supreme.
And yet the buildings, the sculptures, the murals and even some of the streets named after local communists are still there. They are artifacts from the past, material traces of history, and as such, they are a constant reminder of battles fought, defeats suffered, and promises yet to be fulfilled. What most people deem obsolete and insufferable remains of an era long gone, what is met with contempt and ignorance, is still of concern. Not because of sentimental nostalgia for a supposedly better past, but because of its refusal to adjust to the logic of late capitalism. From our current point of view, the future may look bleak and frightening. In these artifacts, however, utopian thought survives, offering not only a critique of a reality which deems itself eternal and unchangeable, but also redemption to the lost futures of past and present.

 “You're absolutely right. Our little town is a hole. It always has been and still is. But now it is a hole into the future. We're going to dump so much through this hole into your lousy world that everything will change in it. Life will be different. It'll be fair. Everyone will have everything that he needs. Some hole, huh? Knowledge comes through this hole. And when we have the knowledge, we'll make everyone rich, and we'll fly to the stars, and go anywhere we want. That's the kind of hole we have here.” (Arkady & Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic)

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