Neil Leach

UITAÞI DE HEIDEGGER

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Tehnoredactor: Paula Ivãnuº

© Editura Paideia, 2006

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Descrierea CIP a Bibliotecii Naþionale a României

LEACH, NEIL
Uitaþi de Heidegger – Forget Heidegger / Neil Leach ;
trad.: Magda Teodorescu, Dana Vais. - Bucureºti : Paideia,
2006

ISBN 973-596-302-7

I.Teodorescu, Magda (trad.)

II. Vais, Dana (trad.)

14(430) Heidegger, M.
929 Heidegger, M.
 Neil Leach

UITAÞI DE HEIDEGGER
Traducere din englezã:
Magda Teodorescu
Dana Vais

paideia
 INTRODUCERE

1
Întrebat la un moment dat, despre relaþia sa cu Martin Heidegger ,
Jacques Derrida a replicat cã, deºi educat în spiritul gîndirii heideggeriene,
întreaga sa operã a fost conceputã ca un mod de a „depãºi” aceastã gîndire.
În scrierile lui Derrida existã, într-adevãr, ceva care aminteºte de
complexul lui Oedip, o încercare de „omorîre a tatãlui”. Din acest motiv,
opera lui poate fi înþeleasã, într-o anumitã mãsurã, ca o încercare de a
trece dincolo de Heidegger, de a-l „uita”. Ca atare, Derrida reprezintã o
figurã emblematicã pentru o anumitã culturã arhitecturalã care, de
asemenea, simte nevoia sã „uite” de Heidegger.

1
Filosoful german Martin Heidegger (1889-1976) ºi-a fãcut educaþia în tradiþia
fenomenologicã pe lîngã Edmund Husserl. Cu toate cã Heidegger a rãmas o figurã
controversatã, mai ales datoritã simpatiilor sale politice faþã de naþional-socialiºti, el
s-a dovedit totuºi o figurã cheie în gîndirea europeanã a secolului XX, marcînd semnificativ
alþi gînditori importanþi. Începînd cu publicarea influentei sale lucrãri „Fiinþa ºi timpul”,
în 1927, Heidegger a dezvoltat problema situãrii omului în lume într-un proiect centrat
pe conceptul cheie Dasein ºi pe chestiunea „Fiinþei”. Heidegger susþinea cã alienarea
existenþei contemporane se bazeazã pe separarea dintre gîndire ºi „Fiinþã”, o condiþie
reprezentatã bine, dupã el, de privilegierea tehnologiei în lumea modernã. Proiectul sãu
a fost o încercare de a reîntoarce umanitatea cãtre o formã de existenþã autenticã.
O preocupare pentru arhitectural strãbate filosofia lui Heidegger. Pentru Heidegger,
problema situãrii omului în lume este hotãrît legatã de problema locuirii. Astfel, Heidegger
subliniazã legãtura între locuire ºi gîndire, pe care o urmãreºte etimologic pînã la relaþia
între cuvinte arhaice. Nu numai cã arhitectura oferã posibilitatea locuirii, dar este chiar
parte a acelei locuiri. A locui autentic, pentru Heidegger, înseamnã a locui poetic, cãci
poezia este o manifestare a adevãrului restabilit în dimensiunea sa artisticã. Arhitectura
devine o punere în operã a „adevãrului” ºi un mijloc de a face „lumea” vizibilã. În acest
proces este fundamental termenul grecesc ‘techne’, care în viziunea lui Heidegger se

5
 La fel ca Derrida, ºi eu am fost expus la gîndirea heideggerianã în
anii de formare ca arhitect. Proiectul meu a pornit din aceastã tradiþie
heideggerianã ºi ca un rãspuns la aceasta. Mã vãd de aceea obligat sã
recunosc posibilul „moment Oedip” în propria mea concepþie. Gîndirea
heideggerianã mi-a deschis cîteva „uºi” intelectuale, dar mai existã ºi alt
fel de „uºi” ce pot fi deschise. Într-adevãr, lucrarea mea Rethinking
2
Architecture este tocmai o colecþie de asemenea „uºi”, iar Heidegger se
regãseºte acolo laolaltã cu alþi gînditori. Arhitecþii, aº spune, nu ar trebui
sã se confrunte doar cu Heidegger, ci ºi cu alþi teoreticieni cum ar fi:
Theodor Adorno, Walter Benjamin, Gilles Deleuze, Jean-François
Lyotard ºi mulþi asemenea lor, care oferã un corectiv important la gîndirea
heideggerianã. Mai mult ca oricine, Derrida, a cãrui operã a influenþat
substanþial teoria arhitecturii, ne oferã o viziune criticã redutabilã asupra
gîndirii heideggeriene, viziune ce ar trebui reintrodusã în arena
3
dezbaterilor de arhitecturã .

leagã de termenul ‘tikto’ — „a aduce sau a produce” — un concept ce trebuie distins de

termenul modern ‘tehnologie’, în care ‘techne’ rãmîne „categoric ascuns”.
Nu lumea este „în spaþiu”, ci „spaþiul” este în lume. Pentru Heidegger, „spaþiul”
conþine un sens de „desþelenire”, de curãþire a locurilor de sãlbãticie, oferind posibilitatea
„locuirii”. „Spaþiul” este legat de „Fiinþã”. Prin faimosul sãu exemplu despre templul
grecesc, Heidegger ilustreazã cum templul reveleazã spaþialitatea Fiinþei prin faptul cã
„stã acolo”. Pentru Heidegger, fundamentalã în tratarea arhitecturii este situarea clãdirii
- dasein-ul ei. Astfel templul creºte din crãpãtura stîncii, la fel cum podul „adunã
împreunã” malurile rîului. La fel, casa ruralã din Pãdurea Neagrã s-a nãscut pe ºi din
panta munþilor pe care e aºezatã, construitã de cãtre „locuirea” þãranilor.
Pentru extrase din scrierile lui Heidegger, vezi Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking Archi-
tecture, London: Routledge, 1997.
2
Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking Architecture, London: Routledge, 1997.
3
Vezi, de exemplu, Jacques Derrida, The Truth in Painting, trad. Geoff Bennington ºi Ian
McLeod, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979, unde Derrida atacã relativismul
din opera lui Heidegger. Derrida însuºi a fost acuzat de relativism de cei care nu reuºesc
sã recunoascã rigoarea/logica operelor sale. Pentru cã el pune sub semnul întrebãrii
adevãrul, a fost asociat - în mod greºit - cu anumiþi gînditori postmoderniºti care susþin
cã, „adevãrul” nu existã ºi cã absolut orice este posibil. De fapt, opera lui Derrida
poate fi înþeleasã drept o riguroasã cãutare epistemologicã a „adevãrului”, care nu
doar depãºeºte uneori simplistele flatãri din operele gînditorilor postmoderniºti, ci
chiar trece dincolo de relativismul din operele unor gînditori ca Heidegger.

6
 Cultura arhitecturalã opereazã prin intermediul genealogiei anumitor
idei. Ea este dominatã de anumite ºcoli de gîndire. Hotãrîrea mea de a
polemiza cu una dintre aceste ºcoli nu s-a nãscut din dorinþa de-a face
criticã de dragul criticii. Intenþia a fost mai degrabã aceea de a ridica
unele semne de întrebare ºi de a pune în discuþie o astfel de ºcoalã de
gîndire, care ºi-a pierdut simþul critic ºi a devenit un fel de dogmã, ruptã
de realitãþile culturii contemporane. Ceea ce mã determinã acum sã scriu
„împotriva” lui Heidegger nu este Heidegger însuºi, ci mai curînd cîteva
personalitãþi proeminente ale învãþãmîntului de arhitecturã, care
celebreazã gîndirea heideggerianã într-o manierã prescriptivã, netolerînd
posibilitatea unei linii de gîndire alternative. Apãrîndu-l necondiþionat pe
Heidegger ºi atacîndu-i pe cei care îl criticã, fãrã a lua cu adevãrat în
considerare noile puncte de vedere, aceste persoane împiedicã disciplina
sã evolueze firesc.
Problema este în mod special de actualitate în contextul României,
unde scrierile lui Heidegger s-au bucurat de o popularitate considerabilã
dupã cãderea blocului sovietic. Este poate de înþeles ca gîndirea lui
Heidegger sã atragã într-o þarã atît de mult expusã ideologiilor totalitare.
La prima privire, gîndirea lui Heidegger poate pãrea într-adevãr
seducãtoare. Împotriva alienãrii locuirii sociale de masã, Heidegger pare
sã pledeze pentru o arhitecturã mai legatã de rãdãcini. De asemenea,
Heidegger pare sã susþinã un mod de existenþã „natural”, un sens autentic
al locuirii, care sînt cu totul opuse falselor ispite ale culturii de consum
importate din Vest.
Existã totuºi o „laturã întunecatã”, deºi aparent liniºtitoare, a
nostalgiei heideggeriene, o laturã sinistrã cu consecinþe tulburãtoare.
Existã ceva tulburãtor nostalgic în proiectul sãu, care nu reuºeºte sã se
plieze pe posibilitãþile vieþii moderne, aduse de progresele tehnologiei ºi
de evoluþiile modurilor de viaþã. Eseurile din acest volum pun sub semnul
întrebãrii adoptarea necriticã a gîndirii lui Heidegger petrecutã recent în
lume, dar în România în mod special.
Fiecare articol inclus în acest volum se ocupã de o problemã diferitã
a moºtenirii arhitecturale lãsate de gîndirea heideggerianã. Abordarea are
în vedere cadrul specific dat de condiþiile vieþii actuale. „Partea întunecatã

7
a Domusului” se referã la potenþialul negativ al filosofiei lui Heidegger, în
care filosofia pãmîntului poate conduce la o logicã a heimat-ului. Creºterea
recentã a naþionalismului/miºcãrilor de tip naþionalist în Europa de Est,
zonã în care gîndirea heideggerianã a devenit extrem de popularã, este un
exemplu clar în aceastã direcþie. Prin contrast, „Apartenenþa” încearcã sã
ofere un cadru alternativ de folosire a conceptului heideggerian de „locuire”,
un cadru care sã fie în concordanþã cu stilul nomad ºi cosmopolitan de
viaþã caracteristic secolului XXI. În sfîrºit, „Uitaþi de Heidegger” se referã
la limitãrile criticii sale cu privire la tehnologie, în contextul unei lumi a
tehnologiei din ce în ce mai sofisticate. Articolul susþine necesitatea
adoptãrii unei abordãri teoretice care sã înþeleagã capacitatea umanã de a
absorbi ºi asimila tehnologia, în cazul în care am adopta o poziþie mai
deschisã cu privire la folosirea computerelor în domeniul arhitecturii.
Aceste articole au fost iniþial publicate în diverse reviste („The Dark
Side of the Domus”, „Journal of Architecture”, Vol. 3, Spring 1998, pag.
11-12; „Belonging”, London: Postcolonial City, „AA Files”, 49, 2003,
pag. 76-82; „Forget Heidegger”, „Scroope”, 12, 2000, pag. 50-59). Ele
sînt adunate aici pentru prima oarã ca operã unitarã, care nu este însã
nici pe departe completã, dar care se poate preta la dezbateri. Cãci cultura
arhitecturalã este o formã de dezbatere în sine, iar vitalitatea cu care ea
este abordatã îmbogãþeºte proiectarea de arhitecturã.
Mulþumesc pentru sfatul ºi ajutorul acordat de o serie de persoane,
prea multe pentru a fi menþionate aici. Îngãduiþi-mi totuºi sã-l amintesc
pe Joseph Rykwert, a cãrui lucrare The Idea of a Town mi-a arãtat
posibilitãþile create prin deschiderea culturii arhitecturale cãtre alte idei
4
teoretice. Aº dori sã menþionez, de asemenea, anumite instituþii, printre
care Architectural Association, Columbia University ºi Bauhaus Foun-
dation, care mi-au pus recent la dispoziþie un forum viu ºi catalizator în
care sã-mi pot testa ideile.
Neil Leach

4
Joseph Rykwert, The Idea of a Town: The Anthropology of Urban Form in Rome, Italy
and the Ancient World, Cambridge, Ma: MIT Press, 1988.

8
 APARTENEN
APARTENENÞÞA 1

Arhitectura este întotdeauna legatã de problemele identitãþii culturale.

Altfel ce sens ar mai avea discursurile de genul Regionalismului Critic, dacã
n-ar presupune legãtura dintre identitatea culturalã ºi mediul construit?
Într-adevãr, faptul cã Regionalismul Critic contribuie într-un fel la
constituirea identitãþii culturale este subînþeles cel puþin într-unul dintre
titlurile capitolelor folosite de Kenneth Frampton: „Regionalismul Critic:
2
arhitectura modernã ºi identitatea culturalã” . Teoreticienii arhitecturii au
tratat însã rareori mai precis modul în care oamenii se identificã cu mediul
lor. În schimb, ei s-au preocupat aproape exclusiv de chestiunile legate de
formã, ca ºi cînd identitatea culturalã s-ar constitui exclusiv din formã.
E clar totuºi cã, dacã teoreticienii vor sã lege arhitectura de identitatea
culturalã, ei trebuie sã-ºi extindã analizele dincolo de discursurile exclusiv
referitoare la formã, pentru a implica ºi procesele subiective de identificare.
Acest aspect a fost acceptat de mult timp de teoreticienii culturii, care au
construit un mod sofisticat de a înþelege mecanismele cu care opereazã cultura.
Pentru aceºtia, cultura nu se constituie doar dintr-un sistem de obiecte, ci ºi
din discursul care insuflã acestor obiecte un sens. Identitatea culturalã apare
astfel ca un domeniu complex de operaþii, care interacþioneazã cu – dar nu
se limiteazã la – produse culturale precum arhitectura.

1
Termenul de „belonging” apare în acest eseu în contradicþie cu heideggerianul „dwelling”
(locuire). În traducerea titlului am evitat atributul „culturalã“, pentru cã am fi schimbat
sensul lui de generalitate (n.t.).
2
Kenneth Frampton, Modern Architecture: A Critical History, London: Thames and
Hudson, 1992.

9
 Probabil cã am putea înþelege importanþa considerãrii formei ca
fiind înscrisã în discursul cultural urmãrind noþiunea de naþiune ca
„naraþiune” – identitatea ca un fel de discurs – avansatã de teoreticianul
culturii Homi Bhabha. Pentru Bhabha, naþiunea se manifestã ca o
„prelucrare culturalã“. A percepe naþiunea în acest fel, în termeni
narativi, înseamnã a sublinia natura discursivã ºi controversatã a acestor
identitãþi: „A studia naþiunea în formula ei narativã nu numai cã atrage
atenþia asupra limbajului sau a retoricii sale, dar este ºi o încercare de
a schimba însuºi obiectul conceptual. Chiar dacã „închiderea”
discutabilã a textualitãþii pune sub semnul întrebãrii „totalizarea”
culturii naþionale, totuºi meritul ei constã în a expune larga desfãºurare
prin care construim cîmpul semnificaþiilor ºi simbolurilor asociate cu
3
viaþa naþionalã .
Bineînþeles cã ar fi o greºealã sã reducem naþiunea la o simplã
naraþiune, ca ºi cum forma ar fi total neglijabilã. Ar trebui sã
recunoaºtem mai degrabã naþiunea ca fiind definitã în cadrul unei
tensiuni dialectice. Pentru Bhabha, existã o tensiune între „obiect” ºi
naraþiunea care-l însoþeºte: „a semnifica poporul ca pe o prezenþã
istoricã aprioricã, un obiect pedagogic; [dar] ºi poporul construit în
cursul naraþiunii, în „prezentul” sãu enunþiativ, fãcut manifest prin
4
repetiþia ºi pulsaþia semnului naþional” . În consecinþã, dacã naþiunea
este un tip de naraþiune, ea nu este una abstractã, ci una contextualizatã,
în care sînt înscrise anumite obiecte. ªi exact aici, în cadrul acestui
cîmp de obiecte care au intrat în centrul atenþiei narative, trebuie sã
localizãm arhitectura, ca un limbaj al formelor ce nu numai cã e bine
ancorat în diverse discursuri culturale, dar ºi capãtã sens datoritã
acestora.
Aceastã observaþie ne apropie de conceptul lui Pierre Bourdieu de
habitus, ca sistem non-conºtient de stãri care derivã din capitalul eco-
nomic, cultural ºi simbolic al subiectului. Habitusul este pentru Bourdieu
3
Bhabha, ‘Introduction’ in Bhabha (ed.), Nation and Narration, London: Routledge,
1990, p. 3.
4
Bhabha, ‘DissemiNation’ in Bhabha (ed.), Nation and Narration, London: Routledge,
1990, pp. 298-299.

10
un domeniu dinamic de comportament, de luare de poziþie, unde indivizii
moºtenesc parametrii unei situaþii date ºi îi modificã, aducîndu-i într-o
nouã situaþie. Dupã cum explicã Derek Robbins „Habitusul fiecãrui
individ înscrie parametrii moºteniþi ai modificãrii, ai adaptãrii de la o
5
situaþie la alta, asigurînd astfel moºtenirea pentru o nouã situaþie” . O
asemenea abordare presupune o interacþiune între comportamentul so-
cial ºi o condiþie obiectivatã datã. Tocmai în acest punct am putea localiza
poziþia arhitecturii în discursul lui Bourdieu.
Arhitectura, în termenii lui Bourdieu, poate fi înþeleasã ca un tip
de „capital cultural obiectivat”. Valoarea sa se aflã în stare latentã ºi
are un potenþial permanent, însã ea trebuie reactivatã prin practici
sociale, care astfel o vor „revitaliza”. În acest sens, arhitectura aparþine
aceleiaºi categorii ca ºi alte obiecte culturale: „Deºi am putea crede
cã obiectele – cum ar fi cãrþile sau fotografiile – sînt depozite de
capital cultural obiectivat, ele nu au valoare decît dacã sînt activate
strategic în prezent de cãtre aceia care cautã sã modifice capitalul lor
cultural încorporat. Toate acele obiecte înzestrate cu valoare culturalã
sînt în continuare în stare latentã, aºteptînd sã fie readuse la viaþã,
aºteptînd ca vechea lor valoare sã fie folositã pentru a fixa o nouã
6
valoare, într-o nouã situaþie de piaþã“. Cu alte cuvinte, ceea ce
subliniazã Bourdieu este nevoia de praxis pentru a „debloca” sensul
unui obiect. Într-un fel, aceasta se apropie de modelul wittgensteinian
al limbii, în care sensul este definit prin folosinþã. Aºa cum cuvintele
pot fi înþelese prin modul în care sînt folosite, tot aºa clãdirile pot fi
înþelese prin modul în care sînt percepute – prin naraþiunile de
folosinþã cãrora le aparþin.
Acest lucru deschide o problemã crucialã în cadrul discursului
arhitecturii, care s-a fundamentat, tradiþional, aproape exclusiv pe
chestiuni de formã. De parcã naraþiunile comportamentului ºi utilizãrii
s-ar afla, în marea lor majoritate, în afara problemelor arhitecturii.

5
Derek Robbins, Bourdieu and Culture, London: Sage, 2000, p. 30.
6
Derek Robbins, Bourdieu and Culture, London: Sage, 2000, p. 35.

11
În acest caz, Regionalismul Critic, de exemplu, investind forma cu
semnificaþie, nu recunoaºte cum aceeaºi formã ia conotaþii diferite în
medii culturale diferite. Acelaºi bloc turn de beton – sã zicem cã este
vorba despre acelaºi, în New York, Hong Kong, America Latinã sau
Europa de Est – va apãrea efectiv diferit, dupã cum este altfel însuºit ºi
folosit în fiecare context. Mai mult, conform teoriei arhitecturii curente
nu existã un tipar valid de explorare a modului în care oamenii
raþionalizeazã spaþiul ºi se identificã cu acesta, în afarã de noþiunea
heideggerianã de „locuire”, aparent demodatã. Fãrã aceasta nu ne putem
ocupa, practic, de relaþia arhitecturii cu identitatea culturalã. Pentru ca
arhitectura sã fie înþeleasã în termeni de identitate culturalã, ar fi trebuit
sã se producã un gen de identificare cu arhitectura. Dar cum se produce,
practic, aceastã identificare?
Acest articol încearcã sã ofere un model ce ar putea ajuta la explicarea
acestui proces ºi care ar putea astfel depãºi una dintre problemele cruciale
ale unor teorii precum Regionalismul Critic, care se limiteazã la un discurs
al formei. Eu susþin cã un model extrem de sugestiv pentru înþelegerea
relaþiei dintre forma fizicã ºi identitatea culturalã – „apartenenþa” – poate
7
fi extras din lucrarea lui Judith Butler despre „performativitate” . Într-o
culturã a mobilitãþii în creºtere, este concluzia articolului, noþiunea de
„apartenenþã“ ne oferã o paradigmã mult mai flexibilã ºi versatilã pentru a
înþelege relaþia cu spaþiul, decît noþiunea de „locuire” a lui Heidegger,
oarecum staticã.

Butler ºi performativitatea
Judith Butler a construit o imagine a identitãþii care se bazeazã pe
noþiunea de „performativitate”. Este o abordare care îi permite sã perceapã
identitatea într-un mod mult mai fluid ºi mai dinamic decît se întîmplã în
abordãrile tradiþionale ale problemei. În plus, este o abordare care recunoaºte
politica de identitate ca pe un domeniu de creºtere a puterii individuale.

7
„Performativity”, termen inexistent în limba englezã, fiind inventat pentru a exprima
conceptual caracterul de acte performative, scenice (n.t.). Autorul speculeazã în jurul
ideii de act performativ (comportamental ºi scenic) ºi de performanþã.

12
 Butler este o teoreticianã a politicii de gen – mai exact, a politicii
legate de lesbianism. Problema ei este de a formula o noþiune a identitãþii
neîngrãditã de modelele heterosexuale tradiþionale ºi de a avansa o
criticã radicalã a modelelor de gîndire care recurg la esenþializare.
Conform autoarei, tocmai acþiunile ºi comportamentul nostru ne
constituie identitatea, nu corpurile noastre biologice. Genul, susþine
ea, nu este o condiþie ontologicã datã, ci se produce într-o manierã
„performativã“. Este „o construcþie care îºi ascunde geneza”, astfel cã
„înþelegerea colectivã tacitã de a trãi, produce ºi susþine genuri diferite
ºi polare ca ficþiuni culturale este eclipsatã de credibilitatea acelor
8
producþii” .
Ne-am putea recompune efectiv identitãþile ºi reinventa prin
intermediul actelor performative. Aici e important de notat cã identitatea
este efectul actului performativ, nu invers. Performativitatea îºi
împlineºte scopurile nu printr-un act singular – pentru cã perfor-
mativitatea nu poate fi redusã la actul performativ – ci prin repetarea
cumulativã a anumitor practici. Ea se fundamenteazã printr-o formã
de „citalitate” – invocare ºi replicã. Dupã cum explicã Judith Butler:
„Performantivitatea nu este un „act” singular, pentru cã este întotdeauna
o reiterare a unei norme sau a unui set de norme ºi, în condiþiile în care
dobîndeºte un statut ca act în prezent, ascunde ºi disimuleazã convenþiile
9
a cãror repetiþie este, de fapt.”
Butler priveºte identitatea nu ca pe ceva interior – un „dat”
esenþializant – ci, mai degrabã, ca pe ceva exterior, un efect discursiv
extern. Ea este creatã din „acte, gesturi ºi puneri în scenã“, care sînt
„performative”, dupã cum se exprimã Butler, „în sensul cã esenþa sau
identitatea pe care pretind cã o exprimã sînt de fapt falsificãri, fabricate
ºi susþinute prin semne corporale ºi alte mijloace discursive. Faptul cã
trupul sexuat este performativ înseamnã cã el nu are statut ontologic în
afara variatelor acte care îi constituie realitatea. Aceasta mai înseamnã

8
Judith Butler, Gender Trouble, London: Routledge, 1990, p. 140, citat în Vikki Bell
(ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 136.
9
Butler, Bodies that Matter, London: Routledge, 1993, p. 12.

13
cã, dacã acea realitate este construitã ca esenþã interioarã, tocmai acea
interioritate este efect ºi funcþie a unui discurs categoric public ºi
social, al reglãrii publice a fanteziei prin politica de suprafaþã a corpului,
al controlului de graniþã dintre genuri, care diferenþiazã interiorul de
10
exterior ºi instituie „integritatea subiectului” . Chiar mai important,
acestea se leagã nu doar de sexualitatea lesbianã, ci de toate tipurile de
sexualitate, astfel cã heterosexualitatea însãºi apare ca o fabricaþie
transmisã social, care depinde de o normã de comportament „exprimatã
direct”.
Aici încep sã aparã conexiunile între gen ºi „mimã“. Dupã cum se
pare, întregul discurs al lui Butler presupune mima în general ºi mimeticul
în special. Întregul comportament se bazeazã pe un gen de mimare,
inclusiv comportamentul heterosexual, care este de altfel „naturalizat”
ºi concretizat prin forþa repetiþiei: „Toate chestiunile legate de gen sînt
un fel de impersonare ºi aproximare... efectele naturale ale genurilor
heterosexualizate sînt produse prin strategii imitative; ceea ce imitã ele
este un ideal fantasmatic al identitãþii heterosexuale, care este produs de
11
cãtre imitaþie ca efect al sãu.”

10
Butler, Gender Trouble, London: Routledge, 1990, p. 136, citînd din Vikki Bell (ed.),
Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 136.
11
Butler, ‘Imitation and Gender Insubordination’, în D Fuss (ed.), Inside/Out: Lesbian
and Gay Theories, New York: Routledge, 1991, citînd din Bell, p. 137. Aici se
realizeazã o paralelã cu folosirea mimesis-ului la Irigaray în constituirea identitãþii
de gen: „A te juca astfel cu mimesis-ul este, pentru o femeie, a încerca sã recuperezi
locul exploatãrii ei prin discurs, fãrã a o reduce, pur ºi simplu, la acesta din urmã.
Înseamnã sã o înscrii în cadrul ideilor, în special al ideilor despre ea, care sînt elabo-
rate în sau printr-o logicã masculinã, dar în aºa fel încît sã facã «vizibil» printr-un
efect de repetiþie, ceea ce trebuia sã rãmînã invizibil: acoperirea unei posibile operaþii
a femininului în limbaj.” [Luce Irigaray, This Sex Which is not One, trad. C Porter
and C Burke, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985, p. 76.] Pentru Irigaray,
mimesis-ul funcþioneazã din plin în limbajul feminin ºi oferã un mijloc de a rezista
unei logici masculine, dominante, în timp ce pentru Butler, mimesis-ul explicã
modalitatea prin care se constituie orice fel de gen. Dupã cum observã Bell: „Pentru
Irigaray, mimesis-ul este strategie – una care se reveleazã prin repetiþia de idei despre
femei – ºi nu act constitutiv, ca la Butler”. [Bell, p. 139.]

14
 Practicile culturale sînt guvernate de hegemonic. Ele concretizeazã
o anumitã ordine ºi încurajeazã acceptarea aceastei ordini. Ele sînt
rãspîndite printr-o dorinþã de conformare. Este ceva evident în special în
cazul practicilor de gen. Practica normativã de gen este controlatã prin
logica camuflajului. A subscrie la norma culturalã dominantã înseamnã
a evita conflictul ºi a urma sistemele comportamentale ale unei ordini
hegemonice, naturalizate. Putem înþelege genul ca praxis cultural
„eficient”, ca pe un camuflaj.
Genul, în acest sens, se apropie de noþiunea de obstacol. Este o
poziþie „presupusã“ ºi exploatatã în cadrul logicii conformãrii la o normã
acceptatã. Prin aceastã abordare, Butler detroneazã autoritatea tradiþionalã
a heterosexualitãþii: „A pretinde cã genul este ca un obstacol, sau chiar
obstacol, echivaleazã cu a sugera cã «imitaþia» stã în centrul proiectului
heterosexual ºi al binarismelor sale de gen, cã obstacolul nu este o imitaþie
secundarã, care presupune un gen anterior ºi original, ci cã
heterosexualitatea hegemonicã este un efort constant ºi repetat de a-þi
12
imita propriile idealizãri.”
Butler este preocupatã sã lanseze provocãri hegemoniei datului.
Nimic nu este autentic în sine. Totul devine autorizat prin repetiþie.
O anumitã normã începe sã se concretizeze prin chiar propria repetiþie.
Este însã important sã se accepte cã orice normã poate fi destabilizatã.
Tocmai natura normativã a ideilor primite de-a gata despre gen este ceea
ce Butler încearcã sã submineze. Pentru Butler, genul nu ar trebui vãzut
ca o stare datã, ci ca o condiþie a „devenirii”. Urmîndu-l pe Deleuze, ea
o priveºte ca pe o condiþie rizomaticã, adicã un proces actativ: „Dacã

12
Aceasta duce la un anumit grad de pesimism în opera lui Butler. Dupa cum argumenteazã
Vikki Bell : „Tipul de mimare la care apeleazã Butler în opera sa este unul care
poartã cu sine un sentiment de tristeþe, de frãmîntare (posibilitatea de a fi altfel) ºi de
resemnare de a «continua» sub tensiune. Aici nu avem de-a face cu o repetiþie ludicã.
Performanþa de gen este privitã ca o strategie de supravieþuire, formatã în cadrul
unei matrici heterosexuale care, deºi nu obligatorie, este hegemonicã, astfel încît
structurile psihice deservite sînt analoage cu melancolia, în care obiectul pierdut
este încorporat vieþii psihice, ca parte a eului, obiect ambivalent, iubit ºi urît în aceeaºi
mãsurã“ Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 140.

15
gen înseamnã ceea ce devine o anumitã persoanã – dar nu poate niciodatã
sã fie – atunci genul însuºi este un fel de devenire sau activitate, ºi mai
înseamnã cã nu ar fi cazul sã considerãm genul ca substantiv sau o
substanþã sau un semn cultural static, ci ca pe o acþiune continuã ºi
13
repetatã.”
Discursul lui Butler este practic o extensie la dezbaterea lui Pierre
Bourdieu despre habitus ca domeniu dinamic al comportamentului,
al luãrii de poziþie prin care indivizii moºtenesc parametrii unei
14
situaþii date ºi îi modificã într-una nouã. Dar ceea ce aduce Butler
în aceastã dezbatere este posibilitatea acþiunii politice ºi a subminãrii
normelor primite. Tocmai prin natura sa citaþional repetitivã,
performativitatea are puterea de a pune în discuþie ºi de a submina
ceea ce citeazã. Dar pe cînd Bourdieu subliniazã formarea
subiectului prin culturã, Butler vede structurile sociale ca fiind ele
însele „performate”. Performativitatea oferã deci un mod evident de
a pune sub semnul întrebãrii asemenea structuri. Imitaþia stã la baza
tuturor practicilor culturale. Este ceea ce le consolideazã, dar în acelaºi
timp le ºi destabilizeazã.
Aceasta este o re-evaluare radicalã a mecanismelor practicii culturale
care are ramificaþii pentru fiecare aspect al vieþii culturale. Fãrã a înghesui
sexualitatea, rasa, clasa ºi etnicitatea în aceeaºi categorie, toate tipurile
de identitate pot fi interpretate ca fiind dependente de fabricaþiile
15
performative. În timp ce fiecare opereazã în cadrul propriilor paradigme
individuale, tiparul general rãmîne asemãnãtor. Fiecare depinde de
performativ, fiecare are caracter citaþional ºi fiecare este „eficient”. Asta

13
Butler, Bodies that Matter, p. 125.
14
Dupã Derek Robbins: „Habitusul fiecãrui individ cuprinde caracterele moºtenite ale
modificãrii, ale adaptãrii de la situaþie la poziþie, ceea ce asigurã autenticitatea unei
noi situaþii”. Derek Robbins, Bourdieu and Culture, London: Sage, 2000, p. 30.
15
Bell pune în discuþie posibilitatea înþelegerii evreilor în aceastã luminã, în Vikki Bell
(ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999. Vezi ºi Sneja Gunew,
‘Performing Australian Ethnicity: „Helen Demidenko”, în W. Ommundsen and H.
Rowley (eds.) From a Distance: Australian Writers and Cultural Displacement,
Geelong: Deakin University Press, 1996, pp. 159-171.

16
nu înseamnã sã neglijãm semnificaþia caracteristicilor fizice, ci mai
degrabã sã punem la îndoialã faptul cã aceste caracteristici ar fi singurele
determinante ale identitãþii.
Conform acestui punct de vedere, construcþia identitãþii prin
performativitate trece dincolo de chestiunile de aparenþã, ajungînd pînã
la modurile de comportament ºi tipurile de percepþie ºi exprimare. În
discuþia despre rasã, de exemplu, trebuie sã luãm în considerare cum
ar opera procesul de catalogare sau de a fi catalogat în funcþie de rasã.
Pentru cã performativitatea opereazã ºi în cadrul tipurilor de percepere,
ca de exemplu „contemplarea”, care, am putea spune, „coloreazã“ ºi
încadreazã perspectiva noastrã asupra vieþii, dar – ºi mai important – o
constituie. A fi „negru” însemnã a contempla lumea cu o privire
16
„neagrã“. Ceea ce se aplicã în cazul contemplãrii se aplicã ºi la
celelalte tipuri de percepþie sau exprimare.
Butler plaseazã performativitatea în centrul identitãþii culturale de
astãzi. Într-o erã din ce în ce mai populatã de „lumi ficþionale”, dupã
cum observa Marc Augé, în care fantezia permite identitãþilor sã fie
asumate sau respinse ca ºi accesoriile de modã, ºi unde realizarea de
sine se conformeazã adesea modelelor hollywoodiene, conceptul oferã
o alternativã mai productivã la înþelegerea tradiþionalã a construirii
17
sinelui . Întreaga noþiune de identitate, ca ºi condiþie fixã ºi stabilã, meritã
sã fie reexaminatã într-o erã a tematizãrii, a jucãrii de roluri ºi a politicii
identitare, în care identitãþile trebuie percepute la plural, ca tipuri multiple ºi
16
Butler însãºi s-a ocupat de aceastã problemã: „Consider cã existã o performativitate în
privire, care nu reprezintã pur ºi simplu transpunerea unui model textual într-unul
vizual; atunci cînd ne uitãm la Rodney King, cînd privim înregistrarea video, citim ºi
construim în acelaºi timp, iar lectura reprezintã o anumitã invocare ºi o anumitã
construcþie. Cum putem explica asta? Se pare cã este vorba de un tip de preformativitate,
de radicalizare, de faptul cã tipul de experienþã de lecturã vizualã implicatã în
vizualizarea înregistrãrii video este parte din ceea ce aº înþelege ca performativitate a
ceea ce înseamnã «a urmãri ceva sau a fi urmãrit» de acesta. Deci presupun cã sînt
interesatã de tipurile de performativitate care depãºesc semnificaþia sa pur textualã.“
[Judith Butler (intervievatã de Vikki Bell), „On Speech, Race, and Melancholia”, în
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, p.169]
17
Marc Augé, A War of Dreams, trad. Liz Heron, London: Pluto, 1999.

17
adeseori aparent contradictorii de expresie personalã. Ceea ce nu e neapãrat
rãu. Asemenea tactici pot fi considerate ca un mecanism defensiv ce
permite individului sã „supravieþuiascã“ în condiþiile culturale
contemporane. Într-adevãr, dupã cum susþine Sherry Turkle, în contextul
proliferãrii „identitãþilor-ecran”, ca rezultat al folosirii din ce în ce mai
rãspîndite a computerului, sindromul personalitãþii multiple poate fi privit
mai puþin ca boala unei epoci a instabilitãþii ºi a lipsei de profunzime ºi
mai mult ca o strategie de supravieþuire – un gen de camuflaj cultural –
care permite indivizilor sã acþioneze eficient într-o lume diversã ºi cu
18
faþete multiple.

Politica ºi spaþiul
Accentul pus de Butler pe performativitate nu submineazã valoarea
fundamentalã a formei. Acesta este chiar mesajul principal din influenta
19
sa lucrare Bodies that Matter. Aici este vorba despre o filosofie în
primul rînd corporalã a identitãþii. Totuºi, textul lui Butler este în acelaºi
timp ºi un contra-argument la o anumitã teorie pozitivistã a formei,
care e încã rãspînditã. Substanþa – în temenii lui Butler – nu existã în
afara discursului. Dupã cum observã Mariam Fraser, urmînd-o pe But-
ler: „Substanþa nu «existã» în sine ºi prin sine, în afarã sau dincolo de
discurs, ci ea este mai degrabã produsã în mod repetat prin
perfomativitate, care «creeazã sau întruchipeazã ceea ce de-
20
semneaz㻓.
Aceasta are implicaþii evidente pentru orice discurs legat de gen sau
de spaþiu. Comentariile incisive ale lui Butler pe tema genului – identitatea
de gen ca fiind definitã nu în termeni biologici, ci în termeni performativi,
ca identitate ce este „pusã în scenã” – pot fi foarte bine transpuse în
domeniul spaþiului fizic. Din moment ce identitatea este jucatã ca o
reprezentaþie, spaþiul în care are loc aceastã performativitate poate fi privit

18
Sherry Turkle, Life on the Screen, New York: Simon and Schuster, 1995.
19
Butler, Bodies that Matter, London: Routledge, 1993.
20
Fraser, ‘Classing Queer’ in Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London:
Sage, 1999, p. 111.

18
ca o scenã. Dupã un anumit numãr de „reprezentaþii”, aceastã scenã nu va
mai pãrea neutrã. Va fi impregnatã cu asocieri ale activitãþilor care au avut
loc acolo, pentru cei care au fost martori ai acestor activitãþi. Dacã identitatea
este o fabricaþie performativã – dacã este jucatã ca un fel de „scenariu” –
atunci arhitectura ar putea fi înþeleasã ca un gen de „scenografie”. Prin
chiar calitatea sa de „scenografie”, ea îºi extrage sensul din activitãþile
care au avut loc în ea. Amintirile activitãþilor asociate bîntuie spaþiul fizic
ca o fantomã.
Tocmai aici gîndirea lui Butler poate fi aplicatã ca un mod de a
ieºi din confuzia care existã în legãturã cu legarea spaþiului de gen.
Prea des am avut de-a face cu o comprimare simplistã a unei ideologii
politice anumite într-o formã anumitã, ca ºi cum ideologia politicã ar
putea fi asimilatã cu o ideologie esteticã. Asta e valabil atît pentru
politica în general, cît ºi pentru politca de gen în special. Conform
acestei logici, anumite forme ar fi în sine ºi prin sine impregnate cu un
anumit conþinut. S-ar putea întîlni anumite forme „democratice”, tot
aºa cum ar exista forme „feminine”. Fredric Jameson a încercat sã
atace tocmai acest tip de gîndire. Pentru Jameson, forma este în mod
esenþial „inertã“ ºi oricare ar fi conþinutul atribuit ei, caracterul e
21
„alegoric”. Nici o formã nu are un conþinut intrinsec sau potenþial
politic. Chiar dacã ar mai putea exista totuºi anumite forme care sã
slujeascã mai degrabã unor scopuri democratice decît altora totalitare,
ºi – de asemenea – anumite forme care întruchipeazã o sensibilitate
femininã, este cu siguranþã greºit sã atribui anumite activitãþi unor forme
anumite, ca ºi cînd aceste activitãþi ar fi o consecinþã a acelor forme.

21
„Am început sã cred cã nici o opera de artã sau culturalã nu poate fi politicã o datã
pentru totdeauna, indiferent cît de ostentativ se auto-eticheteazã, pentru cã nu va
exista niciodatã garanþia cã va fi folositã în felul în care ea cere. O operã de artã
politicã deosebitã (Brecht) poate fi luatã ca o formã de artã purã ºi apoliticã; arta
care doreºte sã fie doar esteticã ºi decorativã poate fi rescrisã ca politicã datoritã
unei interpretãri energice. Rescrierea sau însuºirea politicã ºi, deci, utilitatea politicã,
trebuie sã fie alegoricã; trebuie sã ºtii cã asta este ceea ce ar trebui sã fie sau sã
însemne – în sine este inertã“. [Jameson, ‘Is Space Political?’, in Neil Leach (ed.),
Rethinking Architecture, London: Routledge, 1997, pp. 258-59.]

19
 Ceea ce pare sã implice logica lui Butler este faptul cã spaþiilor
particulare le este conferit sens prin intermediul practicilor care au loc
acolo. Împãrþirea în funcþie de gen a spaþiului, cu alte cuvinte, depinde
mai mult de performativitãþile care se articuleazã în acest spaþiu decît de
forma în sine. Unui spaþiu i se poate conferi gen numai prin asociere.
Anumite asocieri sînt „proiectate” în aceste spaþii, dar acele asocieri sînt
definite nu de cãtre proprietãþile materiale ale acelor spaþii, ci de
activitãþile care au loc acolo. Mai mult, ele depind de pãstrarea vie a
amintirii acelor asocieri. În acest sens, un spaþiu folosit pentru anumite
activitãþi va dobîndi un anume caracter cu timpul, dar pe mãsurã ce apar
noi activitãþi – ºi amintirile activitãþilor anterioare se estompeazã – spaþiul
va dobîndi un caracter diferit. Un spaþiu „masculin” poate deveni
„feminin”. Un spaþiu „fascist” poate fi transformat într-unul „democratic”.
ªi, prin extensie, un spaþiu „colonial” poate fi transformat într-un spaþiu
„post-colonial”. Adesea aceste procese sînt încãrcate cu un sens de
reînsuºire strategicã ºi sînt plasate în calea amintirii asocierilor anterioare.
Alteori, aceste procese ar putea fi facilitate de condiþiile amneziei sau
ale reprimãrii memoriei, factori care elibereazã spaþiul de asocieri
anterioare.

Identificarea cu locul
Formei fizice îi pot fi atribuite elemente simbolice. Aceasta deschide
posibilitatea unui discurs despre performativitate ºi „apartenenþã“, unde
„apartenenþa” ar putea fi perceputã ca o identificare cu un anumit loc –
22
dupã cum aratã Vikki Bell. Se sugereazã un mod prin care comunitãþile
ar putea coloniza diverse teritorii prin „reprezentaþii” efective – acþiuni,
comportament ritualic ºi aºa mai departe – care sînt desfãºurate în cadrul
unei scene arhitecturale anumite, prin aceste reprezentaþii ajungîndu-se
la un anumit ataºament faþã de loc.
Toate acestea se bazeazã pe ideea cã, aºa cum comunitãþile sînt
comunitãþi „imaginate”, tot aºa ºi spaþiul acestor comunitãþi – teritoriile
pe care ºi le revendicã – sînt de asemenea „imaginate”. Dupã cum noteazã
22
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999.

20
Anne-Marie Fortier: „A imagina o comunitate presupune atît ceea ce
este creat ca istorie, experienþã sau culturã comunã a unui grup –
posesiunile unui grup – cît ºi modul în care comunitatea imaginatã este
23
ataºatã de locuri – amplasarea culturii.” Fortier a studiat modul în care,
prin repetiþia ritualizatã a actelor simbolice, adesea îndeplinite în cadrul
unui context religios ºi în spaþii specific arhitecturale, aceste comunitãþi
24
„imaginate” pot „materializa posesiunile pe care pretind cã le descriu.”

23
Anne-Marie Fortier, ‘Re-membering Places and the Performance of Belonging(s)’, în
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 42.
24
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 3. Studiul lui
Fortier prezintã o anumitã comunitate de emigranþi italieni din Londra ale cãror
reprezentãri ritualice, adesea legate de anumite sãrbãtori religioase, revendicau un
tip de apartenenþã spaþialã la comunitatea de emigranþi – în special italieni, dar ºi la
aceea esenþial britanicã“. Studiul a fost întocmit pe o comunitate legatã de o anume
bisericã – Sf. Petru – cu ritualurile ºi formele sale de exprimare culturalã. Studiul
autoarei se întemeiazã, în mare parte, pe ideile lui Butler. Dupã cum spune Fortier:
„Cum stãteam în strane, mi se pãrea cã mã uitam la o reluare a unei pãrþi dintr-o
identitate în formare: «repetiþia stilizatã a actelor» a atins un anumit simþãmînt adînc
implantat al identitãþii care se sedimentase în corpul meu. Ritualurile, în schimb,
cultivau un simþãmânt al apartenenþei. Acest scurt episod m-a fãcut sã realizez mãsura
în care conceptul de identitate culturalã este reprezentat ºi modul în care amintirile
sînt încorporate, ambele ca rezultate ale acþiunilor recurente. ªi cum acestea sînt, pe
rînd, trãite ca expresii ale unui profund simþãmînt al identitãþii ºi apartenenþei.”
[Anne-Marie Fortier, ‘Re-membering Places and the Performance of Belonging(s)’,
in Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 48.].
Fortier trage urmãtoarea concluzie: „Sf. Petru e un loc al re-memorãrii. Este un loc
al memoriei colective în care elemente ale trecutului sînt legate pentru a modela un
corp comun al apartenenþei. Este un loc unde vieþile individuale, prezente ºi trecute,
sînt chemate sã locuiascã spaþiul prezent, sã-l populeze. În fine, este vorba despe un
loc unde oamenii circulã, unde vin ºi pleacã; unde corpurile umane se desemneazã
ca actori care pretind ºi exercitã identitatea bisericii Sf. Petru ºi a acelei « Mici
Italii » de altã datã. Aceste corpuri, drept rãspuns, sînt proiectate într-o structurã
de sens care le precedã ºi le re-aminteºte definiþiile legate de gen ale identitãþii ºi
devenirii. Re-memorarea «Colinei» acþioneazã prin intermediul corpurilor care sînt
etnicizate ºi distribuite pe genuri imediat, în timp ce circulaþia acestor corpuri
marcheazã etnic ºi ca gen un spaþiu cu pretenþia de a fi un teren italian al apartenenþei/
apartenenþelor [Anne-Marie Fortier, ‘Re-membering Places and the Performance of
Belonging(s)’, in Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage,
1999, p. 59.]

21
 Esenþial pentru acest sens al apartenenþei este principiul repetiþiei
ritualice. Acesta poate fi înþeles în logica teoriei psihanalitice care considerã
repetiþia ca un mod de a mima ºi de a controla în acest fel trauma. La fel ca
ºi copilul din celebrul exemplu al lui Freud, care încearcã sã-ºi depãºeascã
anxietatea cauzatã de faptul cã a fost abandonat de mamã jucînd actul de
plecare ºi reîntoarcere prin diverse jocuri de „pierdere” ºi „recuperare”,
tot aºa, repetiþia anumitor practici spaþiale reprezintã un mod de a depãºi
alienarea spaþiului abstract, cît ºi un mod de a înscrie sinele în mediu.
Repetiþia duce la o normalizare urmatã de familiarizare. Cînd este sãvîrºitã
într-un context particular, ar putea duce la un sens asociativ al apartenenþei
care materializeazã practic acest proces de identificare. „Repetiþia”, noteazã
Bell, „uneori repetiþia ritualicã, a acestor coduri normalizate materializeazã
25
posesiunile pe care ele pretind doar cã le descriu.”
Ceea ce se întîmplã în acest caz prin intermediul acestor practici
spaþiale stilizate este faptul cã aceste spaþii sînt „demarcate” de anumite
grupuri prin intermediul unui gen de luare în posesie a spaþiului. Este
un proces visceral de identificare care depinde de amintiri corporale.
Prin repetiþia acelor ritualuri, aceste spaþii sînt re-memorate, astfel încît
aceia care participã se reînscriu în spaþiu, re-evocînd amintiri corporale
ale punerilor în scenã anterioare. Spaþiul devine un spaþiu al proiecþiilor,
pe mãsurã ce amintirile experienþelor anterioare sînt „proiectate” în
forma materialã a spaþiului. În acelaºi timp, corpul devine locul
întrupãrii inconºtiente a ideilor în calitatea sa de suprafaþã ce
înregistreazã acele experienþe spaþiale anterioare. Ca rezultat combinat
al repetãrii ºi întãririi acestor douã seturi de experienþe – întrupare ºi
proiecþie – de-a lungul timpului, se dobîndeºte un gen de oglindire ºi
deci de identificare. Identificarea e întotdeauna oglinditã, fiind mereu
o chestiune de recunoaºtere a sinelui în celãlalt. Ritualurile sînt
naturalizate prin intermediul acestor acte de memorie corporalã ºi
spaþiile în care sînt îndeplinite devin spaþii de apartenenþã pentru cei
implicaþi. Aceste spaþii sînt „însuºite” prin aceste ritualuri ºi devin locuri
comune de inserþie. Dupã cum noteazã Fortier: „Posesiunile se referã

25
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 3.

22
atît la «posedãri» cît ºi la apartenenþã. Adicã, practicile identitãþii de
grup se referã la crearea posesiunilor culturale ºi istorice, care definesc
domeniile de trãsãturi comune, ce determinã apoi politica ºi dinamica
26
socialã a „adaptãrii”.
Ceea ce este mai sugestiv în conceptul de „apartenenþã“ ca produs
al performativitãþii este faptul cã ne permite sã trecem dincolo de
limitãrile simplei naraþiuni. El depãºeºte ideile lui Michel de Certeau
de „narativizare” a oraºului prin tactici spaþiale care se acumuleazã în
tipuri de „colocaþii pietonale”, ca mod de a „înþelege” oraºul ºi de a
sugera un mecanism de identificare. De Certeau, în fond, deºi susþine
o teorie a depãºirii alienãrii, nu articuleazã o teorie coerentã a
identificãrii. Este de asemenea favorizatã nu atît citirea mediului, ca ºi
cînd semnificaþia acestuia ar fi acolo pur ºi simplu, gata de a fi descifratã,
cît mai degrabã oferirea unui sens mediului, prin comportamentul in-
dividual sau colectiv. „Apartenenþa” la loc poate fi de acum înþeleasã
ca aspect al teritorializãrii ºi tocmai din aceastã „apartenenþã“ se poate
crea un simþ al identitãþii.
Avantajul aplicãrii performativitãþii la problema locului stã în faptul
cã acesta din urmã rezistã noþiunilor mai statice de „locuire”, care reies
din discursul heideggerian, ce nu mai pare în largul lui într-o societate a
miºcãrii ºi cãlãtoriei. Omogenizarea crescîndã a spaþiului în cadrul unei
lumi a capitalului global a dus într-adevãr la predominanþa „non-spaþiului”
– dupã termenul inventat de Marc Augé. Dar asta nu ar trebui sã ne conducã
înapoi, la vechi modele de „locuire” ca mod de a rezista acestei condiþii,
ca ºi cînd modelele formulate în trecut ar fi neapãrat relevante în prezent.
Mai degrabã ne încurajeazã sã formulãm noi paradigme pentru a înþelege
ataºamentul faþã de spaþiu, în concordanþã cu tipurile contemporane de
existenþã.
Într-adevãr, s-ar putea chiar susþine cã noile tipuri de ataºament reprezintã
un rezultat direct al unei culturi cosmopolite a „non-spaþiilor”, unde spaþiul
ºi non-spaþiul sînt blocate într-o dialecticã a presupoziþiilor reciproce.
26
Anne-Marie Fortier, ‘Re-membering Places and the Performance of Belonging(s)’, in
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 42.

23
Aºa cum globalizarea duce la regionalizare – sau chiar la manifestarea
27
hibridã a „glocalizãrii” – tot aºa, lipsa de loc încurajeazã automat un
ataºament faþã de loc, iar diluarea graniþelor spaþiale duce la o creºtere
28
corespunzãtoare a conºtientizãrii acelor graniþe. Aceastã nouã condiþie
ar trebui aºadar vãzutã ca o consecinþã – ºi nu ca o opoziþie – a lipsei
omogenizatoare de loc a capitalismului global. Orice formulare teoreticã
a noilor tipuri de ataºament trebuie sã se adreseze mecanismelor
capitalismului tîrziu însuºi – cîmp de operaþii tranzitoriu, provizoriu ºi
totdeauna renegociabil – ºi nu sã cadã în capcana vechilor modele for-
mulate în condiþii culturale diferite.
La fel, acest mod de a înþelege „apartenenþa” ar trebui înscris în cadrul
unui context al „non-apartenenþei”. Noþiunea de „apartenenþã“ în sine
conþine o anumitã idee de înstrãinare iniþialã. Posibilitatea creãrii unui
29
ataºament urmeazã cu necesitate chiar actului de detaºare. În concluzie,
am putea concepe „apartenenþa” ca formã de ataºament faþã de spaþiu,
care opereazã ca o formaþiune de tip gestalt, ca o relaþie între sine ºi mediu
de tip „figurã-fond”. Depinde de o anume diferenþiere a sinelui faþã de
mediu, însã chiar acea diferenþiere presupune un simþ reciproc al
ataºamentului. Dar ºi acel simþ al ataºamentului presupune în aceeaºi
mãsurã un simþ al diferenþierii.

27
Concept care telescopeazã termenul de „globalization” (globalizare) ºi „localisation”
(localizare) (n.t).
28
Aceasta este în perspectiva gîndirii lui Foucault, conform cãreia încãlcarea limitei nu
o contestã, ci mai degrabã o ilumineazã în „fulgerul trecerii”. A se vedea Foucault.
‘Preface to Transgression’ in Donald Bouchard (ed.), Language, Counter-Memory,
Practice, Donald Bouchard and Sherry Simon (trans.), Ithaca, New York: Cornell
University Press, 1977, pp. 33-4.
29
Aceasta rezoneazã în parte cu discursul despre identitate care reiese din descrierea lui
Lacan a Stadiului Oglinzii. În mod semnificativ, Lacan se referã la eseul timpuriu al
lui Caillois despre „Mimicã ºi psihastenie legendarã“. Grija lui Caillois nu se îndreaptã
cãtre identificare, ci spre oroarea non-diferenþierii între sine ºi mediu. Condiþia este
problematicã fiindcã identitatea depinde de abilitatea unui organism de a se distinge
de împrejurimile sale. Jacques Lacan, ‘The Mirror Stage’ in Anthony Easthope
(ed.), Contemporary Film Theory, London: Longman, 1993, p. 35; Roger Caillois,
‘Mimicry and Legendary Psychasthenia’, October, 84, pp. 16-32, reprinted in
October, the First Decade, 1976-86, pp. 58-74.

24
 Ceea ce se propune aici prin intermediul modelului „apartenenþei”
derivat din gîndirea lui Butler nu este un discurs cu „rãdãcini” fixe, ci
mai degrabã un discurs tranzitoriu ºi fluid al teritorializãrii – în sens
deleuzian – care pune la dispoziþie un model complex, mereu
renegociabil, al „apartenenþelor” spaþiale. Modelul este în esenþã unul
rizomatic, al teritorializãrilor ºi al deteritorializãrilor nomade. Pentru
cã teritorializarea aparþine aceleiaºi logici ca ºi deteritorializarea. ªi
acest lucru se întîmplã tocmai datoritã naturii „de-teritorializate” a unei
mari pãrþi din existenþa contemporanã, al cãrei simþ de „teritorializare”
trebuie uneori creat. Chiar aceastã „teritorializare” presupune în mod
necesar o formã corespunzãtoare de „deteritorializare”. Ceea ce
descoperim apoi este faptul cã provizoratul unor asemenea teritorializãri
se conjugã cu efemeritatea oricãrei idei de apartenenþã. Aºa cum
teritorializãrile se schimbã mereu, tot aºa identificãrile rãmîn pasagere
ºi tranzitorii, lãsînd în urmã semne ale trecerii. În acest sens
„apartenenþa” se apropie de simþul rizomatic al „devenirii”, aºa cum îl
prezintã Deleuze ºi Guattari în sugestiva descriere a interacþiunii dintre
viespe ºi orhidee, unde viespea „devine” una cu orhideea, tot aºa cum
30
orhideea „devine” una cu viespea. La fel ca „devenirea”, „apartenenþa”
rãmîne un proces actativ, ºi nu o stare datã. Dupã cum comenteazã
Bell: „Rizomul repezintã o analogie importantã aici, transmiþînd o
imagine de miºcare ce se poate opri pentru un timp în noi locuri,
31
menþinînd, în acelaºi timp, conexiuni în derulare altundeva.”
Este clar cã în contextul studiilor post-coloniale, teoreticienii de
arhitecturã pot profita din legãtura cu teoriile identitãþii culturale ce apar
în lucrãrile lui Homi Bhabha ºi Judith Butler. Nu numai cã acest lucru va
elibera discuþia din capcana unui discurs legat de formã, apelînd la
discursuri sofisticate din afara disciplinei arhitecturii, dar va introduce
în acelaºi timp moduri noi ºi mai subtile de a înþelege ataºamentul faþã
de loc. Din aceastã perspectivã, opera lui Butler despre „performativitate”
ºi noþiunea rezultatã de „apartenenþã“ sînt deosebit de fertile.

30
Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, London: Athlone, 1988,
p. 10 and passim.
31
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 9.

25
 Am putea spune, la fel de bine, cã acest concept al „apartenenþei” –
un model mereu provizoriu ºi rizomatic al ataºamentului faþã de loc – ne
oferã o paradigmã viabilã pentru a înlocui modelul oarecum demodat al
„locuirii”, care domina odinioarã discursul arhitectural. Pentru cã aºa
cum identitatea în sine nu mai este astãzi o condiþie fixã, ci un domeniu
permanent re-negociabil al exprimãrii individuale, tot aºa „apartenenþa”
ne oferã un concept la fel de flexibil care poate exprima mai bine natura
tranzitorie a existenþei contemporane. Într-un perimetru ale cãrui figuri
paradigmatice includ „hoinarul”, „emigrantul”, „refugiatul” ºi „exilatul”,
noþiunea de „apartenenþã“ oferã un cadru mult mai sugestiv pentru
înþelegerea modurilor actuale de identificare cu spaþiul.

26
 UITA
UITAÞÞI DE HEIDEGGER

Introducere
Imaginaþi-vã urmãtorul scenariu poate prea familiar. Intri într-o
camerã de hotel, eventual una uºor mizerabilã. Pereþii sînt puþin murdari;
vopseaua se decojeºte de pe mobilã, iar în camerã pluteºte un miros de
mucegai. La început, ai un sentiment de înstrãinare. Camera îþi e
nefamiliarã. Nu te simþi în largul tãu. Totuºi, îþi despachetezi bagajele.
Îþi pui trusa de toaletã în baie ºi-þi atîrni hainele în dulap. Pe mãsurã ce
aºezi aceste obiecte personale, camera þi se pare a fi mai puþin strãinã.
Dar lucrul cel mai ciudat este cã, dupã una sau douã nopþi petrecute
acolo, pare tot mai puþin strãinã, pînã cînd ajungi sã te simþi ca acasã.
ªi poate chiar te ataºezi de ea, cu mobila ei ºubredã ºi cu mirosul de
mucegai cu tot. Începi sã te simþi confortabil, ºi aproape cã nu mai vrei
sã pleci. Cumva – aproape imperceptibil – s-a produs o schimbare. Ceea
ce odatã pãrea sumbru ºi strãin, acum apare apropiat ºi agreabil.
Este un fenomen cu care sîntem cu toþii destul de obiºnuiþi, totuºi
nimeni, din cîte ºtiu eu, n-a încercat sã-l analizeze amãnunþit. El se aplicã
ºi design-ului. Ceea ce odatã pãrea urît ar putea sã trezeascã mai puþine
obiecþii dupã o perioadã de timp. Mai este valabil ºi în cazul tehnologiei.
De exemplu, antenele de satelit. La început pãreau strãine ºi nelalocul
lor, dar în scurt timp au fost acceptate ca parte a limbajului obiºnuit al
strãzii. Acelaºi principiu, fãrã îndoialã, a lucrat ºi în cazul semafoarelor.
Chiar ºi formele tehnologice care par cele mai alienante pot fi repede
asimilate de orizonturile noastre simbolice, aºa încît nu mai dau senzaþia
de înstrãinare.

27
 Desigur, lucrurile nu stau chiar aºa întotdeauna. S-ar putea ca alþi
factori sã fie implicaþi. S-ar mai putea sã existe niºte circumstanþe în
plus – o asociere neplãcutã, de exemplu – care sã te împiedice sã te simþi
confortabil într-un anumit mediu. ªi totuºi, astfel de factori par doar sã
atenueze ceea ce pare a fi o tendinþã subconºtientã de „devenire întru”,
de familiarizare ºi, în cele din urmã, de identificare cu mediul nostru.
Este ca ºi cum ar exista un imbold de asimilare de tip cameleonic, care
guverneazã natura umanã.
ªi atunci despre ce este vorba aici? Ce este acest proces de „devenire
întru”, de ataºare, de familiarizare cu mediul nostru? Cum opereazã
acest mecanism? ªi în special, pe aceastã linie interogativã, cum ar
putea acest fenomen sã ne influenþeze în sensul regîndirii conceptului de
tehnologie? Cum ar putea, de exemplu, poziþia cert negativã a anumitor
teoreticieni asupra presupusului efect de alienare al tehnologiei sã fie
revizuitã în lumina acestor observaþii? Poate tehnologia sã fie privitã
într-un mod pozitiv? Toate aceste întrebãri se adreseazã unei culturi
arhitecturale încã dominate în unele zone de o perspectivã în mare mãsurã
heideggerianã, care rãmîne criticã faþã de tehnologie.

Heidegger ºi problema tehnologiei

Care a fost, deci, atitudinea lui Heidegger faþã de tehnologie?
Tehnologia este o preocupare majorã în întreaga sa operã, dar chestiunea
1
este abordatã mai pe larg în eseul „Problema tehnologiei” . Heidegger
nu s-a opus tehnologiei ca atare. Mai curînd a vãzut în tehnologie o
modalitate de „dezvãluire”, ºi chiar aici stã pericolul. „Esenþa tehnologiei
moderne”, spune el, „se aflã în îngrãdire. Îngrãdirea face parte din sensul
2
dezvãluirii” . Problema constã, pentru Heidegger, exact în „sensul” acestei
dezvãluiri, pentru cã „exileazã omul în acel gen de dezvãluire care este
3
o ordonare” . Iar aceastã formã de „dezvãluire” este una sãrãcitã din

1
Martin Heidegger, Basic Writings, David Farrell Krell (ed.), New York: Harper Collins,
1993, pp. 311-341.
2
Ibid., p. 330.
3
Ibid., p. 332.

28
moment ce neagã posibilitatea unui angajament ontologic mai profund:
„Întîi de toate, îngrãdirea ascunde acea dezvãluire ca poiesis, care permite
4
ceea ce prezenþele înainteazã în aparenþã” . În loc sã se deschidã în faþa
fiinþei umane, ea constituie prin urmare o formã de rezistenþã sau
provocare pentru fiinþa umanã, în sensul cã ne „blocheazã” accesul la
5
adevãr: „Îngrãdirea blocheazã calea dreaptã ºi luminoasã spre adevãr” .

Dupã Heidegger, situaþia în care ne aflãm în lumea contemporanã

este una în care omenirea trateazã natura ca pe o formã de resursã, ceva
de exploatat, stocat ºi aºa mai departe. „Oriunde, toate lucrurile sînt
ordonate pentru a fi disponibile, pentru a fi la îndemînã imediat, pentru a
sta doar acolo ca sã fie accesibile mai tîrziu. Orice este organizat în acest
6
fel are o stare proprie. Noi o numim stare-de-rezervã [Bestand]” . Acest
sens de „stare-de-rezervã”, mai degrabã decît poiesis, se aflã în centrul
tehnologiei moderne. „Esenþa tehnologiei moderne se vãdeºte în ceea ce
noi numim Îngrãdire… Este modul în care realul se dezvãluie ca stare-
7
de-rezervã” . Problema nu este a naturii care se devalorizeazã ca stare-
de-rezervã, ci a omenirii care se gãseºte la rîndul ei în aceeaºi situaþie:
„În momentul în care ceea ce este ascuns nu mai prezintã interes pentru
om, nici mãcar ca obiect, ci exclusiv ca stare-de-rezervã, iar omul în
mijlocul absenþei obiectelor nu este altceva decît cel care comandã aceastã
stare-de-rezervã, atunci ajunge în pragul unei prãbuºiri necontrolate,
adicã, ajunge în punctul în care el însuºi va trebui considerat stare-de-
8
rezervã” .
Tehnologia ajunge, prin urmare, sã fie asociatã cu o formã de alienare.
Ea împiedicã omenirea sã fie în legãturã cu o formã mai bogatã a dezvãluirii
ce opereazã într-o dimensiune mai poeticã. Dar este important sã subliniem

4
Ibid., p. 332.
5
Ibid., p. 333.
6
Ibid., p. 322.
7
Ibid., pp. 328-329.
8
Ibid., p. 332, as quoted in Scheibler, ‘Heidegger and the Rhetoric of Submission’ in
Verena Andermatt Conley (ed.), Rethinking Technologies, Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 1993, p. 116.

29
cã pericolul nu rezidã în tehnologia ca atare, ci în esenþa sa: „Nu tehnologia
e periculoasã. Tehnologia nu este demonicã, esenþa ei este însã misterioasã.
9
În esenþa tehnologiei ca sens al dezvãluirii constã pericolul” .
Nu mai e cazul s-o spunem, comentariile lui Heidegger asupra
„adevãrului” sînt la fel de demodate în cercurile teoreticienilor
contemporani, cum este ºi credinþa lui în „esenþe”. Nici chiar încercãrile
de a actualiza gîndirea heideggerianã la o lume postmodernã a
„diferenþelor” ºi „diferenþialelor” de sens, întreprinse de gînditorii actuali
formaþi în aceastã tradiþie intelectualã, cum ar fi Gianni Vattimo, nu pot
face mare lucru pentru a recupera o astfel de poziþie. Rãmîne întrebarea:
„Al cui adevãr?” ªi asta se referã la toate formele de angajament uman.
Aºa cum Félix Guattari afirma pe marginea subiectului tehnologiei:
„Departe de perceperea unui adevãr univoc al Fiinþei prin techné, aºa
cum ar exprima ontologia heideggerianã, existã o pluralitate de fiinþe în
chip de maºini, care ni se oferã odatã ce obþinem mijloacele configura-
10
tive sau cartografice de acces la ele” .
Demersul lui Heidegger ameninþã mereu cu reducerea fiinþelor
umane la un individ singular, universal ºi cu prãbuºirea subiectului în
obiect, în aºa fel încît rolul celui care interpreteazã este cumva trecut cu
vederea, iar „înþelesul” e sortit sã fie indiscutabil „dat”. Am putea totuºi
aborda asemenea chestiuni într-un mod mai adecvat, dintr-o perspectivã
individualã, tratînd sensul nu ca pe un „dat” universal, ci în termeni
simbolici, care variazã de la individ la individ. Semnificaþia simbolicã –
asemenea frumuseþii – se aflã în ochii privitorului, dar asta nu înseamnã
cã e mai puþin realã. Iar sensul simbolic, dupã cum ne aminteºte Fredric
11
Jameson, este „la fel de volatil ca ºi caracterul arbitrar al semnului” .
Un obiect ar putea însemna un lucru pentru o persoanã ºi exact opusul
pentru alta. Aceasta nu face atît sã susþinã relativismul, cît subliniazã
nevoia de recunoaºtere a rolului celui care interpreteazã ºi importanþa

9
Ibid., p. 333.
10
Félix Guattari, ‘Machinic Heterogenesis’ in Rethinking Technologies, p. 26.
11
Fredric Jameson, ‘Is Space Political?’ in Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking Architecture,
London: Routledge, 1997, p. 258.

30
perspectivei din care se face interpretarea. Astfel, cel mai bine ar fi sã
renunþãm la astfel de universalisme abstracte ºi sã ne ocupãm de
specificitatea situaþiei concrete.
Un astfel de sistem de gîndire nu reuºeºte sã trateze felul în care
este mediat modul nostru de înþelegere a lumii. Nu reuºeºte sã
abordeze problemele de conºtiinþã. Evident, ceea ce este important
în momentul în care ne referim la obiectele din lume este sã luãm în
considerare nu numai obiectele în sine, ci ºi starea de conºtiinþã prin
intermediul cãreia cunoaºtem aceste obiecte. Tradiþia fenomenologicã
nu o prinde în sfera ei de preocupare. Prin urmare, ea eºueazã în
încercarea de a înþelege modul foarte fluid ºi dinamic prin care se
realizeazã conexiunea noastrã cu lumea. ªi acest lucru include
tehnologia. La fel cum oamenii investesc ºi ulterior deplaseazã
noþiunea de „cãmin” prin transferul emoþional de la o locuinþã la alta,
tot aºa ei îºi formeazã o atitudine mai dinamicã ºi mai flexibilã faþã
de tehnologie. Ar putea ajunge s-o investeascã cu sens ºi sã creeze o
stare de ataºament faþã de ea, ceea ce serveºte în cele din urmã la
depãºirea rezistenþei iniþiale. Prin urmare ei ar putea sã ºi-o
reînsuºeascã din domeniul stãrii-de-rezervã.
În concluzie, ar trebui adusã în discuþie noþiunea de „însuºire”. În
mod sigur Heidegger a mai fost criticat pentru cã a neglijat problema
„însuºirii”. Aºa cum argumenteazã Derrida convingãtor, întregul principiu
al hermeneuticii se bazeazã pe o formã de însuºire nedezvãluitã –
„pretinderea” – în care rolul interpretului în elaborarea interpretãrii nu
12
este recunoscut pe deplin . Dar prin „însuºire” înþeleg în acest context
procesul de „familiarizare” în timp. La fel cum cineva se poate întreba
dacã „autenticitatea” sau chiar „neautenticitatea” (în termeni
heideggerieni) unui artefact va dura odatã ce amintirea momentului în
care acesta a fost creat a fost pierdutã, tot aºa tehnologia nu poate fi
consideratã locul de duratã al alienãrii. Tehnologia este întotdeauna
dispusã sã fie însuºitã poetic.

12
Jacques Derrida, Truth in Painting, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987, pp.
255-382.

31
 Atitudinea oarecum monoliticã a lui Heidegger faþã de tehnologie
trebuie atacatã. Cei ce afirmã cã tehnologia reprezintã o sursã perpetuã
de înstrãinare trec cu vederea potenþialul fiinþelor umane de a integra
noul ºi neobiºnuitul în structura lor simbolicã. Trebuie sã adoptãm
un cadru mai flexibil, mai dinamic, mai atent la ceea ce priveºte
capacitatea cameleonicã de adaptare psihicã, capacitate fundamentalã
a condiþiei umane. O posibilitate ar fi sã plasãm o breºã în gîndirea
heideggerianã ºi sã susþinem, aºa cum face Ingrid Scheibler, cã, dacã
Heidegger ia în considerare aºa-numita „gîndire meditativã”, aceasta
poate fi folositã ºi în domeniul tehnologiei cu scopul creãrii unei
13
relaþii mai puþin deterministe între fiinþele umane ºi tehnologie . Dar
genul acesta de strategii tinde sã semene cu o scuzã, cu precondiþia
unui argument anterior. Simpla forþã a criticii lui Heidegger la adresa
tehnologiei aduce în prim plan gîndirea calculativã ca fiind modul
dominant de implicare. Ceea ce nu se înþelege este momentul în care,
dacã aceasta se produce vreodatã, gîndirea meditativã ia locul gîndirii
calculative.
Mai mult, trebuie sã adoptãm o atitudine mai deschisã faþã de
tehnologie nu în ultimul rînd pentru cã trãim într-o erã tehnologicã.
Tehnologia a pãtruns în toate aspectele existenþei contemporane ºi s-a
infiltrat în subconºtientul nostru. Ne trãim vieþile atît de mult prin
tehnologie, încît începem sã le vedem prin prisma tehnologiei. Cu timpul,
nu numai cã acceptãm tehnologia, dar chiar începem sã ne identificãm
cu ea. Dãm nume maºinilor ºi vorbim cu calculatoarele noastre. În final,
ajungem chiar sã ne constituim identitatea prin tehnologie – prin
maºinile, calculatoarele ºi aparatura electronicã aflate în posesia noastrã.
Noi sîntem maºina pe care o conducem, sau cel puþin aºa vor sã credem
cei ce lucreazã în publicitate: bine pus la punct, elegant, sofisticat,
colþuros, aventuros, oricum. Tehnologia ne poate împrumuta un stil de
viaþã, ne poate împrumuta o identitate.

13
Ingrid Scheibler, ‘Heidegger and the Rhetoric of Submission’ in Rethinking
Technologies, pp. 115-139.

32
 Identificarea mimeticå
Cum am putea, atunci, sã adoptãm o atitudine mai înþelegãtoare faþã
de tehnologie? Ce cadru teoretic ne-ar putea permite sã abordãm aceste
chestiuni într-un mod mai deschis? Aº vrea sã sugerez cã lucrãrile lui
Walter Benjamin ºi Theodor Adorno despre conceptul de mimesis oferã
o abordare mai subtilã a chestiunilor de asimilare ºi identificare, în general,
ºi cu privire la problema alienãrii produse de tehnologie în special. Pentru
a-l cita pe Adorno:
„Dupã Freud, intenþia simbolicã se aliazã repede cu formele
tehnice, cum ar fi avionul, ºi dupã cercetãrile americane recente în
domeniul psihologiei maselor, chiar ºi cu maºina. Astfel, formele cu
un anumit scop sînt limbajul propriilor scopuri. Prin mijlocirea
impulsului mimetic, fiinþa vie îºi gãseºte corespondenþe în obiectele
14
din jurul sãu.
Aceastã ultimã afirmaþie, „Prin mijlocirea impulsului mimetic fiinþa
vie îºi gãseºte corespondenþe în obiectele din jurul sãu”, este chiar una
dintre cheile explorãrii modului prin care fiinþele umane se situeazã în
mediul lor ºi trimite la un domeniu în care psihanaliza ar putea oferi
sugestii cruciale cu privire la mecanismul prin care oamenii se
raporteazã la habitatul lor. De exemplu, ar putea sugera cã modul în
care oamenii se simt tot mai mult „acasã” într-o anumitã clãdire este
tocmai procesul de identificare simbolicã cu clãdirea respectivã. În
acelaºi mod, ei ar putea ajunge sã se identifice ºi cu obiectele
tehnologice. Acest ataºament simbolic nu intervine în mod automat.
Se produce mai degrabã treptat, prin „impulsul mimetic”, în termenii
lui Adorno.
Termenul de mimesis nu ar trebui sã fie înþeles aici cu sensul dat, sã
zicem, de Platon, adicã de simplã „imitare”. Nu are nici înþelesul pe care
i-l acordã Heidegger. Mimesis în concepþia lui Adorno, ca de altfel ºi a
lui Walter Benjamin, este un termen psihanalitic – preluat de la Freud –
care se referã la un ataºament creativ faþã de un obiect. Este, aºa cum îl

14
Theodor Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 10.

33
defineºte Adorno, „afinitatea ne-conceptualã a unei creaþii subiective faþã
15
de celãlaltul ei, obiectiv ºi nepostulat”. Aºa cum prezicea Freud însuºi,
16
mimesis este un termen cu potenþial seminificativ pentru esteticã.
Pentru a înþelege sensul mimesis-ului la Adorno, trebuie sã-i vedem
sursa în procesul de modelare, de „creare a unei copii”. În esenþã el se
referã la un proces interpretativ ce nu are legaturã doar cu crearea unui
model, ci ºi cu ataºamentul faþã de acel model. Mimesis-ul poate opera
atît tranzitiv cît ºi reflexiv, avînd un rol atît în crearea unui obiect, cît ºi
în transformarea în ceva asemãnãtor unui obiect. Mimesis-ul este prin
urmare o formã de imitare care ar putea fi evocatã atît de artistul ce
creeazã o operã de artã, cît ºi de persoana care o priveºte. Totuºi mime-
sis-ul este mai bogat decît imitarea directã. În mimesis funcþioneazã
imaginaþia, care ajutã la reconcilierea subiectului cu obiectul. Imaginaþia
funcþioneazã la nivelul fanteziei, care are rolul de mediator între
inconºtient ºi conºtient, vis ºi realitate. În acest context, fantezia este
utilizatã ca termen pozitiv. Fantezia îºi creeazã propriile ficþiuni nu ca o
modalitate de a fugi de realitate, ci de a avea acces la realitate, o realitate
încãrcatã din punct de vedere ontologic, neconstrînsã de o viziune
instrumentalizatã asupra lumii. Mimesis-ul este de fapt o identificare
inconºtientã cu obiectul, implicînd în mod necesar un moment creativ
din partea subiectului. Subiectul se identificã în mod creator cu obiectul,
astfel încît obiectul, chiar dacã este un obiect tehnic – un mecanism, o
maºinã, un avion, un pod, orice – e investit cu o oarecare semnificaþie
simbolicã ºi este însuºit ca parte a bagajului de simboluri prin care indivizii
îºi constituie identitatea.

15
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, C Lenhardt (trad.), G Adorno, R Tiederman (ed.),
London: Routledge, 1984, p. 80.
16
„…Eu cred cã dacã mimetica ideilor va fi urmatã, poate deveni utilã în alte ramuri ale
esteticii”.
Sigmund Freud, Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious (1905). Pentru alte
referinþe despre mimesis, vezi Erich Auerbach, Mimesis, Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1953; Michael Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity, London: Routledge,
1993; Gunter Gebauer and Christoph Wulf, Mimesis, Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1995.

34
 Important este sã identificãm aici noþiunea de temporalitate.
Semnificaþia simbolicã s-ar putea schimba – dramatic uneori – de-a
lungul unei perioade de timp. Ceea ce la un moment dat era ºocant de
strãin ar putea pãrea în cele din urmã liniºtitor familiar. Modul în
care ne implicãm în arhitecturã trebuie privit prin urmare nu ca o
condiþie staticã, ci ca un proces dinamic. Logica mimesis-ului
presupune cã noi asimilãm constant mediul construit ºi cã, în
consecinþã, atitudinile noastre faþã de acesta sînt în continuã
schimbare. Relaþia noastrã cu mediul construit nu este niciodatã o
condiþie datã, definitivã, ci un proces continuu de adaptare. Dacã
numeroase cãrþi au fost dedicate „durabilitãþii”, performanþei clãdirii
în timp, puþine par sã fi abordat faptul cã receptarea în sine a clãdirii
se face într-un cadru temporal.
Mimesis-ul, prin urmare, constituie o formã de mimare, dar este o
mimare care se adapteazã – la fel cum un copil învaþã sã vorbeascã ºi sã
se adapteze la lume, sau cum stãpînii preiau caracteristicile animalelor
lor de casã. Exemplul copilului care „creºte în” limbaj ilustreazã de fapt
cel mai bine modul de operare al mimesis-ului. Copilul „absoarbe” un
limbaj exterior printr-un proces de imitare ºi apoi îl foloseºte creator
pentru propriile scopuri. La fel, în domeniul fiecãrui aspect al proiectãrii
putem observa cum lucreazã mimesis-ul, pe mãsurã ce arhitecþii îºi
dezvoltã abilitãþile în proiectare: acesta este procesul care permite
formelor externe sã fie absorbite ºi sedimentate ca parte a limbajului de
proiectare în arhitecturã.
Deºi mimesis-ul implicã un grad de control organizat, ºi prin urmare
opereazã în strînsã legaturã cu raþiunea, nu înseamnã cã mimesis-ul este
parte a raþiunii. Într-adevãr, în termenii dialecticii cunoaºterii raþionale,
mimesis-ul ar putea fi perceput ca aparþinînd nu de domeniul raþiunii, ci
de cel al mitului, „celãlaltul” sãu magic. Mimesis-ul ºi raþiunea, dupã
17
cum observã Adorno, sînt „ireconciliabile” . Dacã ar fi sã percepem
mimesis-ul ca pe o formã de corespondenþã cu lumea exterioarã care se

17
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, p. 81.

35
articuleazã în aura operei de artã, atunci raþionalitatea luministã, cu
separarea sa eficientã între subiect ºi obiect ºi accentul tot mai mare pe
cunoaºtere-cuantificare faþã de cunoaºtere-corespondenþã-senzorialã,
reprezintã polul opus. În cazul viziunii instrumentalizate a cunoaºterii
raþionale, cunoºtinþele sînt organizate ºi categorisite, valorizate în
funcþie de principii ºtiinþifice, în timp ce potenþialul bogat al mimesis-
ului este trecut cu vederea. Toate acestea aduc cu sine o pierdere, o
reducere a lumii la o structurã reificatã a diviziunii subiect-obiect, în
timp ce mimesisul se retrage ºi mai mult în zona miticã a literaturii ºi
artelor.
Mimesis-ul ar mai putea oferi o formã de comparaþie dialecticã în
sciziunea subiect/obiect, proprie cunoaºterii raþionale. Acest lucru este
cel mai evident în cazul limbajului. Limbajul devine „cel mai înalt
nivel al comportamentului 18mimetic, arhiva cea mai completã de
similaritate ne-senzorialã”. Pentru Benjamin mimesis-ul oferã o
modalitate de a gãsi semnificaþie în lume, prin descoperirea
similaritãþilor. Aceste similaritãþi se absorb ºi apoi sînt rearticulate în
cadrul limbajului, cum se întîmplã în dans sau în alte forme de artã.
Astfel limbajul devine un depozit de sens, iar scrisul o activitate care
trece de ea însãºi, astfel încît în timpul scrierii scriitorii se angajeazã în
procese inconºtiente, fãrã ca mãcar sã realizeze acest lucru. Scrisul
dezvãluie adesea mai mult decît îºi dã seama scriitorul. La fel, cititorul
interpreteazã probabil cuvintele recurgînd la imaginaþie, domeniu care
depãºeºte raþionalul pur. Astfel, cititul încorporeazã ºi el principiile
mimesis-ului, slujind ca mijloc de atingere a unui moment revelator.
Pentru Benjamin sensul devine evident într-o sclipire de constelaþie, o
dialecticã a vederii, în care subiectul ºi obiectul devin una pentru un
scurt moment, un proces care are legãturã cu experienþa arhitecturii la
fel ca în cazul citirii textelor.
Arhitectura împreunã cu celelalte arte vizuale poate fi consideratã,
prin urmare, ca un rezervor potenþial al funcþionãrii mimesis-ului. Chiar
ºi în proiectarea clãdirilor, arhitectul poate articula corespondenþele cu
lumea care este întrupatã în conceptul de mimesis. Aceste forme ar putea
18
Benjamin, ‘Mimetic Faculty’ în Reflections, trad. Edmund Jephcott, New York:
Schocken, 1978, p. 336.

36
fi interpretate într-un mod similar de cei care trãiesc experienþa clãdirii,
în sensul cã mecanismul prin care fiinþele umane încep sã se simtã în
largul lor în mediul construit poate fi ºi el perceput ca unul mimetic.
În acest fel mimesis-ul poate ajuta la explicarea felului în care noi
ne identificãm progresiv cu mediul în care trãim. În realitate, noi ne
identificãm cu ambientul fãrã a fi pe deplin conºtienþi de aceast lucru.
„Prin intermediul impulsului mimetic”, dupã cum argumenteazã
Adorno, „fiinþa vie se identificã cu obiectele din jurul sãu”. În altã
parte am argumentat cã aceast lucru ar putea fi înþeles prin intermediul
19
mitului lui Narcis . Impulsul mimetic ar putea fi vãzut ca un mecanism
care ne ajutã sã ne descoperim în celãlalt. Noi ne relaþionãm cu mediul
printr-un proces de identificare narcisistã ºi absorbim mimetic limbajul
acelui mediu. Aºa cum Narcis ºi-a vãzut propria imagine în apã ºi nu
ºi-a recunoscut-o, la fel ºi noi ne identificãm cu „celãlalt” – simbolic –
fãrã a ne da seama cã recunoºterea „celuilalt” trebuie înþeleasã în
termenii unei identificãri mimetice, ca o reflectare a sinelui. ªi acest
lucru nu se referã la o reflectare ad litteram a propriei imagini, cît la o
reflectare metaforicã a perspectivelor noastre simbolice ºi a valorilor
noastre.
Scopul este mereu acela de a ne genera o relaþie creatoare cu mediul.
Cînd ne vedem valorile „reflectate” în tot ceea ce ne înconjoarã, asta ne
satisface nevoia narcisistã ºi desfiinþeazã distanþa dintre subiect ºi obiect.
Este ca ºi cum – pentru a folosi termenul de mimesis în sensul lui Walter
Benjamin – în strãfulgerarea momentului mimetic, fragmentele se
integreazã întregului, iar individul este inclus într-o totalitate armonioasã.

Regîndirea tehnologiei
Ce putem descifra, deci, în acest proces de asimilare implicat în
conceptul de mimesis, ºi cum ar putea acesta sã ne ajute sã regîndim
problema tehnologiei? Existã asemãnãri clare între modul în care
Heidegger privilegiazã poiesis-ul faþã de „starea-de-rezervã”, ºi modul
19
Leach, ‘Vitruvius Crucifixus: Architecture, Mimesis and the Death Instinct, AA Files,
38, July 1999.

37
în care Benjamin ºi Adorno dau întîietate cunoaºterii-corespondenþã-senzualã
faþã de cunoaºtere-cuantificare. Ambele tradiþii au criticat lumea cunoaºterii
raþionale ca fiind una sãrãcitã, ºi într-adevãr aici mimesis-ul poate fi privit ca
oferind un termen de comparaþie pentru aceastã condiþie. Dar numai în cazul
lui Heidegger tehnologia aparþine fãrã rezerve acestei condiþii.
Sã luãm exemplul avionului de cãlãtori dat de Heidegger. Avionul
care stã pe pistã este pentru Heidegger „cu siguranþã un obiect...
Dezvelit, el stã pe pistã numai ca stare-de-rezervã, doar pentru a i se
20
ordona sã asigure posibilitatea transportului”. Ideea aici este cã modul
nostru de a înþelege acel avion de cãlãtori este definit în întregime prin
termenii „stãrii-de-rezervã“: „Obiectul în sine se pierde în
21
neobiectualitatea stãrii-de-rezervã” . Eventualitatea ca avionul sã fie
vãzut în orice alt fel nu este acceptatã. ªi totuºi, aºa cum a afirmat
odatã Barthes despre clãdiri, avioanele sînt o combinaþie de „vis ºi
22
funcþiune”. Dar Heidegger nu reuºeºte sã atingã ºi rolul crucial pe
care l-ar putea juca un avion de cãlãtori, dacã ar fi privit ca o formã
simbolicã cu drepturi depline, acela de a fi un vehicul pentru vise,
emoþii ºi dorinþe. Din aceastã cauzã, Heidegger oferã o abordare
oarecum restrictivã asupra acestei chestiuni. În discursul lui nu existã
posibilitatea ca obiectul sã fie sustras din domeniul stãrii-de-rezervã.
Nu are nici o ºansã de a fi reînsuºit.
În mod curios, Adorno citeazã ºi el exemplul unui avion, dar modul
lui de gîndire rãmîne mai flexibil. Argumentul mimesis-ului sugereazã –
ºi Adorno afirmã explicit – cã identificarea simbolicã s-ar putea produce
chiar ºi cu obiectele tehnologice, de exemplu o maºinã sau un avion,
astfel încît ºi acestea ar putea fi însuºite ca parte a fondului nostru
simbolic: „Dupã Freud, intenþia simbolicã se aliazã repede cu formele
tehnice de tipul avionului, iar dupã cercetãrile americane contemporane
23
din domeniul psihologiei maselor, ºi cu cele de tipul automobilului.”

20
Heidegger, p. 322.
21
Ibid., p. 324.
22
Roland Barthes, ‘The Eiffel Tower’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 174.
23
Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 10.

38
Avionul nu este iremediabil destinat domeniului cunoaºterii-cuantificare.
Poate fi reînsuºit în cadrul domeniului simbolicului. Cu alte cuvinte,
conºtiinþa noastrã în ceea ce priveºte avionul este ea însãºi modificatã.
Exemplul automobilului pe care Adorno îl dã în continuare
dezvãluie modul în care tehnologia a ajuns sã ne colonizeze viaþa de zi
cu zi, dar nu ca stare-de-rezervã, ci ceva la care intenþia simbolicã a
fost deja „anexatã”. Ideea este cã noi trebuie sã înþelegem cã legãtura
cu tehnologia implicã un moment de „propriocepþie” (receptarea
stimulilor din propriul organism, n. tr.). Tehnologia ar putea opera ca o
formã de „protezã” în organismul uman, integratã într-o asemenea
manierã încît devine parte a independenþei de miºcare a organismului.
Conducînd o maºinã ajungem sã navigãm pe ºosele prin acea maºinã.
Astfel, maºina ca obiect tehnologic nu este separatã – înstrãinatã – de
organism. Ea devine o formã de extensie a acelui organism. Ceea ce
susþin eu aici nu este un manifest simplist pentru cyborgi, care sã
pretindã cã fiinþele umane pot deveni parte om ºi parte maºinã. Mai
degrabã încerc sã extrag logica mimesis-ului în sine. Pentru cã, dupã
aceastã logicã, fiinþele umane au absorbit tehnologia la un nivel
inconºtient, în aºa fel încît au ajuns sã opereze prin ea, aproape ca
printr-un fel de mijloc tele-kinetic.
Mai mult decît atît, tehnologia ar putea influenþa efectiv modul
în care omul începe sã gîndeascã. Ar putea sã ne influenþeze chiar ºi
conºtiinþa. Sã luãm de exemplu computerul. Cãci aºa cum argumenta
la un moment dat Walter Benjamin, dacã muncitorul din epoca
modernã ajunge sã asimileze atît de bine ºocurile neplãcute, con-
tinue, pe care miºcarea maºinii i le provoacã, încît acestea sînt
încorporate în conduita sa, la fel ºi oamenii din ziua de azi ajung sã
absoarbã gîndirea ºi fluenþa ansamblului de circuite din spatele
ecranului computerului. Noile condiþii cultivã noi mentalitãþi. Dupã
cum observa ºi Douglas Rushkoff, o nouã generaþie a computerelor
24
este pe cale sã se nascã. Copiii de azi ajung sã aibã acelaºi
comportament ca ºi calculatoarele lor. Ei se identificã cu ele, se joacã

24
Douglas Rushkoff, Children of Chaos, London: Flamingo, 1997.

39
cu ele ºi le mimeazã modul de operare. Gîndirea analogicã este de
domeniul trecutului. A apãrut gîndirea non-liniarã, stratificatã - surf
deleuzian. Fractali, rizomi ºi clone, fluiditate ºi flux – acestea sînt
cuvintele cheie ale noii generaþii. În acest context, cei care sînt
împotriva folosirii computerului în atelierele de proiectare de azi nu
reuºesc sã se adreseze realitãþii ontologice concrete a vieþii moderne
ºi fac un deserviciu studenþilor, pentru care cunoaºterea programelor
de calculator a devenit un „dat” în birourile contemporane de
25
arhitecturã . Asta nu înseamnã cã computerul ar trebui adoptat necritic
în atelierul de arhitecturã. Lecþiile ºcolilor de design care au acceptat
computerul fãrã sã clipeascã par sã indice cã îngrijorãrile exprimate
în Anestetica Arhitecturii despre potenþiala estetizare ºi deci
anesteziere a problemelor sociale se justificã prea clar în aceste
26
contexte. Se cere mai degrabã un angajament auto-critic ºi informat
teoretic. Poate cã teoria nu este capabilã sã combatã problemele
potenþiale ale estetizãrii. Cu toate acestea, ne poate oferi primul pas
crucial. Odatã ce o problemã este expusã deschis, nu mai constituie o
capcanã.
Consecinþele sînt mult prea evidente. În afarã de faptul cã am acceptat
tehnologia ca fiind o parte esenþialã a vieþii noastre curente, atît de mult
încît deosebirea care se fãcea la un moment dat între techné ºi tehnologie
nu mai este valabilã, însãºi existenþa noastrã a ajuns sã fie condiþionatã
de tehnologie.

25
Se prea poate ca antipatia încã dominantã faþã de tehnologia digitalã sã fie doar o
formã de „negare”. Ca în cazul homofobilor, care îºi neagã adesea homosexualitatea
latentã, criticii tehnologiei ar putea sã-ºi reprime o fascinaþie secretã cu tehnologia
(un exemplu evident în acest sens este incidentul din filmul American Beauty, unde
homofobicul tatã se dovedeºte a avea el însuºi înclinaþii homosexuale.) Un individ
„în negare” poate fi fascinat de o obsesie fizicã personalã, dar, nedorind sã o
recunoascã, îºi va proiecta obsesia pe un obiect exterior, iar apoi îl va critica. Dar
dacã aceastã antipatie faþã de tehnologia digitalã este o formã de fascinaþie reprimatã
sau nu, e clar deplasatã în ceea ce a devenit o lume foarte digitalizatã.
26
Leach, The Anaesthetics of Architecture, Cambridge, MA.: MIT Press, 1999.

40
 Tehnologie ºi design
ªi totuºi aceastã disputã ridicã o altã întrebare: aparþine tehnologia
unei singure categorii sau se poate diferenþia? Cum putem distinge
diferitele forme ale tehnologiei? Cînd constituie ea o formã de
cunoaºtere-cuantificare ºi cînd nu? ªi oare joacã „proiectarea” vreun
rol? Într-adevãr, logica mimesis-ului ridicã probleme în legãturã cu
întregul statut al proiectãrii. Pentru cã dacã oricum ne asimilãm în mediul
construit, de ce sã ne mai batem capul pentru un „proiect bun”?
Aici aº dori sã mai preiau un argument de la Adorno pentru a susþine
cã mimesis-ul în sine este o chemare spre „proiectul bun”. Articolul lui
Adorno, „Funcþionalismul azi”, este în mare parte dedicat unei critici
la adresa articolului lui Adolf Loos, „Ornament ºi crimã”. Adorno îl
acuzã pe Loos de gîndire nedialecticã. Loos încearcã sã separe arta de
tehnologie. Loos susþine ideea unei arhitecturi pur funcþionaliste în
care „arta” nu-ºi are locul. El se bazeazã pe distincþia kantianã dintre
„finalitate” ºi „non-finalitate”. Dupã cum subliniazã Adorno, nu existã
element pur funcþional, golit de absolut orice semnificaþie artisticã, în
timp ce, invers, formele de artã – ne putem gîndi imediat la dans – au o
funcþie, deºi una „socialã”. „ Nu existã”, aºa cum explicã Adorno, „nici
27
o finalitate purã, opusã non-finalitãþii esteticii”.
Arta ºi funcþiunea trebuie privite dialectic, ca de altfel toate formele
esteticii recunoscute pentru funcþia lor socialã. La fel, arhitectura care
pretinde a fi doar funcþionalã trebuie sã aibã ºi o dimensiune esteticã.
Într-adevãr, mare parte din ceea ce este denumit „funcþional” în
arhitecturã fie încorporeazã trãsãturi nefuncþionale – ca de exemplu
acoperiºuri plate – fie îºi împrumutã estetica din alte domenii – cum ar
fi vapoare, silozuri etc. – care au propria lor raþionalitate funcþionalã,
independentã de preocupãrile arhitecturale. Adorno conchide cã
„funcþionalismul” la care Loos se referã este chiar o categorie esteticã.
„Aici”, remarca Adorno, „se confirmã o veche bãnuialã amarã:
28
respingerea absolutã a stilului devine stil.” .

27
Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 8.
28
Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 10.

41
 Ceea ce se încearcã a fi demonstrat este faptul cã trebuie sã privim
chestiunea tehnologiei dialectic. Nu se pune problema – aºa cum ar sugera
unii – de a face distincþia dintre artã ºi tehnologie sau „arhitecturã” ºi
„inginerie”, ci de a lua în considerare mãsura în care tehnologia ºi arta se
„pliazã” una în alta; mãsura în care, în contextul argumentaþiei lui Loos –
tehnologia este proiectatã. La Heidegger este exact aceeaºi problemã, numai
cã inversatã. Loos forþeazã distincþia dintre funcþiune ºi artã, Heidegger
dintre poiesis ºi inginerie. Bineînþeles, în ceea ce priveºte tehnologia,
întrebãrile practice trebuie aduse în prim-plan, dar nici întrebãrile de naturã
vizualã – aspect estetic – nu trebuie trecute cu vederea.
Rãspunsul, dupã cîte se pare, ar fi sã abordãm problema dialec-
tic, introducînd subtilitãþile ºi flexibilitãþile implicate de conceptul
de mimesis. Deºi Adorno însuºi este destul de critic la adresa
capacitãþii totalitare a tehnologiei, a potenþialului sãu de dominare
teroristã, am putea totuºi deduce din comentariile sale asupra maºinii
sau avionului cã asemenea obiecte ar putea fi privite din interiorul
domeniului mimesis-ului. Obiectele tehnologice pot întrupa principiul
mimesis-ului.
Atunci argumentul rolului mimesis-ului în tehnologie este pur ºi
simplu acesta. Mimesis-ul opereazã ºi în proiectarea obiectului ºi în relaþia
privitorului cu obiectul. Astfel, atunci cînd un obiect tehnologic a fost
proiectat cu scopul unei înþelegeri mimetice a lumii, se va lãsa el însuºi
absorbit mimetic. Cu alte cuvinte, dacã vrem sã înþelegem mimesis-ul ca
oferind un mecanism de relaþionare cu lumea, ca creator al unei legãturi
între individ ºi mediu, ca oferind un mijloc – în termenii lui Fredric
Jameson – de „cartografiere cognitivã„ în interiorul ambientului, atunci
proiectul bun are un important rol social. Imaginea – departe de a fi o
sursã a alienãrii aºa cum am putea deduce din opera lui Guy Debord –
are un rol pozitiv de identificare. ªi dacã tehnologia poate întruchipa
mimesis-ul, acest rol este valabil în aceeaºi mãsurã ºi pentru obiectele
tehnologice. Tehnologia, conform acestei logici, departe de a fi neapãrat
alienantã, aºa cum ar putea argumenta unii, ar putea fi sursa identificãrii,
cu condiþia de a fi „bine proiectatã”, adicã proiectatã conform principiilor
mimesis-ului.

42
 Într-o vreme, gîndirea heideggerianã aducea o contribuþie
substanþialã ºi remarcabilã la cultura arhitecturalã, prin provocarea la
adresa spiritului pozitivismului, odinioarã atît de larg rãspîndit. Dar acum
gîndirea heideggerianã trebuie, la rîndul ei, sã fie pusã sub semnul
întrebãrii, deoarece ameninþã sã se transforme într-un set de valori
îngheþate, în totalã neconcordanþã cu societatea contemporanã. Dacã unii
ar putea critica gîndirea postmodernã ca fiind relativistã ºi prea
îngãduitoare faþã de pluralism ºi diferenþe, punînd sub semnul întrebãrii
baza de pornire a oricãrei afirmaþii, adevãratul relativism îºi are punctul
de pornire într-o tradiþie care exclude pînã ºi posibilitatea formulãrii unor
asemenea întrebãri, prin agãþarea cu încãpãþînare de un set de valori
demodate, ºi prin imposibilitatea de a lua parte activ la orice tip de
dezbatere criticã.
Se pare cã a venit momentul sã adoptãm o atitudine mai flexibilã ºi
mai tolerantã în ceea ce priveºte tehnologia. E momentul sã ne eliberãm
de lanþurile trecutului. Este probabil timpul sã uitãm de Heidegger.

43
 SACRIFICII ALE CONSTRUIRII

„Pentru a dura, construirea (casã, realizare tehnicã,

dar ºi întreprindere spiritualã) trebuie sã fie animatã; sã
primeascã, adicã, deopotrivã viaþã ºi suflet. Transferarea
sufletului este posibilã numai prin intermediul
sacrificiului; cu alte cuvinte, printr-o moarte violentã.”
1
Mircea Eliade

„Cãci obiectul sacrificiului este în chip precis

acela de a stabili o relaþie, nu de asemãnare, ci de
contiguitate, printr-o serie de identificãri succesive.”
2
Claude Lévi-Strauss

Miturile sacrificiilor legate de edificare se pot gãsi pretutindeni în

Europa Centralã ºi de Est. Cum le putem explica? Pot fi ele întrebuinþate
în informarea unei teorii a sacrificiului aflatã în miezul întregii
contemplãri estetice? În cultura popularã supravieþuiesc unele mituri
care asociazã sacrificiul uman cu construirea de clãdiri. Ele spun povestea
fiinþelor umane înzidite sau îngropate în timpul construirii. Multe dintre
aceste mituri provin din Europa Centralã ºi de Est. Unul dintre cele mai
3
faimoase exemple este „Balada Meºterului Manole ºi a Mãnãstirii Argeº”.
1
Eliade, Zalmoxis, pp. 182-183.
2
Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, p. 224.
3
Pentru balada completã vezi Mircea Eliade, Zalmoxis: The Vanishing God, trans. Willard
Trask, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972, pp.164-170.

45
Balada spune povestea Meºterului Manole ºi a celor nouã meºteri zidari
care sînt de acord sã construiascã „mãnãstire ’naltã cum n-a mai fost
alta” pentru Negru Vodã. Dacã vor reuºi, li se va da aur ºi vor fi înnobilaþi,
dacã vor da greº, vor fi zidiþi de vii în talpa clãdirii. Meºterii lucreazã
timp de nouã zile, dar – pe rînd – porþiunile de zid construite cu o zi
înainte se prãbuºesc. Lucrãtorii sînt disperaþi, iar Negru Vodã ameninþã
sã îºi punã în practicã ameninþarea. Pe de altã parte, în vis, Meºterul
Manole aude o voce cereascã: „Tot ceea ce este construit ziua se va
prãbuºi noaptea dacã ºi atîta timp cît nu ne vom decide cu toþii sã zidim
soþia sau sora care mîine în zori va sosi prima spre a aduce merinde
4
soþului sau fratelui sãu”. Manole îi convinge pe ceilalþi sã accepte cã
oricine va fi fiind cea care va sã aparã mîine în zori, aceea sã fie înziditã.
Din nefericire pentru Manole, aceasta se va dovedi a fi chiar soþia sa,
Ana. Manole o zãreºte de departe ºi implorã cerul sã îi trimitã în cale
vînturi ºi torente spre a o întoarce din drum. Chiar dacã dorinþa i se
îndeplineºte, nimic nu o poate opri pe Ana din drum. Marii meºteri mari,
calfe ºi zidari au fost, desigur, bucuroºi sã o vadã sosind. Manole, în
schimb, îºi îmbrãþiºeazã iubita, o ia în braþe ºi astfel o urcã pe schelã.
O aºeazã în zid ºi îi spune, aproape în ºagã:
„Teamã sã nu-þi fie, cãci te vom zidi, dar e doar în glumã“
Ana avu încredere în el ºi rîse ºi roºi. Iar Manole suspinã ºi începu
sã îºi ridice zidul. Zidul crescu ºi o îngropã, mai întîi pânã la genunchi,
apoi pînã la mijloc. Iar ea, biata, se opri din rîs ºi spuse:
„Manole, Manole, zidul rãu mã strînge/Trupuºoru-mi frînge!“ Dar
Manole nu rãspunse ºi continuã sã lucreze, zidul se ridicã ºi mai înalt,
îngropînd-o pînã la sîni. Dar ea, biata, continuã sã se vaite, spunîndu-i:
„Manole, Manole, meºtere Manole,/ Zidul rãu mã strînge,/
Trupuºoru-mi strînge/Copilaºu-mi frînge.“
Manole, ca posedat, continuã sã lucreze. ªi zidul se ridicã,
acoperind-o, pînã la buze, pînã la ochi. Aºa încît, biata, nu se mai vedea,
dar încã o mai puteau auzi, vorbind din zid: „Manole, Manole, /Zidul
5
rãu mã strînge/Viaþa mi se stinge!“
4
Eliade, p. 167.
5
Eliade, p. 168.

46
 De îndatã ce Ana a fost înziditã, zidul stãtu în picioare, iar Manole
ºi meºterii sãi constructori reuºirã sã termine mãnãstirea. Dar atunci
Negru Vodã îi întrebã pe meºteri dacã ar putea construi o altã
mãnãstire, ºi mai mîndrã. În vanitatea lor, muncitorii strigarã cã pot
ridica o altã mãnãstire „mult mai luminoasã ºi mult mai frumoasã”.
Vodã ascultã ºi se gîndi: meºterii îi promiseserã sã-i construiascã
mãnãstire cum nu mai fu alta, fãrã seamãn pe lume ºi iatã cã ei acum
susþin cã o pot nu doar egala pe aceasta abia construitã, dar o pot ºi
întrece. Evident, ei ºi-au încãlcat contractul, aºa cum îl formulaserã
ei înºiºi. Prin urmare, Vodã surpã schelele, lãsîndu-i pe zidari izolaþi,
pe acoperiº. Aceºtia, în încercarea de a scãpa, îºi construirã aripi în
felul lui Daedalus ºi Icar. Dar, sãrind de pe acoperiº, se prãbuºesc la
pãmânt ºi mor. Manole, înainte sã sarã aude o voce din perete: „ Manole,
Manole, meºtere Manole,/ Zidul rãu mã strînge,/Trupuºoru-mi strînge/
Copilaºu-mi frînge.” Moare ºi el strivindu-se de pãmînt, iar din acel
loc rãsare un izvor.
Existã numeroase variaþiuni pe aceastã temã în toatã Europa
Centralã ºi de Est, dar în special în Balcani. Chiar dacã victima este
întotdeauna femeie – de obicei soþia unuia dintre meºteri – ºi este
întotdeauna pãcãlitã ca sã poatã fi înziditã ºi îngropatã în fundaþie,
baladele se diferenþiazã prin detalii. În versiunea româneascã este
vorba despre construirea unei mãnãstiri, în cea neo-greacã de un pod,
iar în cea sîrbo-croatã ºi cea maghiarã de un oraº. În versiunile
macedo-române, sîrbã ºi bulgarã, femeile se roagã sã le fie lãsaþi
sînii afarã, ca sã poatã continua sã îºi hrãneascã copilul, iar în cea
sîrbo-croatã cer sã le fie lãsaþi ºi ochii liberi pentru a-ºi putea vedea
casa. În ciuda diferenþelor, tema centralã este pregnantã: o victimã
trebuie sã fie sacrificatã pentru a garanta stabilitatea structuralã a
noii construcþii.
James Frazer prezintã mai multe variaþiuni pe aceastã temã în The
Golden Bough (Creanga de aur). În alte culturi, poate fi sacrificat un
animal în loc de o fiinþã umanã: „În Grecia modernã, cînd se pune fundaþia
unei noi clãdiri, existã obiceiul de a ucide un cocoº, un berbec sau un
miel ºi a lãsa sîngele animalului sã curgã pe piatra de temelie, sub care

47
este îngropat animalul. Scopul sacrificiului este de a da rezistenþã ºi
6
stabilitate clãdirii”. Încã ºi mai ciudatã poate apãrea posibilitatea
sacrificãrii unei umbre, chiar dacã capturarea acesteia conduce la uciderea
posesorului, ca printr-o formã de magie prin corespondenþã:
„Uneori însã, constructorul, în loc sã sacrifice un animal, ademeneºte
un om cãtre piatra de temelie, îi mãsoarã în secret corpul sau o parte din
el, ori doar umbra, dupã care îngroapã mãsurãtorile sub piatra de temelie,
sau începe construcþia deasupra umbrei acelui om. Se crede cã omul
respectiv va muri în decursul acelui an. Românii din Transilvania au
credinþa cã cei cãrora le va fi înziditã umbra vor muri în urmãtoarele 40
de zile. Aºa cã acei care trec pe lîngã clãdiri în construcþie ar putea sã
audã avertismente de genul: „Ai grijã ca nu cumva sã-þi ia umbra!” Nu
demult existau chiar negustori de umbre care furnizau arhitecþilor umbrele
ce asigurau siguranþa clãdirilor. În aceste cazuri, lungimea umbrei era
privitã ca echivalentul umbrei în sine, iar a o îngropa însemna a îngropa
viaþa sau sufletul unui om care, privat de acestea, trebuia sã moarã. Aºadar,
obiceiul este un substitut al vechii practici a înzidirii unui om viu, sau al
strivirii sub temelia viitoarei clãdiri, pentru a-i da acesteia siguranþã ºi
durabilitate sau, mai precis, pentru ca stafia mînioasã sã bîntuie locul ºi
7
sã-l pãzeascã de duºmani.”
În mod cert, aici umbra este echivalatã cu sufletul, iar capturarea
umbrei trebuie sã dea viaþã clãdirii. Aceste substituiri vin pentru a elimina
sacrificiul fiinþei umane. ªi totuºi, dupã cum demonstreazã Mircea Eliade:
„descoperirea scheletelor în fundaþiile sanctuarelor ºi palatelor din
8
Orientul Apropiat este o dovadã cã astfel de sacrificii au avut loc” . ªi
apoi existã dovezi documentare substanþiale care sugereazã cã aceastã
9
practicã era larg rãspînditã chiar ºi pe teritoriul Angliei.

6
Frazer.
7
Frazer, pp. 230-231.
8
Eliade, p. 181.
9
See G Cocchiara, ‘Il Ponte di Arta e i sacrifici di costruzione’, in Annali del Museo
Pitrè, I (Palermo, 1950), p. 60.

48
 Cum putem deci justifica aceste ritualuri stranii ºi ce semnificaþie
au ele? În mod cert, aceste ritualuri aveau scopul de a înzestra zidurile
cu tãrie ºi rezistenþã – dar cum anume se putea realiza acest lucru? ªi
cum am putea noi sã le evaluãm dintr-o perspectivã teoreticã?

Sacrificiul ca manierå animistå

Mircea Eliade explicã aceste rituri de sacrificiu legate de construire
dupã cum urmeazã: „Pentru a dura, o construcþie (casã, realizare tehnicã
dar ºi întreprindere spiritualã, trebuie animatã, adicã trebuie sã primeascã
atît viaþã cît ºi suflet. «Transferul» sufletului nu este posibil decît prin
sacrificiu, cu alte cuvinte, printr-o moarte violentã. S-ar zice cã victima
îºi continuã existenþa dupã moarte, dar nu în corpul ei fizic, ci într-unul
nou – construcþia, care a fost «animatã» prin înzidire. Am putea vorbi
10
despre un «corp arhitectonic» substituit celui din carne.”
Societãþile tradiþionale percepeau locuinþa umanã ca pe un fel de
imago mundi, dupã spusele lui Eliade. Aºa cã, la fel cum cum lumea a
fost creatã ca urmare a sacrificiului primordial al unei Fiinþe Divine,
fiecare construcþie nouã, întruchipare a acestei lumi, are nevoie de un
sacrificiu. Acesta este considerat un gest pozitiv ºi creator în acelaºi
timp, pentru cã prin acest gest viaþa victimei este transferatã edificiului:
„La nivelul riturilor de constucþie, fiinþa sacrificatã, cum am vãzut,
dobîndeºte un corp nou: clãdirea, care a produs ceva «viu», prin urmare
durabil, prin moarte violentã. În toate aceste mituri, moartea violentã
11
este creatoare” .
În studiile lor influente, Henri Hubert ºi Marcel Mauss oferã o
explicaþie mai detaliatã acestor probleme. Pentru ei sacrificiul prin
înzidire evocã o formã de spirit protector: „Prin sacrificiul înzidirii…
se creeazã un spirit care va deveni protectorul casei ºi forþa interioarã a
altarului sau a oraºului care urmeazã sã fie ridicate, ºi care îi va conferi
puterea interiorã. Astfel, riturile atribuirii sînt extrem de elaborate.

10
Eliade, Zalmoxis, pp. 182-183.
11
Eliade, Zalmoxis, p. 186.

49
Se înzidesc craniul fiinþei umane, cocoºul sau capul bufniþei. Mai mult,
importanþa victimei diferã în funcþie de natura clãdirii: templu, oraº
sau simplã casã. Dupã cum construcþia a început deja sau e doar pe
cale de a fi începutã, obiectul sacrificiului este de a crea spiritul,
divinitatea protectoare, sau de a îmbuna spiritul locului, care e pe cale
12
de a fi vãtãmat de construcþie“.
Dar în ce fel anume este evocat acest spirit, ºi cãrui scop îi serveºte
acest sacrificiu în comparaþie cu o simplã ofrandã? Hubert ºi Mauss
observã cã existã douã tipuri de relaþii ce au apãrut în urma sacrificiului.
Pe de o parte, sacrificiul poate fi de bun augur pentru cel care a fãcut
jertfa. Hubert ºi Mauss definesc pe cel ce oficiazã sacrificiul dupã cum
urmeazã: „numim «sacrificator» subiectul care va beneficia de pe urma
13
sacrificiului sau asupra cãruia se vor transpune efectele sale.” Pe de
altã parte, beneficiile sacrificiului pot fi atribuite unui obiect care se
aflã într-o anume legaturã cu sacrificatorul. Din acest motiv ei definesc
sacrificiul dupã cum urmeazã: „sacrificiul este un gest religios care,
prin consacrarea unei victime, modificã starea moralã a persoanei care
a îndeplinit jertfa sau statutul obiectelor cu care aceasta se aflã în
14
legãturã.”
„În cazul în care sacrificiul are loc în incinta unei case”, spun ei,
„casa va fi cea afectatã, iar datoritã calitãþilor pe care le va dobîndi în
felul acesta, ea va putea sã dãinuiascã mai mult decît ar trãi în mod
15
obiºnuit cel sacrificat”. E important sã remarcãm douã mecanisme ale
sacrificiului care sînt legate între ele ºi deseori coexistã. Aºa se întîmplã
ºi cu sacrificiul care sfinþeºte casa, deoarece acest gest are de asemenea
un efect asupra statutului moral al persoanei care oficiazã jertfa ºi asupra
celor cunoscuþi persoanei respective. Dupã cum observã Hubert ºi Mauss:

12
Henri Hubert and Marcell Mauss, Sacrifice: its Nature and Function, trad. W. D.
Hallls, London: Cohen and West, 1964, p. 65.
13
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 10
14
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 13.
15
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 10.

50
„În momentul în care capul familiei oferã un sacrificiu la inaugurarea
casei, nu numai casa trebuie sã fie aptã sã primeascã familia, ci ºi aceasta
16
trebuie sã fie pregatitã sã o locuiascã.”
Pentru Hubert ºi Mauss, sacrificiul ia forma unui mecanism care
face legatura între sacrificator ºi divinitate sau între obiectul
sacrificiului ºi divinitate. În cazul ritualurilor de construire, ambele
mecanisme intrã în funcþiune. Aici principiul este acela prin care
victima e un intermediar ce se comportã ca o rezistenþã electricã,
17
reducînd forþa sacrificiului care altfel ar fi prea intensã. Hubert ºi
Mauss dau urmãtoarea explicaþie: „Dacã forþele religioase sînt
principiile primare ale vieþii, acestea au o asemenea naturã încît
contactul cu ele este perceput de omul obiºnuit drept ceva de temut.
ªi mai presus de toate, cînd acestea iau amploare, nu mai pot fi con-
centrate într-un obiect profan fãrã ca acesta sã nu fie distrus. ªi oricîtã
nevoie ar avea sacrificatorul de forþele divine, nu le poate aborda
direct decît dacã este extrem de prudent. De aceea el apeleazã la
18
intermediari, dintre care cel mai important este victima.” Revenind:
„Riturile de trecere… slãbesc forþa sfinþirii. Dar ele însele nu ar putea
slãbi forþa suficient, dacã aceasta ar fi prea intensã. În consecinþã
este important ca sacrificatorul sau obiectul sacrificiului sã primeascã
binecuvîntarea indirect, doar dupã ce forþa a fost redusã. Acesta este
19
scopul intermediarului.”
Aici sesizãm semnificaþia sacrificiului în ritualurile de zidire. Centrul
de greutate al sacrificiului pare a fi înzestrarea obiectului cu o anumitã
forþã vitalã care, în esenþã, poate fi înþeleasã prin analogie cu curentul
electric. Hubert ºi Mauss foloseau chiar termenul de „curent” cînd s-au
20
referit la „fluxul de energie”. Aºadar, victima are rolul unui paratrãsnet,
o formã de conductor pentru spiritul divin, un mecanism intermediar

16
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 11
17
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 99.
18
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 98.
19
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 99.
20
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 97.

51
care oferã un substitut al comuniunii cu divinitatea. Toate sacrificiile
atrag dupã sine ºi un proces de mîntuire. Astfel, victima se mîntuie în
numele celorlalþi. Fiinþa, pînã atunci profanã, este purificatã ºi
binecuvîntatã în momentul sacrificiului, iar astfel cel care aduce ofranda
ºi cei în legaturã cu el, împreunã cu clãdirea ce face obiectul sacrificiului,
se vor bucura de binefacerile acestui gest.
Sacrificiul are puterea de a însufleþi. Aceasta se regãseºte cel mai
bine în exemplul comuniunii creºtine. Pentru cã actul comuniunii creºtine
duce la viaþa veºnicã, în termeni spirituali. „Ne-moartea” sufletului este
asiguratã de sacrificiu. Chiar mai mult, sacrificiul trebuie interpretat drept
un act social. Prin sacrificiu, oamenii, deloc dezinteresaþi, îºi investesc
atributele cu puteri care aparþin, de fapt, societãþii în general. Dupã cum
formuleazã Hubert ºi Mauss: „Ei conferã unul altuia, propriei persoane
ºi lucrurilor pe care le considerã de preþ, întreaga putere a societãþii… ei
înconjoarã cu protecþia divinã, cum ar veni, cîmpurile pe care le-au arat
21
ºi casele pe care le-au construit.”
O asemenea perspectivã ar corespunde cu concluzia lui Eliade cã
sacrificiul faciliteazã transcendenþa sufletului victimei. Violenþa
sacrificiului o asigurã, chiar dacã victima moare, pe de altã parte, ea
continuã sã trãiascã în noul ei corp – clãdirea – acum însufleþitã prin
22
sacrificiu. Sacrificiul victimei este o moarte creatoare.

Sacrificiul ca mod de identificare

Antropologul francez Claude Lévi-Strauss oferã o altã abordare a

problemei sacrificiului. Acesta pune mai puþin accentul pe puterea de a
însufeþi a sacrificiului, ºi mai mult pe acþiunea sacrificiului ca mecanism
de identificare. El polemizeazã pe tema sacrificiului în contextul
totemismului, pe care îl vede ca pe un sistem logic ºi coerent. Spre
deosebire de ceilalþi, Lévi-Strauss respinge ideea de sacrificiu: „Sistemul

21
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 102.
22
Eliade, pp. 182-183.

52
 23
sacrificiului reprezintã un sistem particular ce nu prea are sens.” Deºi
opiniile lui Lévi-Strauss sînt oarecum influenþate ideologic, el îºi dã seama
de scopul esenþial al sacrificiului. Dacã totemismul se bazeazã pe un
„postulat al omologiei dintre douã serii paralele”, în sacrificiu, „seria
speciilor naturale intermediazã doi termeni opuºi, cel care face jertfa ºi
zeitatea, între care nu existã esenþialmente nici o analogie, ba chiar nici
24
un fel de relaþie“ . Sacrificiul trebuie sã încerce sã se potriveascã aceastei
omologii care existã deja în totemism.
La baza vastelor studii pe acest subiect ale lui Georges Bataille se
aflã acest simþ al sacrificiului ca mecanism de identificare, ce are rolul
de a depãºi înstrãinarea abstractã a societãþii contemporane. Tema
centralã a operei lui Bataille este sacrificiul, detaliatã prin practicile
25
aztecilor. Din perspectiva studiilor noastre prezente, funcþiunile
arhitecturale – piramide, zigurate, turnuri, trepte etc. – sînt mai puþin
semnificative decît problemele sociale. Arhitectura rãmîne, ca
întotdeauna pentru Bataille, întruparea practicilor sociale. Însã chiar
practicile sociale trebuie studiate atent cînd ne ocupãm de problema
identificãrii.
Bataille descrie cu multe detalii complicate ritualurile pe care se
bazau sacrificiile aztecilor. De exemplu, el aminteºte povestea unui frumos
tînãr care a fost selectat dintre prizonierii de rãzboi. Tînãrului i-au fost
acordate privilegii deosebite ºi a fost tratat ca un zeu: „Se plimba prin

23
Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1989,
p. 228. (Nu am folosit traducerea româneascã a cãrþii lui Lévi-Strauss, apãrutã în
limba românã cu titlul Gîndirea sãlbaticã, n.t.).
24
Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, pp. 224-225.
25
O parte din proiectul lui Bataille este sã prezinte modalitatea constructivã în care ne
încadrãm lumea. Percepþia noastrã asupra lumii este dominatã, din perspectiva lui
Bataille, de norme sociale ºi ierarhii prestabilite, care pot fi date în vileag drept
ficþiuni. Ele încearcã deseori sã nege contradicþiile pe baza cãrora au fost create.
Bataille încearcã, prin intermediul stilului sãu non-intuitiv de a scrie, sã ajungã dincolo
de percepþia atavicã pe care noi o avem asupra lumii. Prin descrierea sa deseori
sîngeroasã ºi sinistrã a sacrificiului, Bataille cautã sã submineze premisele pe care
se fondeazã întreaga civilizaþie occidentalã.

53
oraº, îmbrãcat cu haine alese, cu flori în mînã ºi însoþit de oameni de
vazã. Fãcea reverenþe graþioase tuturor celor pe care îi întîlnea, iar
aceºtia ºtiau cã el este întruchiparea lui Tezcatlipoca (unul dintre cei
mai mari zei) ºi se închinau în faþa lui, venerîndu-l oriunde l-ar fi
26
întîlnit.” Tînãrului i-a fost permis accesul la templul din vîrful
piramidei lui Quauchxicalco, unde putea sã cînte la flaut zi ºi noapte,
dupã placul inimii. Chiar înainte de ceremonie i s-a acordat un tratament
cu totul special: „cu douãzeci de zile înainte de festival i-au fost date
patru tinere curtezane, bine pregatite ºi educate în acest scop. Pe durata
celor treizeci de zile el a avut contacte carnale cu aceste fecioare. Cele
patru fete care i-au fost date ca neveste, ºi care au fost crescute cu
mare grijã tocmai în acest scop, erau numite dupã patru zeiþe… cu
cinci zile înainte sã moarã, au organizat festivitãþi în cinstea lui, banchete
þinute în locuri rãcoroase ºi vesele, la care au participat multe cãpetenii
ºi oameni de vazã. În ziua festivalului, l-au dus într-un loc de rugãciune,
numit Tlacuchcalco. Înainte sã ajungã acolo, în locul numit
Tlapitouaian, femeile s-au dat la o parte ºi l-au lãsat singur. Mergînd
spre locul în care urma sã fie sacrificat, a urcat singur treptele, ºi pe
fiecare treaptã a frînt cîte unul dintre flautele la care cîntase în timpul
27
anului.”
Dar sfîrºitul a fost crud ºi rapid, scopul fiind acela de a-i smulge
inima în timp ce încã mai bãtea ºi de a o oferi soarelui ca ofrandã. „Era
aºteptat sus de satrapii sau preoþii care trebuiau sã-l omoare, iar aceºtia
l-au înºfãcat ºi l-au trîntit pe blocul de piatrã, ºi, în timp ce îl þineau de
picioare, de mîini ºi de cap, întins pe spate, preotul care þinea cuþitul de
piatrã i l-a înfipt cu o miºcare puternicã în piept ºi, dupã ce scoase cuþitul,
ºi-a repezit mîna în deschizãturã ºi i-a smuls inima, pe care a oferit-o
28
imediat soarelui.”

26
Bataille citînd din Bernardino da Sahagún, Historia General de las cosas de Nueva
España, Mexico City: Porrúa, 1956, in The Accursed Share, Vol. I, trans. Robert
Hurley, New York: Zone Books, 1988, pp. 49-50.
27
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 50
28
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 50.

54
 Evident, Bataille este departe de a elogia sacrificiul. El recunoaºte
cã, deºi unele victime se oferã de bunãvoie, multe opun rezistenþã, þipînd
ºi plîngînd în timp ce urcã treptele spre altar. Toate sînt constrînse sã
devinã victime. Nici una nu se oferã voluntar. ªi deºi erau tratate omeneºte
pînã în momentul sacrificiului – victimele erau încurajate sã stea pînã
tîrziu în noaptea dinainte, cîntînd ºi dansînd în extaz, sau li se oferea o
concubinã – nu toþi erau priviþi cu acelaºi respect dupã sacrificare:
„Victimele obiºnuite erau aruncate pe trepte în jos. Cruzimile cele mai
înspãimîntãtoare erau un lucru obiºnuit. Cadavrul era jupuit, iar preoþii
se înfãºurau în pielea însîngeratã. Bãrbaþii erau aruncaþi într-un cuptor,
pentru ca apoi sã fie scoºi cu un cîrlig ºi aºezaþi încã în viaþã pe piatra de
sacrificiu. De cele mai multe ori, carnea sfinþitã prin jertfã era mîncatã.
Sãrbãtorile se succedau fãrã întrerupere, iar serviciul divin cerea sacrificii
29
nenumãrate: se estimeazã o cifrã de douãzeci de mii.”

Necesitatea sacrificiului
De ce îl intereseazã atunci pe Bataille problema sacrificiului? Pentru
Bataille, principiul care stã la baza ideii de sacrificiu deconspirã limitãrile
„cheltuielilor productive”. Bataille face o distincþie clarã între ceea ce el
denumeºte „cheltuieli productive” ºi „cheltuieli non-productive”.
Cheltuielile productive stau la baza principiului economiei occidentale,
un proiect utilitar, al cãrui scop este propagarea speciei. Din aceastã
cauzã tot ce este virat spre profit ºi cîºtig cade sub incidenþa cheltuielilor
productive. De cealaltã parte se aflã categoria cheltuielilor non-produc-
tive, care se bazeazã pe premisa pierderilor. Aceastã categorie ia în
considerare tot ceea ce nu intrã în cadrul cheltuielilor productive: moartea,
groaza ºi aºa mai departe. Acest lucru rãmîne o parte esenþialã a culturii
occidentale, adesea deghizatã sub alte înfãþiºãri. Aºa cum afirma John
Lechte: „În cadrul societãþii burgheze occidentale, punerea în practicã a
cheltuielilor non-productive este deseori învãluitã ºi ia forma altor
activitãþi – de exemplu, traiul în condiþii de lux, jelirea, rãzboiul, sportul,

29
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 51.

55
arta, activitãþile sexuale perverse etc. Cheltuiala non-productivã dã frîu
liber principiului plãcerii ºi este guvernatã de o logicã a distrugerii care,
30
dupã Bataille, stã la baza poeziei adevãrate.
În lumea profanã a cheltuielilor productive, subiectul s-a materializat,
a fost transformat într-un lucru. Ideea de sacrificiu provoacã abstractizarea
ºi reducþia ontologicã a acestei lumi a lucrurilor: „Sacrificiul înapoiazã
lumii sacre ceea ce folosinþa servilã a degradat în profan. Folosinþa servilã
a transformat într-un lucru (obiect) ceea ce, la un nivel mai profund, este
de aceeaºi naturã cu subiectul, aflîndu-se într-o relaþie de participare
31
profundã cu acesta.” Sacrificiul, cu alte cuvinte, pune în discuþie relaþiile
dintre obiecte în cadrul societãþii de consum, celebrînd astfel
subiectivismul. Scopul este acela de a restabili o formã de comuniune.
Ceea ce ar trebui distrus nu sînt plantele ºi animalele ca atare ci, mai
curînd, aºa cum sugereazã Bataille, ele ar trebui distruse „în mãsura în
32
care au devenit lucruri.”
Distrugerea fizicã nu este necesarã în sine, deºi distrugerea în
universul real este cea mai „propice” pentru universul simbolurilor.
Într-adevãr, a sacrifica nu înseamnã neapãrat a omorî, ci mai curînd a
abandona ºi a ceda. Evident cã o formã sãrãcitã ºi profanã a distrugerii
utilitare va avea cu greu efectul maxim: „Victima unui sacrificiu nu
poate fi consumatã în aceeaºi manierã în care un motor consumã
combustibilul. Ceea ce ritualul readuce în prim plan este participarea
intimã a sacrificatorului ºi a victimei, lucru pe care folosinþa servilã îl
33
desfiinþase.” Aceastã intimitate, aceastã „imanenþã” dintre subiect ºi
obiect, este descrisã de cãtre Bataille în aceiaºi termeni ai intimitãþii
prin care soþia este cunoscutã în momentul consumãrii actului
sexual. În viziunea lui Bataille, cel ce oficiazã sacrificiul exclamã în
momentul sacrificiului: „Fac parte în mod intim din lumea suveranã a
zeilor ºi miturilor, din lumea violenþei ºi generozitãtii necalculate, tot

30
John Lechte, Julia Kristeva, London: Routledge, 1990, p. 73.
31
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 55.
32
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 56.
33
Bataille, Theory of Religion, trad. Robert Hurley, New York: Zone Books, 1992, p. 44.

56
aºa cum soþia mea aparþine dorinþelor mele. Te scot pe tine, victimã,
din lumea în care erai ºi puteai sã fii doar redus la condiþia de lucru, cu
un sens strãin adevãratei tale naturi. Te rechem în sînul lumii divine, a
34
eminenþei profunde a tot ceea ce existã.”
Problema obiectualizãrii, a reificãrii, dã ideilor lui Bataille tentã evi-
dent marxistã. Odatã ce un sclav a fost tratat ca un instrument ce lucreazã
în folosul stãpînului, sclavul a devenit un instrument ce aproape poate fi
vîndut. Sclavul a devenit un bun, ºi orice relaþie dintre sclav ºi stãpîn s-a
pierdut. În vreme ce sclavia în sine a fost abolitã, capitalismul, dupã cum
observa Bataille, menþine relaþia de obiect a „ordinii lucrurilor”. Sacrificiul,
în orice caz, atacã aceastã logicã prin apartenenþa sa la domeniul
cheltuielilor non-productive, antitetice acumulãrii de tip capitalist. El
încearcã sã schimbe ordinea realã, „ordinea lucrurilor” cu ordinea divinã,
nu prin redarea obiectului consacrat ordinii reale, ci eliberîndu-l. „Sacrificiul
distruge legãturile reale de subordonare ale obiectului”, dupã spusele lui
Bataille, „sustrage victima din lumea utilitãþii ºi o înapoiazã lumii capriciului
35
inteligibil.”
Totuºi, chiar ºi într-o economie de tip sclavagist existã problema
sacrificiului, deoarece un sclav va fi întotdeauna tratat, mãcar parþial, ca
un obiect. De aceea, sacrificiul unui sclav va fi compromis ºi va conduce
spre violenþa inerentã rãzboiului, iar în rãzboi inamicul este întotdeauna
tratat ca un lucru. Diferenþa cheie dintre sacrificiul intern ºi rãzboiul
extern este aceea cã sacrificiul este întotdeauna controlat ºi limitat, poate
ºi pentru cã victima nu poate riposta. Din aceastã perspectivã, sacrificiul
ideal, pentru Bataille, nu ar fi acela al unui sclav sau prizonier de rãzboi
– cei ce se gãsesc în cel mai de jos eºalon al societãþii – ci acela al unui
prinþ sau rege, cei mai de seamã membri ai unei societãþi: „Consumul
intens cere victime din vîrful piramidei, care nu reprezintã doar bunul
cel mai de preþ al poporului, ci poporul însuºi; sau cel puþin elemente
care îl desemneazã ºi care vor fi destinate sacrificiului, de aceastã datã
nu datoritã unei înstrãinãri de lumea exterioarã – o cãdere – ci, din contrã,
34
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 43.
35
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 61.

57
datoritã unei proximitãþi excepþionale, cum ar fi suveranul sau copiii (a
36
cãror ucidere ar însemna o realizare dublã a sacrificiului)” . Mai mult
decît atît, dacã sacrificiul, în forma sa maximã implicã sacrificiul unei
zeitãþi, atunci sacrificiul unui suveran va corespunde întotdeauna într-un
mod mai semnificativ decît acela al unui sclav.
Principiul din spatele sacrificiului este acela cã subiectul simte
nevoia de a recurge la ordinea fireascã a lucrurilor, astfel încît sã se
subordoneze acelei ordini. Sacrificiul inverseazã acest lucru: „Victima
este un surplus luat din bogãþia utilã. ªi el poate fi sustras din ea doar
pentru a fi consumat fãrã a aduce un profit, deci poate fi distrus complet.
Odatã ales, el devine partea blestematã, destinatã consumului violent.
Dar blestemul îl smulge din ordinea fireascã a lucrurilor; îl înzestreazã
cu o figurã recognoscibilã, care acum radiazã intimitate, teamã,
37
profunzime caracteristicã fiinþelor vii.”
Ideea aici este cã moartea dezvãluie „impostura” realitãþii care a
încercat sã suprime forþa intimitãþii vieþii astfel încît sã protejeze ordinea
fireascã a lucrurilor. Intimitatea constituie un risc la adresa acestei ordini,
deoarece ameninþã sã dea frîu liber infinitei sale violenþe. Intimitatea
este perceputã ca fiind violentã, deoarece ameninþã sã submineze
autonomia individului. „Adevãrata ordine”, noteazã Bataille, „nu respinge
neapãrat negarea vieþii, cu alte cuvinte nu respinge moartea, ci respinge
afirmarea vieþii intime, a cãrei violenþã necuantificabilã reprezintã un
pericol la adresa stabilitãþii lucrurilor, o afirmaþie care se dezvãluie cu
adevãrat numai prin moarte. Adevãrata ordine trebuie sã anuleze – sã
neutralizeze – aceastã viaþã intimã, ºi sã o înlocuiascã cu lucrul care
38
reprezintã individul într-o societate a muncii.” Doar prin moarte ceea
ce a fost ascuns poate fi revelat: „Puterea morþii înseamnã cã aceastã
lume realã poate avea doar o imagine neutrã a vieþii, cã intimitatea vieþii

36
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 59.
37
Bataille, Theory of Religion, pp. 46-47.
38
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 47.

58
nu-þi dezvãluie nãucitoarea consumare decît în momentul în care viaþa
39
înceteazã”.
Mai mult decît atît, deºi moartea este în mod normal însoþitã de
durere, pentru Bataille durerea nu este foarte diferitã de bucurie.
Durerea se exprimã prin lacrimi. Dar lacrimile reprezintã „o finã
cunoaºtere a vieþii împãrtãºite, surprinse în intimitatea sa”, ºi tocmai
prin absenþa acestui tip de cunoaºtere este aceasta ºi mai acut adusã
40
în prim plan. De aici, ºi bine cunoscuta expresie „Nici nu ºtiam cît
de apropiaþi eram pînã nu au dispãrut”. ªi dacã familiaritatea
neutralizeazã în timp emoþia, tot aºa dispariþia abruptã a acesteia
„dezvãluie o multitudine de aspecte care sînt nãucitor de strãlu-
41
citoare.” Moartea, aºadar, dezvãluie splendida intimitate a lucrurilor,
în ordinea lor miticã.
Bataille considerã cã moartea nu trebuie dispreþuitã. Nu este vorba
doar de faptul cã moartea se aflã într-o legaturã mai strînsã cu viaþa
decît ar conºtientiza majoritatea oamenilor, prin faptul cã substanþele
unde, cum spune el: „miºunã ouãle, germenii ºi viermii nu ne fac
doar inimile sã tresalte, dar ne întorc ºi stomacul pe dos”, reprezintã
chiar „substanþele instabile, rãu mirositoare, asemãnãtoare cu viermii,
42
în care fermenteazã viaþa.” Este vorba mai curînd de faptul cã
moartea este un corolar necesar vieþii. Este o lege a naturii pe care
cei mai mulþi oamenii o ignorã. „Dupã aceastã lege, viaþa este
efuziune; este în opoziþie cu echilibrul, cu stabilitatea. Este miºcarea
tumultuoasã care þîºneºte ºi se consumã singurã. Explozia sa perpetuã
este posibilã cu o singurã condiþie: organismele consumate sã facã
43
loc altora noi, care sã intre în joc cu forþe noi.”

39
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 48.
40
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 48.
41
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 81.
42
Bataille, The Accursed Share, pp. 84-85.
43
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 59.

59
 Moartea, cu alte cuvinte, anticipeazã ºi depinde de forþa vitalã a
vieþii, una presupunînd-o pe cealaltã. Mai mult, realizarea iminenþei morþii
mãreºte în mod natural conºtientizarea vieþii. Acest lucru este valabil nu
doar pentru cei care se apropie de sfîrºitul vieþii sau cei care se confruntã
cu o boalã iremediabilã, dar ºi celor care, voluntar cautã fiorul morþii în
sporturi periculoase, cum ar fi ski-ul nautic, basejumping, bungee
jumping ºi aºa mai departe. ªi ce este acest „fior”, dacã nu un flirt cu
moartea? Moartea se erotizeazã.
În actul sacrificiului, victima este, de fapt, un obiect substitut al
identificãrii. Victima este sacrificatã în numele celorlalþi, drept parte
a unui mecanism controlat, care îi acordã violenþei modul de exprimare
potrivit. Prin expierea violenþei, sacrificiul ajutã la stãvilirea acesteia.
Aºa cum observa ºi Bataille: „Dintotdeauna scopul sacrificiului a fost
sã ofere violenþei o supapã, pentru a ne salva pe noi ceilalþi de pericolul
mortal al contaminãrii.” Tocmai prin aceasta se dezvãluie legãtura cu
poezia, dar în acelaºi timp ºi pericolul extremelor, pe care adoptarea
unei astfel de poziþii o provoacã. Pentru cã una înseamnã sã susþii
cum cã societatea contemporanã a pierdut sensul conceptului de
sacrificiu, ºi cu totul altceva sã reintroduci sacrificiul în numele artei.
Însãºi „voinþa de putere” pe care Nietzsche a celebrat-o dintotdeauna
ameninþã sã conducã la violenþã. ªi nu se poate garanta cã acest gen
de violenþã poate fi þinutã în frîu, aºa cum se întîmplã în cazul
sacrificiului. În poezia clipei supreme a sacrificiului putem recunoaºte
ºi estetizarea politicii care, aºa cum a observat Walter Benjamin, stã
la baza fascismului. Problema cheie aici este reprezentatã de
chestiunea controlului. Sacrificiul este violent, dar ajutã, în acelaºi
timp la strunirea violenþei. Fascismul, prin contrast, poate fi doar
anarhic.

Sacrificiul ca ºi comuniune
Aceste douã abordãri – sacrificiul ca formã de vitalizare ºi sacrificiul
ca formã de identificare – pot fi percepute ca variaþiuni ale aceleiaºi
teme. Scopul lor este, în esenþã, similar. În contextul ritualurilor de
sacrificiu din timpul ctitoririi unei clãdiri cu scopul de a da viaþã clãdirii

60
respective, sacrificiul are rolul de a pune în relaþie constructorul ºi
clãdirea. Prin actul de „însufleþire” a clãdirii, sacrificiul conferã
construcþiei acelaºi statut ca al constructorului. Mai mult, principiul
opoziþiei la ideea de reificare a relaþiilor dintre obiecte, care stã în spatele
abordãrii lui Bataille, conduce – în cazul sacrificiilor legate de clãdiri –
dacã nu la însufleþirea acestora, atunci, cel puþin la inaugurarea unei
relaþii mai dinamice cu clãdirea din partea celor implicaþi în sacrificiu.
S-ar pãrea cã cele douã mecanisme sînt douã feþe ale aceleiaºi monede.
Fie cã obiectul este însufleþit astfel încît sã semene cu subiectul, fie cã
subiectul este eliberat din restricþiile impuse de legãturile dintre obiecte
pentru a se putea bucura de o relaþie mai intimã cu un anume obiect.
În ambele cazuri, se produce o schimbare, o înclinare cãtre o
relaþionare la un nivel mai intuitiv cu clãdirea, una care înceteazã sã mai
fie staticã sau obiectificatã, ci dinamicã ºi însufleþitã, ºi acest lucru se
întîmplã deoarece Bataille, ca ºi Hubert sau Mauss, vede sacrificiul ca
pornind nu de la ideea de viaþã sau moarte, ci de la o viaþã cu un grad mai
mare de intimitate, care este eliberatã de alienarea cauzatã de relaþiile
dintre obiecte. Dacã pentru Hubert ºi Mauss rolul sacrificiului este acela
de a servi drept conductor ce animeazã inanimatul, la fel, pentru Bataille,
„moartea” în cazul sacrificiului este perceputã ca o formã de eliberare
din constrîngerile economiei de producþie, constrîngeri care constituie o
formã de „moarte vie”. Tot aºa cum în perspectiva lui Hubert ºi Mauss
aceastã forþã vitalã nu doar va proteja clãdirea ca un fel de zeitate tutelarã,
ci chiar îi va conferi forþã, pentru Bataille sacrificiul reprezintã nu moartea,
ci viaþa.
În ambele modele, sacrificiul poate fi privit drept un mecanism de
comuniune. În clipa extaticã a sacrificiului, distincþia dintre sine ºi celãlalt
se dizolvã, dispare. În intimitatea narcisistã a identificãrii subiectul devine
un moment de purã subiectivitate. Dar, mai mult decît atît, sacrificiul
distruge abstracþia relaþiilor dintre obiecte ºi creeazã o legaturã între cel
ce oficiazã sacrificiul ºi obiectul sacrificiului. Sacrificiul are deci rolul
de a grava propria imagine în clãdire. Predînd victima, cel ce oficiazã
sacrificiul trãieºte în continuare prin intermediul obiectului sacrificiului.

61
Sacrificînd o fiinþã umanã – sau un surogat al acesteia – la temelia clãdirii,
constructorul nu doar „garanteazã„ stabilitatea ei, dar în acelaºi timp se
ºi identificã cu ea.
Constructorul se dãruieºte în totalitate clãdirii ºi devine, în plan
simbolic, parte din clãdire. Momentul în care el se elibereazã de alienarea
indusã de relaþiile dintre obiecte ºi intrã în comuniune cu clãdirea este
unul extatic.
Pornind de la aceasta, putem sã recunoaºtem „sacrificiul” care stã
la baza întregii arhitecturi. Astfel, mituri ale sacrificiului, care s-au infiltrat
în folclorul de arhitecturã pot fi înþelese în contextul chestiunii identitãþii.
Este ca ºi cum sacrificiul unei fiinþe umane este necesar nu doar pentru a
însufleþi piatra lipsitã de viaþã, dar ºi pentru a stabili o relaþie intimã cu
clãdirea. ªi, mai mult decît atît, putem percepe „sacrificiul” ca
regãsindu-se în sacrificiul de sine în momentul extatic al experienþei
estetice.

62
 PARTEA ÎNTUNECATÅ A DOMUS-ULUI.
ÎNTUNECATÅ
REDOMESTICIREA EUROPEI CENTRALE ª I
DE EST

În teoria recentã, arhitectura în sensul de „locuire” a devenit un fel

de model dominant, alãturi de invocãrile arhitecturii regionaliste ºi apo-
logia conceptului de genius loci. E o abordare ce rezultã din opera
filozofului german Martin Heidegger, urmatã apoi de cei care i-au
continuat gîndirea – teoreticieni ai arhitecturii1
cum ar fi Christian
Norberg-Schulz ºi filosofi ca Gianni Vattimo. Mulþi dintre ei au considerat
cã a privi arhitectura ca „locuire” este o cale de a combate fenomenul de
alienare din societatea contemporanã ºi un mijloc de rezistenþã la lipsa
deloc omogenizatoare impusã de Stilul Internaþional.
În contextul Europei Centrale ºi de Est, în mod special, arhitecþii au
considerat un astfel de demers ca antidot la uniformitatea platã a arhitecturii
de stat din perioada comunistã. Acesta reflectã creºterea rapidã de interes
faþã de filosofia lui Heidegger în culturã în general, ce a urmat cãderii
comunismului. Ceea ce aº dori eu sã argumentez este însã faptul cã, dusã
la extrem, „locuirea” însãºi – logica domus-ului – poate avea consecinþe
negative. Existã, susþin eu, o laturã negativã a „locuirii” – o parte întunecatã
a domus-ului – care face acest demers cumva inadecvat pentru o nouã
Europã care a cunoscut deja latura întunecatã a naþionalismului.

1
Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture,
London: Academy Editions, 1980; Gianni Vattimo, ‘The End of Modernity, The
End of The Project?’, trad. David Webb, Journal of Philosophy and the Visual Arts,
Academy Editions, pp.74-7.

63
 Heidegger ºi problema locuirii
În opinia lui Heidegger, capacitatea unei fiinþe de a locui pe acest
pãmînt – a „locui” în sensul fenomenologic – este în mod esenþial o
experienþã arhitecturalã. Însãºi ideea de Fiinþare a fiinþei este legatã de
starea de situare a unui individ în lume. Aceasta este ideea care se
contureazã cel mai clar în eseul sãu „Construire, Locuire, Gîndire”. Aºa
cum indicã însuºi titlul eseului, pentru Heidegger existã o legãturã clarã
între „locuire” ºi arhitecturã. Întregul concept de „locuire” este ancorat
în arhitectural. Din punctul lui Heidegger de vedere, o clãdire ar trebui
sã fie pe ºi a pãmîntului, a sitului pe care a fost construitã. El ilustreazã
acest lucru cu ajutorul exemplului templului grecesc, care stã atît de
natural în cadrul sãu, încît pare o prelungire a acestuia. Pretutindeni în
gîndirea heideggerianã este accentuatã ideea de teren, de pãmînt, ºi acest
lucru se aplicã în special problemei arhitecturii. Clãdirile nu sînt clãdiri
în sensul abstract al cuvîntului, ci capãtã adevãratul sens al prezenþei
tocmai pentru cã sînt situate acolo unde sînt, prin Dasein. „Nu depinde
înflorirea oricãrei opere de artã”, se întreabã el, „de rãdãcinile sale
2
într-un sol natal?” Aceastã evocare a solului, aceastã tendinþã spre o
arhitecturã „localizatã“ poate fi înþeleasã drept o evocare a heimat-ului,
a patriei. Iar pentru Heidegger nu în oraºe, ci in mediul rural – unde
individul se aflã cu adevãrat în legãturã cu natura ºi cu tradiþia – poate
înflori sensul cuvîntului patrie.
„Existenþa patriei are ºanse de a fi într-adevãr realã acolo unde forþele
naturii înconjurãtoare ºi rãmãºiþele tradiþiei istorice se aflã laolaltã, unde
dominã o origine ºi un stil vechi, întreþinut, de existenþã umanã. Astãzi
doar regiunile rurale ºi oraºele mici pot servi acestei sarcini hotãrîtoare
– dacã îºi recunosc din nou calitãþile neobiºnuite, dacã ºtiu unde sã
stabileascã graniþa între ele ºi viaþa din marile oraºe ºi zonele gigantice
3
ale complexelor industriale moderne.”
2
Heidegger, Discourse on Thinking, trad. J. M. Anderson and E. H. Freund, New York:
Harper and Row, 1966, p. 47.
3
Heidegger, ‘Homeland’, trad. Thomas Franklin O’Meara, Listening, Vol. 6, No. 3 (autumn,
1971), pp. 231-238, citat în Michael Zimmerman, Heidegger’s Confrontation with
Modernity, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1990, p. 71.

64
 Acest apel la patrie pare sã facã parte dintr-o concepþie naþionalistã
coerentã în gîndirea sa care îºi are ecoul într-o serie de strategii
etimologice forþate din scrierile sale, prin care încearcã sã ofere autoritate
limbii germane, gãsind originea anumitor cuvinte germane în greaca
veche. Toate acestea par sã sugereze cã existã un potenþial de naþionalism
care strãbate modul sãu de a gîndi, un naþionalism care, în contextul
Germaniei de dinainte de rãzboi, avea ceva comun cu fascismul.
Ar fi însã o greºealã sã asociem prea mult gîndirea lui Heidegger cu
excesele ideologiei fasciste. În opera lui existã multe lucruri lãudabile ºi se
poate susþine cã filosofia lui nu conduce în mod necesar la o concepþie
naþionalistã. Dacã am judeca întreaga sa gîndire doar la nivelul politicului
am comite o nedreptate. Opera sa lasã într-adevãr loc unei varietãþi de
interpretãri, iar complexitatea gîndirii sale învinge orice categorisire strictã.
Dar se poate ºi afirma cã opera sa se preteazã unei perspective naþionaliste ºi
cã întreaga sa viaþã a fost înscrisã într-o perspectivã naþionalistã. Nu e deloc
neglijabil faptul cã un filosof precum Heidegger a fãcut parte la un moment
dat din Partidul Naþional Socialist, poziþie pentru care a fost aspru criticat.
În „Autoafirmarea Universitãþii Germane”, discursul sãu ca rector
din 1933, Heidegger asociazã în mod evident propriile idei cu aspiraþiile
naþional-socialismului. Heidegger leagã fãrã echivoc noþiunea de fiinþã
de „pãmîntul ºi sîngele poporului”:
....„Spiritul este un factor decisiv pentru esenþa Fiinþei, o determinare
aflatã în armonie cu originile ºi cunoaºterea. Iar lumea spiritualã a unui
popor (Volk) nu este suprastructura sa culturalã ºi nici arsenalul de
cunoºtinþe utile ºi de valori; este mai degrabã puterea care vine din
pãstrarea, la nivelul cel mai profund, a forþelor care sînt înrãdãcinate în
solul ºi sîngele unui popor (Volk), puterea de a trezi tot ce este mai adînc
4
ºi de a zgudui cît mai mult existenþa poporului.”
Teme similare se regãsesc în discursul lui Heidegger în onoarea
eroului naþionalist german Albert Leo Schlageter, care a fost executat în

4
Martin Heidegger, ‘The Self-Assertion of the German University’ în Richard Wolin
(ed.), The Heidegger Controversy, Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 1993, pp. 29-39.
În acest volum se pot gãsi ºi alte exemple ale retoricii pro-naziste heideggeriene.

65
1932 pentru acte de sabotaj împotriva armatei franceze de ocupaþie. Aici
pãmîntul este identificat în mod specific cu Pãdurea Neagrã:

„Studentule din Freiburg! Studentule german! Cînd, în drumeþiile

tale, pui piciorul pe cãrãrile muntelui ºi mergi prin pãdurile ºi vãile acestei
Pãduri Negre, locul de baºtinã al acestui erou, simte adînc acest lucru ºi sã
ºtii cã munþii în care a crescut acest bãiat de fermier sînt din piatrã primitivã,
din granit. De multã vreme lucreazã la cãlirea voinþei. Soarele de toamnã
din Pãdurea Neagrã scaldã într-o luminã glorioasã ºi clarã lanþurile
muntoase ºi pãdurile. De mult hrãneºte sufletul limpede. Pe cînd
[Schlageter] stãtea lipsit de apãrare în faþa puºtilor, privirea interioarã a
eroului s-a ridicat deasupra gurii puºtilor îndreptîndu-se spre lumina zilei
ºi munþii de acasã, ca sã moarã pentru poporul german ºi Reich-ul sãu,
5
avînd în faþa ochilor þara alemanicã.”

Heidegger a susþinut cã propria sa gîndire se înrãdãcineazã tocmai

în acest pãmînt alemanic:

„Legãtura intimã a operei mele cu Pãdurea Neagrã ºi oamenii ei provine

6
dintr-o înrãdãcinare de secole, de neînlocuit, în pãmîntul ºvab-alemanic.”

Chiar simpla evocarea a pãmîntului la Heidegger repetã un loc comun

al ideologiei fasciste. Dupã cum susþinea Klaus Theweleit, în contextul
fascismului german de dinainte de rãzboi, aceastã evocare poate fi
înþeleasã în termeni psihanalitici ca o nevoie de a întãri ºi de a proteja
7
ego-ul prin identificarea cu un corp mai mare. Aceastã identitate lãrgitã
5
Martin Heidegger, ‘Schlageter’ în Richard Wolin (ed.), The Heidegger Controversy,
Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 1993, p. 41.
6
Martin Heidegger, ‘Schneeberger’, p. 216, trad. Thomas Sheehan, citat în Sheehan,
Heidegger: The Man and the Thinker, Chicago: Precedent Publishing, 1981, p. 213.
7
Klaus Theweleit considerã cã în cazul soldaþilor germani din trupele Freikorp este
vorba deseori despre un ego nedezvoltat ºi „încã neformat pe de-a întregul”, care
face ca aceastã nevoie sã se manifeste acut la aceºti tineri bãrbaþi care provin dintr-un
anumit context social ºi politic. Klaus Theweleit, Male Fantasies, Vol. 1, trans. Stephen
Conway, Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987; Male Fantasies, Vol. 2, trad. Chris Turner
and Erica Carter, Cambridge: Polity Press, 1989.

66
s-ar constitui într-o ordine socialã ºi s-ar întrupa în figura unui conducãtor ºi
o situare fizicã: ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer. Prin urmare, identitatea se
teritorializeazã ºi se structureazã într-un anumit spaþiu geografic. Individul
devine una cu þara, într-un proces de identificare, care este la rîndul lui mitic,
în timp ce respectivul proces se bazeazã pe alte mituri ale identificãrii. În
aceastã dizolvare în naturã, diferenþele sînt reprimate, iar noua identitate se
asocieazã cu pãmîntul-mamã. De aceea în ideologia fascistã vom gãsi referiri
dese la fenomenele naturii – furtunã, sînge ºi pãmînt. Dupã cum scria Ernst
Jünger, o figurã care a exercitat o mare influenþã asupra lui Heidegger, despre
fascismul german de dinainte de rãzboi:

„Ceea ce se naºte acum este esenþa naþionalismului, o nouã relaþie cu

primordialul, cu pãmîntul-mamã, al cãrui sol care a fost distrus în repetatele
8
focuri ale bãtãliilor materiale ºi care a fost apoi fertilizat prin rîuri de sînge.”

Se poate observa cã tocmai în acest context al identitãþii care îºi

trage rãdãcinile din pãmînt, grupurile care nu au rãdãcini acolo sînt
excluse. În mod tradiþional, evreii ºi þiganii sînt ºi unii ºi alþii „rãtãcitori”,
deºi fiecare din motive diferite: þiganii rãtãcesc pentru cã în general aºa
au ales, evreii fac acest lucru mai mult din nevoie. Nici unii nu sînt
înrãdãcinaþi în pãmînt. „Rãtãcitorul” nu se potriveºte cu ideea de
poziþionare sau de înrãdãcinare ºi prin urmare nu se potriveºte nici cu
filosofia heimatului. „Rãtãcitorul” este un element care nu poate fi
controlat, nu poate fi domesticit ºi nu poate fi prins în logica domus-ului.
De aceea, „rãtãcitorul” este tratat ca fiind „celãlalt”, cel exclus, ºi este
perceput ca o ameninþare pentru naþiune. Aºa cum naþionalismul
realizeazã o identificare simbolicã cu pãmîntul, tot aºa genereazã ºi un
antagonism îndreptat împotriva celor care nu se pot identifica cu pãmîntul.
Dupã cum observã Klaus Theweleit, chiar teama de revãrsãri ºi miºcãri
9
care nu pot fi stãvilite caracterizeazã obsesia controlului la fasciºti.

8
Citat de Theweleit, vol. 2, p. 88. Pentru influenþa lui Jünger asupra lui Heidegger vezi
Michael Zimmerman, Heidegger’s Confrontation with Modernity, Bloomington and
Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1990, pp. 66-93.
9
Klaus Theweleit, Male Fantasies, Vol. 1, pp. 229-435.

67
 Domus-ul ºi Megalopolis-ul
Implicarea lui Heidegger în naþional-socialism era cunoscutã
intelectualilor germani de ceva timp, dar doar odatã cu publicarea în 1987 a
cãrþii lui Victor Farias Heidegger et le nazisme a devenit evidentã mãsura în
care Heidegger a fost implicat în organizaþie, iar anti-semitismul sãu a devenit
cunoscut ºi intelectualilor francezi. Evenimentul a înteþit flãcãrile a ceea ce
avea sã devinã „controversa Heidegger”. Cei care au încercat sã îl apere
pentru imprudenþele sale politice au susþinut fie cã Heidegger era naiv
10
politic, fie cã filosofia sa este în esenþa ei apoliticã . Alþii, precum Jean-
François Lyotard, au fost mai puþin îngãduitori. În cartea sa, Heidegger ºi
11
„evreii” , Lyotard foloseºte cuvîntul „evrei” cu e mic pentru a se referi nu
doar la evrei, ci la toate grupurile minoritare care au fost percepute drept
„ceilalþi”: strãinii, nonconformiºtii, artiºtii, anarhiºtii, negrii, vagabonzii, arabii
ºi oricine altcineva care ar putea fi perceput ca strãin sau potenþial ameninþãtor.
Pentru Lyotard, crima pe care a înfãptuit-o Heidegger prin modul sãu de a
gîndi o reprezintã uitarea ºi uitarea uitãrii. Cãci în ceea ce a fost lãsat pe din
afarã, în ceea ce a fost exclus, în ce a fost de fapt „reprimat” rezidã defectele
gîndirii lui Heidegger. ªi aceastã uitare generalã implicã ºi o uitare mai
specificã: greºeala lui Heidegger de a nu recunoaºte sprijinul dat naþional-
12
socialismului ºi de a nu-ºi fi cerut scuze pentru asta.
13
În lucrarea sa „Domus ºi Megalopolis” , Lyotard reia problema
gîndirii lui Heidegger în context arhitectural. Lyotard pune în opoziþie
domus-ul tradiþional cu condiþia noastrã contemporanã, aceea de
10
Vezi drept exemplu Fred Dallmayr, The Other Heidegger, Ithaca and London: Cornell
University Press.
11
Lucrarea lui Victor Farías a fost tradusã în englezã în 1989 ca Heidegger and Nazism,
trad. Paul Barrell et al., Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Jean-François Lyotard,
Heidegger and ‘the jews’, trad. Andreas Michel and Mark Roberts, Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1990.
12
Aceste chestiuni sînt discutate pe larg în Richard Wolin (ed.), The Heidegger
Controversy, Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 1993. Vezi în special schimbul de scrisori
dintre Herbert Marcuse ºi Martin Heidegger. Alte cãrþi despre acest subiect includ
Hans Sluga, Heidegger’s Crisis, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993.
13
Jean-François Lyotard, The Inhuman, trad. Geoffrey Bennington and Rachel Bowlby,
Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991, pp.191-204.

68
megalopolis. Cu alte cuvinte, el prezintã în contrast douã moduri de
existenþã, douã idealuri de viaþã. Deºi unul, domus-ul, este asociat cu
ideea de simplu cãmin, iar celãlalt, megalopolis-ul, este asociat cu oraºul,
el nu opune cãminul oraºului, ci mai degrabã condiþia de cãmin condiþiei
de oraº. El pune în contrast mitul domus-ul – fenomenul de „acasã“– cu
modelul mai strãin al „vieþii de oraº“ din era megalopolis-ului.
Domus-ul tradiþional a fost prezentat ca o idilã bucolicã, unde tot ce
faci este sã te supui physis-ului – adicã ordinii naturale a lucrurilor –
punîndu-te în serviciul voinþei acestei ordini. Domus-ul tradiþional are
propriul sãu ritm natural care conþine ºi controleazã totul. Ierarhia
domesticã a domus-ului are ºi ea ordinea sa naturalã, cu stãpînul ºi stãpîna,
dominus ºi domina, ºi cu ancilla, femeia servitoare. Totuºi aceastã imagine
de idilã bucolicã rãmîne pentru Lyotard doar o imagine. Încã din timpul
lui Virgil, domus-ul nu a mai fost posibil. „Domesticitatea”, comenteazã
Lyotard, „s-a încheiat ºi probabil cã nici nu a existat vreodatã, decît ca
14
visul unui copil mare care se trezeºte ºi îl distruge trezindu-se” .
Domus-ul actual nu este decît un mit, un produs al megalopolis-ului, o
tînjire nostalgicã pentru ceva ce în prezent nu poate fi decît un miraj.
Pentru Lyotard nu mai poate exista domus; megalopolis-ul a înãbuºit
domus-ul, l-a „erodat”, pe el ºi comunitatea lui. Odatã cu sosirea mega-
lopolis-ului, valorile tradiþionale ale domus-ului s-au transformat, iar
15
hegemonia ordinii naturale a fost înlocuitã de artificial . Dar pentru
Lyotard, esenþial este faptul cã domus-ul constituie o formã de mit. Nu
înseamnã cã miturile – „miturile cu care trãim”– sînt în esenþã rele, ci e
vorba de faptul cã existã ceva înºelãtor la mit, prin faptul cã propria-i
identitate de mit rãmîne ascunsã. ªi tocmai prin aceastã recurgere la
mitic, gîndirea lui Heidegger devine suspectã.
Într-un asemenea context, valorile domus-ului devin de asemenea
faþade. Nu pot fi niciodatã invocate, pot fi doar mimate, ca în cazul
nazismului. De aceea, pentru Lyotard, „serviciul” naturii din cadrul

14
Lyotard, p. 201.
15
Pentru Lyotard ceea ce preia megalopolis-ul de la noþiunea de control a domus-ului
este o formã de control care oferã o nouã tehno-ºtiinþã, una care nu este teritorializatã
ºi istoricizatã, ci este computerizatã.

69
domus-ului originar duce inevitabil la serviciul – dienst – din discursul
de rector al lui Heidegger, un sens gol ºi ironic al ideii de serviciu, în care
„serviciul cunoaºterii” este tratat la acelaºi nivel cu „serviciul muncii” ºi
16
„serviciul militar”. Conceptul de domus ia aici o altã „întorsãturã“. Pentru
cã în era megalopolis-ului – în era în care zeitatea naturã a fost dublatã ca
o anti-zeitate – unde nu existã naturã de servit, serviciul a fost încorporat
într-un sistem generalizat de schimb – sistemul afacerilor – al cãrui scop
este profitul ºi al cãrui principiu guvernant este performativitatea. În aceste
noi condiþii violenþa domus-ului este dezvãluitã. Tot ce era ordonat ºi inclus
într-o structurã ierarhicã, care servea pentru a copia ºi a repeta ciclul
domesticitãþii, tot ce era odatã îmblînzit ºi controlat – „domesticit” – în
domus, este acum dezvãluit prin figura omului modern, homo re-domesticus
(omul redomesticit). Ca sã citãm din Lyotard:

„Ceea ce este nedominat, neîmblînzit, care în vremuri vechi se

ascundea în domus, este acum dezlãnþuit prin homo politicus ºi homo
economicus, dar sub vechea egidã a serviciului, Dienst… Homo re-
domesticus aflat acum la putere omoarã pe stradã, strigînd: «Nu eºti
unul de-ai noºtri.» Ruinele domus-ului fac posibilã aceastã furie pe care
17
el o închidea ºi care se exercitã acum în numele lui.

Ceea ce apare acum sub masca domus-ului este de fapt „domesticirea

fãrã domus“. Ea conþine o violenþã reprimatã. „Neîmblînzitul era tragic”,
18
nota Lyotard, „pentru cã era adãpostit în inima domus-ului.“ Iar aici
am putea recunoaºte la Lyotard o ipostazã freudianã. Casa însãºi, dupã
cum a sugerat Freud, poate fi luatã drept un model al reprimãrii. Termenii
pe care Freud îi foloseºte în context – heimlich (intim) ºi unheimlich
(nefiresc) – sînt termeni cu o clarã rezonanþã arhitecturalã.

16
Lyotard, p. 195. vezi Martin Heidegger, ‘The Self-Assertion of the German University’
in Richard Wolin (ed.), The Heidegger Controversy, Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press,
1993, p. 35.
17
Lyotard, p. 197.
18
Lyotard, p. 202.

70
 Pentru Freud heimlich îl conþine pe unheimlich reprimat în el:

„Pentru cã acest nefiresc nu este în realitate ceva nou sau strãin, ci este
19
ceva familiar ºi vechi ºi care a fost înstrãinat printr-un proces de reprimare.

Este ca ºi cum înseºi fundaþiile casei ºi tot ceea ce reprezintã noþiunea

de acasã sînt construite pe reprimarea opusului ei, unheimlich-ul fiind
îngropat adînc sub heimlich. Totuºi, se pare, heimlich ºi unheimlich sînt
pliaþi unul în celãlalt. Dupã cum comenteazã Freud: „Acest heimlich, se
pare, este un cuvînt al cãrui înþeles se dezvoltã în direcþia ambivalenþei,
20
pînã cînd coincide în final cu opusul sãu, unheimlich”. Prin urmare
orice definire a heimlich-ului prin opoziþie cu unheimlich este greºitã.
Chiar „opoziþia” afirmatã neagã tensiunea reciprocã care leagã cei doi
termeni. Aceastã negare reprezintã o formã de reprimare conºtientã care
ameninþã mereu sã se dezlãnþuie pe tãrîmul inconºtientului. Furia
nefamiliarului bîntuie cãminul ca o fantomã.

Mitul „Locului”
Domus-ul poate fi vãzut ca un mit al prezentului, ºi în acest cadru
putem începe sã înþelegem regionalismul ca o miºcare fundatã pe mit.
Astfel, ceea ce pretinde a fi o evocare sentimentalã a formelor
tradiþionale poate fi vãzut ca o parte a unui proiect mai mare de
construcþie ºi reinstituire a identitãþii regionale sau naþionale. Prin
urmare, putem recunoaºte în regionalism nu numai pericolele potenþiale
existente în orice chemãri la naþionalism sau regionalism, ci ºi
complicitatea esenþialã din condiþiile culturale ale capitalismului tîrziu.
Regionalismul este prezentat drept o miºcare care s-a format prin
opoziþie la spaþiul omogenizat al capitalismului tîrziu. Însãºi
desprinderea faþã de loc a societãþii contemporane a creat un nou interes
pentru „loc” ca „diferenþã“. Dar împotriva acestui lucru s-ar putea

19
Sigmund Freud, Art and Literature, Penguin Freud Library, volume 14, trad. James
Strachey, London:Penguin, 1985.
20
Freud, p. 347.

71
argumenta – dupã cum face ºi Fredric Jameson – cã însuºi capitalismul
21
tîrziu a sancþionat în parte aceste evoluþii. Într-o lume dominatã de
capitalismul consumului generalizat, „diferenþa” însãºi poate fi vãzutã
ca un produs al pieþei. Afirmaþiile lui Jameson pot fi înþelese pe fundalul
observaþiilor lui Lyotard despre domus. Invocãrile postmoderne ale
„locului” sînt un ecou la chemãrile postmoderne ale domus-ul. Dacã
însuºi conceptul de la þarã – tãrîmul domus-ului – este înþeles tot mai
mult în termeni de turism sau vacanþã, atunci „locul” ca diferenþã poate
fi înþeles într-un mod la fel de cinic ºi ironic, ca situl „exoticului”. Dupã
cum ºi nevoia de diferenþã poate fi înþeleasã ca fiind sporitã de – ºi nu ca
o rezistenþã la – capitalismul global, la fel „locul” devine încã o marfã
scoasã pe piaþã.
Aceste valori sînt suspecte, în mod special într-o epocã în care s-a
produs o schimbare fundamentalã în felul de a ne raporta la lume.
Nu numai cã trebuie sã punem sub semnul întrebãrii prioritatea unui
concept ca acela de „locuire” ca sursã de identificare, dar trebuie de
asemenea sã ne întrebãm dacã un concept care este atît de legat de loc îºi
poate menþine mult timp autoritatea.
Pentru Lyotard, în era megalopolisului pînã ºi conceptul de locuire
este marcat de o formã de trecere. „Pierdut undeva în urma gîndurilor
noastre, domus-ul este ºi un miraj care ne apare în faþã, imposibila locuire“,
aºa cã sîntem prinºi într-un fel de trecere între o trezire, sub forma unei
amintiri-fantomã a domus-ului pierdut, ºi reînscrierea acestei treziri în viitor:

„Doar trecere, transfer, traducere ºi diferenþã. Nu casa trece, ca o

casã mobilã
22
sau coliba unui pãstor, ci noi sîntem cei care locuim în
trecere.” (subl. mea)

Pentru Lyotard nu este vorba doar de mobilitatea casei per se, ci de

veºnica rescriere a conceptului de „trecere” a locuirii. Sã susþinem altceva
ar însemna sã subscriem la mitul domus-ului. S-ar putea totuºi indica
forme mai concrete ale tranzienþei locuirii. Cãci s-ar putea afirma cã ºi
21
Vezi Fredric Jameson, The Seeds of Time, New York: Columbia University Press, 1994,
pp. 189-205.
22
Lyotard, p. 198.

72
„casa mobilã“ rãmîne o condiþie a prezentului, dacã prin „casã mobilã“
înþelegem o serie variabilã de semne indicatoare, pe baza cãrora identitatea
ar putea fi investitã ca o formã de „împãmîntenire” simbolicã. Cãminul nu
numai cã a fost redefinit ca proprietate, astfel încît tot ceea ce era odatã un
punct stabil de origine a devenit o marfã, care se poate schimba pe piaþã –
localizatã printr-o gamã de preþuri, chiar dacã nu mai e legatã de loc – dar
s-a produs ºi o schimbare în modul în care ne relaþionãm cu lumea.
O asemenea schimbare este posibilã într-o epocã în care identitatea
se construieºte mai puþin în funcþie de loc – locul de origine, locul naºterii
– ºi mai mult raportîndu-se la fenomene tranzitorii, cum ar fi slujbe ºi
posesiuni. Aceste posesiuni pot include chiar ºi obiecte tehnologice, cum
ar fi maºini sau computere. Departe de a fi o sursã de alienare, aºa cum
presupunea Heidegger, tehnologia poate într-adevãr oferi ea însãºi
mecanisme de identificare simbolicã. Dar ceea ce trec cu vederea gînditori
ca Heidegger este capacitatea fundamentalã a fiinþei de a se acomoda ºi
de a se adapta la noi condiþii. Aceastã tendinþã cameleonicã face ca fiinþele
umane sã absoarbã tehnologia ca pe o parte a cadrului lor de viaþã, pînã
la punctul în care se pot ataºa ºi chiar se pot identifica cu obiecte
tehnologice.
De asemenea progresele tehnologice au influenþat chiar ele felul în care
ne raportãm la noþiunea de „loc”. Dezvoltãrile tehnologice din transport au
permis ca distanþele fizice sã fie pe larg înlocuite cu „distanþele de timp”. Iar
schimbãrile din tehnologia comunicaþiilor au afectat profund domeniul
relaþiilor inter-personale. Într-o epocã în care spaþiul fizic cedeazã loc spaþiului
23
virtual al Internetului, hegemonia fizicului este erodatã progresiv. Ceea ce
nu neagã deloc necesitatea spaþiului fizic. Mai degrabã recunoaºte posibilitatea
unei schimbãri în mecanismele simbolice de identificare. Într-o societate
mereu mobilã, al cãrei spaþiu arhetipal este gara de tranzit sau holul de
aeroport, identitatea se poate defini din ce în ce mai sigur în termeni de
plecãri ºi sosiri iminente. Conceptul de domus definit ca locul stabil al
„locuirii” se dovedeºte a fi nu numai un simplu mit, ci un mit nostalgic.

23
Despre acest subiect vezi Paul Virilio, The Lost Dimension, trans. Daniel Mosheberg,
New York: Semiotext(e), 1991.

73
 Într-adevãr, invocãrile domus-ului ºi regionalismului au în comun
nostalgia pentru o tradiþie pierdutã – un paradis pierdut – care se
materializeazã în proiectele noastre contemporane de regãsire a trecutului.
Într-o epocã în care modele sînt deseori dominate de imagini „retro”, chiar
reproducerea – fie cã este vorba de mobilã, haine sau arhitecturã – trebuie
privitã în acest context. Aºa cã distincþia dintre reproducerea „autenticã”
ºi pastiºa postmodernistã a „retro”-ului începe sã se estompeze. Tocmai
cu încãrcãtura lor de „neautenticitate” trebuie sã se lupte cel mai tare
referirile aºa-zis „autentice” la trecut, în timp ce îºi revendicã autoritatea –
în mod paradoxal – chiar din aceastã „autenticitate”.
Inevitabil, orice demers arhitectural care se ancoreazã în cadrul
heideggerian trebuie sã se bazeze pe termeni cum ar fi „autenticitatea”.
Dar tocmai pentru acest „jargon al 24
autenticitãþii” îi criticã Theodor Adorno
lui Heidegger întreaga operã. Pentru Adorno, „autenticitatea” lui
Heidegger conteazã doar cu puþin mai mult decît aura autenticitãþii –
mitul autenticului. Aceastã evocare a autenticitãþii devine cu atît mai
suspectã în circumstanþele culturale actuale dacã, aºa cum afirma Fredric
25
Jameson, „autenticitatea” este sortitã colapsului în conceptul opus .
Îndemnurile spre un regionalism „autentic” au ceva în comun cu
„neautenticitatea” Disneylandului ºi cu alte lumi patentat artificiale. Chiar
modelul Disneylandului e cel care ne poate oferi cheia acestor mecanisme
la lucru pentru evocarea autenticitãþii. Cãci Disneylandul, în ochii lui
Jean Baudrillard, e implicat în sfera unei înºelãtorii mai ample.
Declarîndu-se „ireal” prin opoziþie cu lumea „realã“ din afarã,
Disneylandul se prezintã ca un dispozitiv care conferã autoritate realitãþii.
Totuºi, dupã cum susþine Baudrillard, Disneylandul este chiar parte a
26
realitãþii – sau a hyper-realitãþii – din lumea exterioarã. Un mecanism
inversat similar sprijinã pretenþiile contemporane de „autenticitate” sau
24
Theodor Adorno, The Jargon of Authenticity, trans. Knut Tarnowski and Frederic Will,
London: Routledge, 1973. Pentru Adorno, gîndirea lui Heidegger se ascunde în spatele
unui jargon lipisit de conþinut. Opera sa reprezintã un sistem a cãrui referinþã este chiar
el însuºi ºi care eºueazã sã se adreseze cadrului politic real ºi economic al societãþii,
servind doar drept o mistificare ideologicã a actualului proces de dominaþie umanã.
25
Fredric Jameson, ‘History Lessons’, p. 79-80.
26
Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulations, trad. Sheila Faria Glaser, Michigan:
Michigan University Press, 1994, p. 12.

74
de „realitate”. Prezentîndu-se în opoziþie cu „neautenticul” sau cu
„irealul”, ele se proclamã ca o autoritate care este ea însãºi suspectã. La
fel, invocãrile identitãþii regionale pot fi vãzute ºi ele ca niºte produse
mitice ale unei epoci postmoderne. Vor rãmîne întotdeauna dubii despre
ce anume constituie o tradiþie arhitecturalã autenticã – trecutul îndepãrtat
sau trecutul recent – ºi dacã poate exista într-adevãr ceva ca o „întoarcere”
la o tradiþie din trecut. În acest context, de exemplu, ne putem întreba
dacã blocul turn din beton nu constituie acum o arhitecturã „autenticã“
pentru multe oraºe central ºi est europene, sau dacã încercãrile de a
revitaliza formele vernaculare nu sînt prin ele însele încercãri
„neautentice” de a reconstrui o mitologie a trecutului.

Spre Cosmopolis
Toate acestea încep sã sugereze cã ar exista o problemã potenþialã
în adoptarea prea grãbitã a modelului Heideggerian ca bazã pentru
modelul teoretic al noii Europe. Ar trebui sã fim precauþi, în starea noastrã
actualã, faþã de toþi cei care invocã idila domus-ului, acea falsã faþadã,
acel vis imposibil. Cãci domus-ul ca domesticire este potenþial totalitar.
Dacã, aºa cum comenta odatã Walter Benjamin, „nu existã nici o mãrturie
27
a civilizaþiei care sã nu fie în acelaºi timp ºi o mãrturie de barbarie” ,
atunci civilizaþia domus-ului este poate chiar barbaria domus-ului. Ar
trebui sã fim la fel de precauþi cu toþi cei care invocã o arhitecturã
regionalã, o arhitecturã a heimat-ului. Cãci astfel de pretenþii de arhitecturã
legatã de pãmînt provin din aceeaºi gîndire care susþine ºi naþionalismul.
Trebuie desigur sã avem grijã sã nu asociem prea grãbit cu naþionalismul
sau fascismul orice teorie inspiratã de Heidegger, ca ºi cum ar fi automat
contaminatã. Tot aºa cum trebuie sã ne ferim sã atribuim prea uºor un
conþinut politic oricãrei arhitecturi, indiferent de fundamentele sale
teoretice. Arhitectura ar trebui sã fie vãzutã ca esenþial „inertã”, iar
conþinutul politic ca un atribut prin asociaþie, strict alegoric. Totuºi,
arhitectura se gãseºte întotdeauna într-un anumit context politic ºi este

27
Walter Benjamin, Reflections, trad. Edmund Jephcott, New York: Schocken Books,
1978, p. 248.

75
de aceea mereu „politizatã” prin asociere. Trebuie de aceea sã fim la fel
de precauþi cu orice arhitecturã care se preteazã însuºirii de cãtre ideologia
fascistã ºi care ar putea astfel susþine un proiect declarat naþionalist.
Pericolele de creºtere a naþionalismului, ca urmare a cãderii
comunismului, au devenit prea evidente. Naþionalismul nu produce mereu
efecte pozitive, dupã cum au demonstrat evenimentele din fosta
Yugoslavie ºi apariþia grupurilor de extremã dreaptã din toatã Europa
Centralã ºi de Est, cu atitudinea lor negativã faþã de evrei ºi þigani,
28
„rãtãcitorii” societãþii. Zidul fizic a fost demolat numai pentru a fi
înlocuit de altele noi, ziduri sociale. Toate zidurile de acest fel sînt
potenþial dãunãtoare. Aºa cum a existat o violenþã înscrisã în Zid, existã
o violenþã potenþialã înscrisã în chiar „redomesticirea” Europei Centrale
ºi de Est. Logica excluderii se pãstreazã. „Excluderea” Zidului ameninþã
sã fie înlocuitã de „excluderea” naþionalistã. Sursele acestui naþionalism
pot fi identificate într-o filosofie care face apologia înrãdãcinãrii ºi care
e mulatã pe mitul domus-ului.
Care sînt, deci, consecinþele în ce priveºte arhitectura? Într-o
tradiþie a teoriei arhitecturii care a susþinut mult prea des necritic domus-
ul – de la simplul cãmin pînã la o arhitecturã de identitate regionalã –
ar trebui sã distingem ºi partea negativã a acestui ideal. Pentru cã domus-
ul din era megalopolis-ului – epoca performativitãþii – nu poate fi
niciodatã adevãratul domus. Domus-ul azi e doar un miraj, un mit. Sînt
multe lucruri care par puternice ºi seducãtoare în acest mit al domus-
ului, care rãspund dorinþelor umane fundamentale, ceea ce reprezintã
o sursã veritabilã de confort. Vaclav Havel evoca asemenea lucruri în
„visul” sãu despre viitorul poporului ceh, care se afla încã sub ºocul
libertãþii:

„Viaþa de la sate ºi oraºe va învinge moºtenirea griului, a

uniformitãþii, anonimatului ºi urîþeniei moºtenite din epoca totalitarã.
Totul va avea o dimensiune cu adevãrat umanã. Fiecare stradã principalã
va avea cel puþin douã brutãrii, douã magazine cu dulciuri, douã pub-uri
28
Pe aceastã temã vezi Geoffrey Harris, The Dark Side of Europe: The Extreme Right
Today, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1994.

76
ºi multe alte mici magazine, toate proprietate privatã ºi independente.
Prin aceasta strãzile ºi cartierele îºi vor recîºtiga imaginea ºi atmosfera
lor unicã. Mici comunitãþi vor începe sã se formeze din nou în mod
natural, comunitãþi formate în jurul unei strãzi, al unui bloc de
apartamente, sau unui cartier. Oamenii vor începe din nou sã simtã
29
fenomenul de acasã (subl. mea).”

Havel descrie o lume de turtã dulce a brutãriilor, a magazinelor de

dulciuri ºi a cafenelelor, o lume care nu este tulburatã de realitatea mohorîtã
a vieþii din fabrici, o lume în care „fenomenului de acasã” îi este permis sã
se exercite încã o datã. Visul lui Havel se poate citi ca o fantezie utopicã.
Totuºi tocmai ca fantezie cîºtigã acest vis cea mai multã autoritate. Cãci,
aºa cum afirma Renata Saleci, þara este întotdeauna un fel de ficþiune,
30
iar patria are de asemenea structura unei fantezii. Tocmai aici rezidã
pericolul aparent, deoarece inconºtientul se dezvãluie cel mai bine în vis,
ºi tocmai în acest vis – fantezia patriei – ceea ce a fost reprimat poate
izbucni la suprafaþã. Dacã dupã evenimentele din 1989 libertatea în sine a
fost un ºoc, un ºoc ºi mai mare a fost neaºteptata violenþã neo-nazistã care
a acompaniat trezirea naþionalismului în Est. Dar poate cã acest ºoc
ar fi putut fi anticipat. În heimlich-ul patriei stã la pîndã unheimlich-ul
naþionalismului. ªi însuºi „fenomenul de acasã“ conþine o violenþã
potenþialã.
De dragul societãþii noastre actuale ar trebui sã fim deschiºi la un
model alternativ al teoriei arhitecturii, model mai potrivit complexitãþilor
societãþii moderne, un model care evitã dominaþia ºi excluderea implicitã
din domus ºi care se potriveºte cu modurile de viaþã mai flexibile care
caracterizeazã condiþiile noastre contemporane. Poate cã mai bine decît
sã continuãm sã susþinem domus-ul – arhitectura „locuirii” – despre care
s-a afirmat cã este produsul mitic al unei epoci postmoderne, ar trebui sã

29
Vaclav Havel, Summer Meditations, trad. Paul Wilson, London: Faber and Faber,
1992, p. 104.
30
Renata Saleci, ‘The Ideology of the Mother Nation in the Yugoslav Conflict’, în Michael
Kennedy (ed.), Envisioning Eastern Europe, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 1994, pp. 87-101.

77
considerãm modele mai potrivite, sugerate de megalopolis – de oraºul
însuºi. Tocmai asupra modelelor specifice ale oraºului-cosmopolis aº
vrea sã mã opresc acum, pentru cã la fel cum existã o faþã întunecatã a
domus-ului, la fel cosmopolis-ul poate furniza faþa acceptabilã a
megalopolis-ului. Cosmopolis-ul privit ca o formã a „vieþii în oraº“ oferã
un ideal care meritã sã fie din nou apreciat.
Oraºul reprezintã condiþia prezentului, iar urbanitatea, dupã cum
a observat Iris Marion Young, rãmîne „orizontul modernului, fãrã a
31
menþiona condiþia postmodernã.“ Mai mult, dacã ar fi sã înþelegem
condiþia noastrã curentã ca fiind o societate aflatã în continuã miºcare,
o societate tranzitorie, s-ar putea susþine cã modul predominant – dacã
nu universal – de existenþã este acela de „rãtãcitor”. Evreul, þiganul,
aceºti „alþii” din societate oferã într-un fel modelul momentului
32
contemporan – dezrãdãcinat, internaþional, mobil, deteritorializat.
Acesta se aflã în opoziþie cu înrãdãcinatul, naþionalistul ºi staticul. Dacã
dominus, maestrul stabil ºi autoritar al domus-ului este fiinþa comunitãþii
tradiþionale, atunci „rãtãcitorul” reprezintã libertatea ºi fluxul oraºului.
Ca atare, „rãtãcitorul” este creatura arhetipalã a condiþiei noastre
contemporane, o fiinþã a cãrei existenþã reflectã chiar efemeritatea
oraºului.
Comentatorii modernitãþii au criticat deseori oraºul ca alienant,
fragmentar, violent ºi dezordonat. Georg Simmel, de exemplu, a observat
cum metropola a înmulþit tipul blasé-ului modern, a cãrui existenþã
indiferentã în oraº evocã chiar circulaþia capitalului. Locuitorul oraºului
modern ºi-a format un soi de anonimat, care reprezintã un fel de cocon
defensiv împotriva hiperstimulãrii vieþii din metropolã. Dar tocmai acest
anonimat naºte o anumitã toleranþã. Oraºul, de exemplu, tinde sã accepte

31
Iris Marion Young, Justice and the Politics of Difference, Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1990, p. 237.
32
Manchehr Sanadjian exploreazã conceptul de „deteritorializare” în ‘Iranians in Ger-
many’ în New German Critique, 64, Winter 95, 3-36; vezi de asemenea Caren Kaplan,
‘Deterritorialisations: The Rewriting of Home and Exile în Western Feminist Dis-
course’, Cultural Critique, 6, Spring 87, 191.

78
diferenþa ºi sã ofere loc pentru „ceilalþi”. În mod tradiþional oraºul a
constituit un refugiu pentru minoritãþi: în oraº a gãsit evreul, strãinul,
„rãtãcitorul” deseori paradisul. „Viaþa de oraº“ reprezintã idealul în care
„diferenþa” este acceptabilã, iar în anumite ocazii este chiar celebratã,
chiar pînã la punctul în care grupurile de interese ale minoritãþilor au
fost înmulþite de oraº.
Prin comparaþie, „comunitatea” – figura domus-ului – poate fi vãzutã
ca un model omogenizant ºi universalizant, care absoarbe ºi, prin urmare,
neagã „diferenþa”. Noþiunea de comunitate se bazeazã pe mitul relaþiilor
sociale nemediate. Presupune cã toþi membrii sînt transparenþi unii faþã
de ceilalþi ºi cã într-un fel fiecare îl poate înþelege pe deplin pe „celãlalt”.
„Diferenþa” decade într-o unicã viziune totalizatoare, care la rîndul ei
alimenteazã o anumitã intoleranþã faþã de tot ce nu se potriveºte cu ea.
Doar atunci cînd oraºul mimeazã satul, cînd se fragmenteazã în cartiere
ºi „vecinãtãþi”, care constituie unitãþi autonome individuale, acest model
începe sã cedeze. Cu ajutorul „schemelor de supraveghere a
comunitãþilor” ºi a altor mecanisme de excludere, principiul oraºului –
cosmopolis-ul deschis, eterogen – este înlocuit de principiul satului –
domus-ul închis, omogen. ªi ca momente extreme ale acestei condiþii
am putea cita exemple de diviziune sectantã ºi politicã din oraºele Belfast,
Beirut sau, în fine, Berlin.
„Viaþa de oraº“– viaþa din cosmopolis – oferã o alternativã la
modelul domus-ului. Cosmopolis-ul deþine germenul unui ideal care
se potriveºte mai mult cu condiþiile noastre culturale contemporane.
Se sugereazã un posibil model pentru a trãi împreunã într-o formã de
interdependenþã, un model care permite fluxul ºi fluiditatea, care
permite solidaritãþile complexe ºi multilaterale ale societãþii
contemporane ºi care se caracterizeazã printr-o deschidere ne-ierarhicã
ºi de ne-opoziþie faþã de „ceilalþi”. În mare, cosmopolis-ul sugereazã o
societate deschisã, pluralistã, eliberatã de excluderile naþionaliste.
Iar dacã societatea noastrã contemporanã este una deschisã,
cosmopolitã, atunci desigur vom avea nevoie de o arhitecturã ale cãrei
forme ºi limbaj sã se potriveascã cu un asemenea ideal: o arhitecturã
care transcende constrîngerile rigide ale lui genius loci – acea „supremã

79
componentã onto-teologicã a Arhitecturii Însuºite,” dupã cum l-a descris
Daniel Libeskind – ºi care rezistã cursului nihilist al tradiþiei – o
arhitecturã deschisã. Poate cã atunci ar trebui sã avem în vedere nu o
„arhitecturã“, ci „arhitecturi” – imprevizibile, flexibile ºi hibride, cum
le spune Libeskind 33; arhitecturi adaptate fluiditãþii, fluxului ºi
complexitãþii existenþei contemporane, o existenþã care este condensatã
în cosmopolis; arhitecturi care pot fi descrise ca „arhitecturi cosmopo-
lite”; arhitecturi nãscute în spiritul cosmopolis-ului, dar care nu sînt
limitate la cosmopolis: arhitecturi cosmopolite pentru o Europã
cosmopolitã.

33
Daniel Libeskind, ‘Traces of the Unborn’, p.127.

80
 CUPRINS

PREFAÞA ........................................................................................... 5

APARTENENÞA .................................................................................. 9

UITAÞI DE HEIDEGGER .................................................................. 27

SACRIFICII ALE CONSTRUIRII ......................................................... 45

PARTEA ÎNTUNECATÅ A DOMUS-ULUI. REDOMESTICIREA

EUROPEI CENTRALE ªI DE EST ................................................. 63

 Neil Leach
FORGET HEIDEGGER
 Tehnoredactor: Paula Ivanuº

© Editura Paideia, 2006

701341 Bucureºti, România
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tel.: (00401) 316.82.08; 316.82.10
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Descrierea CIP a Bibliotecii Naþionale a României

LEACH, NEIL
Uitaþi de Heidegger – Forget Heidegger / Neil Leach ;
trad.: Magda Teodorescu, Dana Vais. - Bucureºti : Paideia,
2006

ISBN 973-596-302-7

I.Teodorescu, Magda (trad.)

II. Vais, Dana (trad.)

14(430) Heidegger, M.
929 Heidegger, M.
 Neil Leach

FORGET HEIDEGGER

paideia
 INTRODUCTION

Jacques Derrida was once asked about his relationship to Martin

1
Heidegger . He replied that he had been educated in Heideggerian
thinking, but that his whole body of work was intended as an ‘over-
coming’ of that thinking. There is, admittedly, something of an ‘Oedipal
moment’ in Derrida’s writing, an attempt to ‘murder the father’. Derrida’s
work could therefore be understood, to some extent, as an attempt to go
beyond Heidegger, to ‘forget’ Heidegger. As such, Derrida comes to stand
as an important emblem for an architectural culture that also needs to
‘forget’ Heidegger.

1
German philosopher, Martin Heidegger (1889-1976), was educated in the phenomeno-
logical tradition under Edmund Husserl. While Heidegger has remained a controversial
figure largely because of his political affiliations with the National Socialists, he has
proved to be a key figure within twentieth-century European thought and a significant
influence on other key thinkers. Following the publication of his seminal work, Being
and Time, in 1927, Heidegger pursued the whole problem of humankind’s situatedness
in the world, in a project centred on the key concepts of Dasein and the question of
‘Being’. Heidegger argued that the alienation of contemporary existence was based on
the separation of thought from ‘Being’, a condition epitomised by the privileging of
technology and calculative thinking in the modern world. His project was therefore an
attempt to return humankind to some form of authentic existence.
A concern for the architectural underpins Heidegger’s philosophy. For Heidegger
the problem of man’s situatedness in the world is inextricably bound up with the
question of dwelling. Thus Heidegger stresses the link between dwelling and thinking,
which he traces back etymologically to links between antique words. Not only does
architecture allow for the possibility of dwelling, but it is also precisely part of that
dwelling. To dwell authentically, for Heidegger, is to dwell poetically, since poetry is
a manifestation of truth restored to its artistic dimension. Architecture becomes a

5
 Like Derrida, I was myself exposed to Heideggerian thinking
during the formative years of my architectural education. My own project
is both borne of and a response to this Heideggerian tradition. I must
therefore confess to a potential ‘Oedipal moment’ in my own outlook.
Heideggerian thinking opened a number of intellectual ‘doors’ for me.
But there are other ‘doors’ that can also be opened. Indeed my edited
2
reader, Rethinking Architecture, is precisely a collection of those ‘doors’.
Here Heidegger is situated among a range of other thinkers. Architects,
I argue, should be exposed not just to Heidegger, but to several other
thinkers, including Theodor Adorno, Walter Benjamin, Gilles Deleuze,
Jean-François Lyotard and many others, who offer an important
corrective to Heideggerian thinking. Above all, Derrida, whose work
has already been so influential on architectural thinking, offers us a
powerful critique of Heideggerian thought that needs to be redeployed
within an architectural arena.
Architectural culture operates through the genealogies of certain
ideas. It is dominated by particular schools of thought. My decision to
offer a polemic critical of one such school of thought is borne not the
desire to be polemical for its own sake. Rather it is borne of the desire to

setting into work of ‘truth’, and a means of making the ‘world’ visible. Fundamental
to this process is the ancient Greek term ‘techne’, linked in Heidegger’s mind to the
term ‘tikto’ — ‘to bring forth or to produce’ — a concept to be distinguished from the
modern term ‘technology’ in which ‘techne’ remains ‘resolutely concealed’.
The world is not ‘in space’, but ‘space’ is in the world. ‘Space’, for Heidegger,
contains a sense of ‘clearing-away’, of releasing places from wilderness, and allow-
ing the possibility of ‘dwelling’. ‘Space’ is therefore linked to ‘Being’. In his fa-
mous example of the Greek temple, Heidegger illustrates how the temple disclosed
the spatiality of Being through its ‘standing there’. Fundamental to Heidegger’s
treatment of architecture is the situatedness of buildings — their dasein. Thus the
temple grows out of the cleft rock, no less than the bridge ‘gathers together’ the
banks of the river. Similarly the farmhouse in the Black Forest is born on and of the
mountain slope where it sits, built by the ‘dwelling’ of peasants.
For extracts of Heidegger’s writings on architecture, see Neil Leach (ed.), Rethink-
ing Architecture, London: Routledge, 1997.
2
Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking Architecture, London: Routledge, 1997.

6
call into question and to problematise one such school of thought which
has lost its criticality and become a form of dogma, out of touch with
contemporary culture. What prompts me, then, to write now ‘against’
Heidegger is not Heidegger himself, but rather a certain number of fig-
ures still prominent within architectural education, who in a highly
prescriptive manner celebrate Heideggerian thinking to the exclu-
sion of any alternative discourse. By steadfastly defending Heidegger
and attacking any who criticise him without engaging substantively with
that criticism these individuals prevent the discipline from evolving as
it might otherwise do.

The Problem with Heidegger

Through his highly influential writings, Heidegger had once offered
a powerful critique of modernity. Through concepts such as dasein, techne,
‘Being’ and so on, and his thorough analysis of the question of situatedness,
Heidegger exposed the limitations of a certain way of thinking, and has
exerted a crucial influence on many of the greatest thinkers of the twentieth
century, including Hans-Georg Gadamer, Gianni Vattimo and Derrida
himself. But the problem with Heidegger today is that his thinking has not
evolved to engage with the conditions of a world that has itself changed.
There are, moreover, many aspects of his work, which, in the light of more
recent thinking, appear to lack a certain self-criticism.
In The Truth in Painting Derrida takes on Heidegger directly, and
challenges him on the question of hermeneutics. He exposes the risk of
potential relativism in Heidegger’s hermeneutic discourse, using the
3
example of a painting by Vincent Van Gogh of a pair of shoes.
3
Jacques Derrida, The Truth in Painting, trans. Geoff Bennington and Ian McLeod,
Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979. Derrida has himself been accused of rela-
tivism by those who fail to recognise the rigour of his own work. Sometimes dismissed
as a relativist for questioning claims to the truth, he has been associated – quite wrongly
- with certain postmodern thinkers who argue that there is no ‘truth’, and that anything
goes. In fact Derrida’s work can be read as a very rigorous epistemological enquiry in
search of the ‘truth’ that not only exceeds the too often simplistic blandishments of
postmodern writers, but also overcomes the relativism in thinkers like Heidegger. Quite
possibly, then, it is Heidegger, rather than Derrida, who should be accused of relativism.

7
Famously Heidegger interprets this painting according to his own
ideological preferences for a ‘philosophy of the soil’. For Heidegger,
this is a painting about the countryside. In terms of his tirade against the
city, these shoes are an embodiment of the essence of living in the
countryside. Heidegger’s claim prompted a debate with the New York
art critic, Meyer Shapiro. For Shapiro, the shoes embody not the
countryside, but city life. The shoes, Shapiro claims, were worn by Van
Gogh when he was living in the city. Derrida, however, does not takes
sides. Rather, he is interested in the debate itself and the problems
generated in both positions, because of their reliance on hermeneutics.
Both sides, he insists, are guilty of the same problem. In the hermeneutical
moment, both are ‘claiming’ the shoes for their particular discourse. Yet
neither has argued the case convincingly. They have merely ‘appropriated’
the shoes.
The problem with hermeneutics, Derrida seems to be saying, is that
it conceals its own workings. It operates through a sleight of hand. In
claiming to have access to the ‘truth’, it reveals neither its own
methodology, nor the agency of the interpreter engaged in the
hermeneutic act. That ‘truth’ is simply ‘divined’. There is, then, a
theological moment in hermeneutics (and it is perhaps no coincidence
that reportedly Heidegger himself once considered training to become a
priest). There is a mythologisation at work. It is not that myth itself is
bad. For we can never escape myth. But the problem comes when that
myth is not disclosed as myth. It becomes a mystical shrouding that
conceals its own genesis, and which obfuscates its own workings. Nor is
it that hermeneutics are necessarily bad. For we can ever escape them
either. Hermeneutics are always at work within culture. But the danger
comes when the mythologised nature of the discourse of hermeneutics
is not fully acknowledged. As a result there is a potential relativism in
hermeneutics. It is precisely against this danger that Derrida introduces
the concept of ‘deconstruction’ as a form of epistemological check.
‘Deconstruction’ serves to prevent us from being trapped by the
constraints of hermeneutics. The problem with Heidegger, then, is largely
a problem of self-critique.

8
 For Derrida, a philosopher should be engaged in a continual
process of criticism. Derrida compares the work of the philosopher to
that of the architect, constantly questioning the basis of any supposition,
and looking for firm foundations on which to build an argument.
4
Architecture becomes a metaphor for the work of the philosopher. The
philosopher has to question and problematise any given assumption, not
in order to destroy it, but rather in order to reinforce it by exposing its
weaknesses. The whole thrust of ‘deconstruction’ — if it is permitted to
talk about such a sensibility in so objective a way — is therefore not a
nihilistic one. It is not about ‘destroying’ or ‘dismantling’, so much as
‘reinforcing’ by establishing an argument on sound foundations.
‘Deconstruction’ presupposes a consequent constructive act. Derrida
reads the role of ‘deconstruction’ as being far from nihilistic: ‘To go
after it: not in order to attack, destroy or deroute it, to criticise or
disqualify it. Rather, in order to think it in fact, to detach itself
sufficiently to apprehend it in a thought which goes beyond the theorem
5
- and becomes a work in its turn.’
But what is potentially nihilistic is an uncritical acceptance of
tradition. More than anything else, Derrida seems to be against a certain
dogmatisation, which may appear whenever tradition is accepted and

4
‘ First of all, I would like to outline how the philosophical tradition has used the
architectural model as a metaphor for a kind of thinking which in itself cannot be
architectural. In Descartes for instance you find the metaphor of the founding of a
town, and this foundation is in fact what is supposed to support the building, the
architectonic construction, the town at the base. There is consequently a kind of
urbanistic metaphor in philosophy. The ‘Meditations’, the ‘Discourse on Method’
are full of these architectonic representations which, in addition, always have
political relevance. When Aristotle wants to give an example of theory and practice,
he quotes the ‘architekton’: he knows the origin of things, he is a theorist who can
also teach and has at his command the labourers who are incapable of independent
thought. And with that a political hierarchy is established: architectonics is defined
as an art of systems, as an art therefore suitable for the rational organisation of
complete branches of knowledge.’ Derrida, ‘Architecture Where the Desire May
Live’, in Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking Architecture, London: Routledge, 1997, p. 319.
5
Derrida, ‘Point de Folie – Maintenant L’Architecture, in Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking
Architecture, London: Routledge, 1997, p. 328.

9
repeated simply for the sake of tradition. The past must never be
accepted uncritically. When tradition is maintained simply for the sake
of maintaining the status-quo, it fails to understand that tradition is a
dynamic process that is constantly in a state of evolution. Certainly,
Derrida is not against history. Indeed historical concerns remain a
constant refrain throughout his oeuvre. History has a vital role to play in
keeping alive memories of the past. If we forget the past, the evils of the
past will always threaten to reappear.

The Problem with Architecture

Derrida reads this concern to keep tradition alive and to preserve it
from ‘nihilistic repetition’ in architectural terms in his article on Bernard
Tschumi’s follies, which he compares to red dice which give architec-
ture ‘a chance’. For Derrida the follies maintain - keep alive - the possi-
bility of an architectural discourse, that might otherwise be buried in some
‘sepulchral nostalgia’. This, for Derrida, would be the ‘end’ of architec-
ture: ‘The folies affirm, and engage their affirmation beyond this ulti-
mately annihilating, secretly nihilistic repetition of metaphysical archi-
tecture. They enter into the maintenant of which I speak; they maintain,
renew and reinscribe architecture. They revive, perhaps, an energy which
was infinitely anaesthetised, walled-in, buried in a common grave or se-
pulchral nostalgia. For we must begin by emphasising this: the charter or
metaphysical frame whose configuration has just been sketched was al-
ready, one could6 say, the end of architecture, its ‘reign of ends’ in the
figure of death.’
As elsewhere in his work, the key thrust here is one towards
‘problematisation’, with a view not of destroying the Heideggerian
project, but reinforcing it through rigorous critique. Indeed, it is as though
Derrida has an underlying respect for what Heidegger had sought to
achieve. Certainly, there is much that is still to be admired in Heidegger’s
work. Moreover, to even deem someone worthy of an attack is itself a
significant gesture. It is possible, therefore, to read Derrida as a supporter

6
Jacques Derrida, ‘Point de Folie – Maintenant L’Architecture, in Neil Leach (ed.),
Rethinking Architecture, London: Routledge, 1997, p. 328.

10
of the Heideggerian tradition, in that what he seems to be offering is a
corrective to that tradition. Derrida’s work, like that of many others
including Jean-François Lyotard, is an extension to Heidegger’s project.
But it is not simply that architecture provides Derrida with a
powerful metaphor for the operations of philosophy. Philosophy itself
can inform the operations of architecture, and Derrida’s work in
particular can be used as a way of problematising many uncritically
held assumptions within architecture. Here I refer not to the mistaken
and often banal way in which Derrida’s notion of ‘deconstruction’ was
associated with a certain formal language. For Derrida’s work has
nothing to do with a language of forms. His project concerns the use
of language and the thinking implicit in that language.
There is for Derrida, after all, ‘an architecture of architecture’.
Architectural discourse is an ‘inhabited constructum’. We might therefore
use Derrida’s insights to question not the forms themselves but the thinking
that has itself informed those forms. What needs to be ‘deconstructed’ — if
it is permissible to use that term — is the very structure of architectural
thinking, and the assumptions that it has inherited.
Central among these is a certain Heideggerian impulse that
continues to leave its mark with a series of often questionable
assumptions. For architectural culture is still dominated in many
quarters by nostalgic terms such as ‘dwelling’, ‘authenticity’, ‘genius
loci’, an antipathy towards technology in general, and the computer in
particular, and a failure to engage substantively with the cosmopolitan
nature of contemporary existence. All of these concerns emanate from
Heideggerian-inspired thinking. It is time to abandon these nostalgic
concepts, to overcome the antipathy towards technology, and to embrace
st
the possibilities afforded by life in the 21 century. It is precisely through
the work of thinkers like Derrida, Lyotard, Judith Butler and others that
we can overcome the uncritical acceptance of these ideas that are still far
too widespread within architectural culture.

11
 Contents
The articles included in this volume each address a separate
concern over the architectural inheritance of Heideggerian thinking. They
do so against the specific background of the conditions of contemporary
life. ‘The Dark Side of the Domus’ looks at the potentially sinister side
of Heidegger’s philosophy, where his ‘philosophy of the soil’ can be
seen to lead to a logic of the heimat. The recent growth of nationalism in
Eastern Europe, where Heidegger’s thinking has become particularly
popular, is an illustration of this. By contrast, ‘Belonging’ attempts to
offer an alternative framework to Heidegger’s concept of ‘dwelling’,
one that is more in tune with the increasingly nomadic and cosmopolitan
st
nature of life in the 21 century. Finally, ‘Forget Heidegger’ addresses
the limitations of his critique of technology in the context of a world of
increasing technological sophistication. It argues that we need to adopt a
theoretical approach that understands the human capacity to absorb and
assimilate technology, if we are to develop a more sympathetic outlook
towards the use of computers in the architectural arena.

These articles were first published as articles in various journals

(‘The Dark Side of the Domus’, Journal of Architecture, Vol. 3,
Spring 1998, pp. 1-12; ‘Belonging’, London: Postcolonial City, AA
Files, 49, 2003, pp. 76-82; ‘Forget Heidegger’, Scroope, 12, pp.
50-59..). They are gathered here for the first time as a collected
body of work that is by no means complete, but one at least that
opens up a debate. For architectural culture is a form of debate, and
it is through the very vitality of this debate that architectural design
is itself enriched.

I am grateful for the advice and help of a number of individuals

too many to list here. Let me briefly mention, however, Joseph
Rykwert, whose own work, especially The Idea of a Town, first

7
Joseph Rykwert, The Idea of a Town, Cambridge, Ma: MIT.

12
introduced me to the possibilities afforded by opening up architectural
culture to other theoretical discourses.7 Let me also mention
certain institutions, including the Architectural Association, Columbia
University and the Bauhaus Foundation, which have provided me
more recently with a lively and inspirational forum in which to test
out my ideas.

Neil Leach

13
 BELONGING

Architecture is always linked to questions of cultural identity. For

what sense would discourses such as Critical Regionalism make unless
they assumed some connection between identity and the built environment?
Indeed, the implication that critical regionalism may contribute in some
way to cultural identity is implied, at least, in one of the chapter titles
used by Kenneth Frampton: ‘Critical Regionalism: Modern Architecture
1
and Cultural Identity’. And yet architectural theorists have seldom
broached the question of how people actually identify with their
environment. Instead they have been preoccupied almost exclusively
with questions of form, as though cultural identity is somehow constituted
by form alone. It is clear, however, that if theorists are to link
architecture to cultural identity they must extend their analyses beyond
any mere discourse of form to engage with subjective processes of
identification. This has long been acknowledged by cultural theorists,
who have developed a sophisticated understanding of the mechanisms
by which culture operates. For them culture is constituted not by a
system of objects alone, but by a discourse that imbues these objects
with meaning. Cultural identity, therefore, emerges as a complex field of
operations that engages with — but is not defined by — cultural arti-
facts such as architecture.

1
Kenneth Frampton, Modern Architecture: A Critical History, London: Thames and
Hudson, 1992.

15
 It is perhaps by following the notion of the nation as ‘narration’ —
of identity as a kind of discourse — put forward by cultural theorist,
Homi Bhabha, that we can grasp the importance of understanding form
as being inscribed within a cultural discourse. The nation, for Bhabha,
is enacted as a ‘cultural elaboration’. To perceive the nation in this
way in narrative terms is to highlight the discursive and contested na-
ture of such identities: ‘To study the nation through its narrative ad-
dress does not merely draw attention to its language and rhetoric; it
also attempts to alter the conceptual object itself. If the problematic
‘closure’ of textuality questions the ‘totalization’ of national culture,
then its positive value lies in displaying the wide dissemination through
which we construct the field of meanings and symbols associated with
2
national life’.
Of course, it would be wrong to reduce the nation to mere narra-
tion as though form were totally unimportant. Rather we have to
recognise the nation as being defined within a dialectical tension. It is
a tension, for Bhabha, between the ‘object’ and its accompanying
narrative: ‘signifying the people as an a priori historical presence, a
pedagogical object; and the people constructed in the performance of
narrative, its enunciatory ‘present’ marked in the repetition and pul-
3
sation of the national sign’. If then the nation is a kind of narration, it
is never an abstract narration, but a contextualised narration in
which certain objects are inscribed. And it is precisely here within
this field of objects which have themselves become the focus of narra-
tive attention that we must locate architecture, as a language of forms
not only embedded within various cultural discourses, but also given
meaning by those discourses.
This brings us close to Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of habitus, as a
non-conscious system of dispositions which derive from the subject’s
economic, cultural and symbolic capital. Habitus, for Bourdieu is a
2
Bhabha, ‘Introduction’ in Bhabha (ed.), Nation and Narration, London: Routledge,
1990, p. 3.
3
Bhabha, ‘DissemiNation’ in Bhabha (ed.), Nation and Narration, London: Routledge,
1990, pp. 298-299.

16
dynamic field of behaviour, of position-taking where individuals inherit
the parameters of a given situation, and modify them into a new situation.
As Derek Robbins explains: ‘The habitus of every individual inscribes
the inherited parameters of modification, of adjustment from situation to
4
position which provides the legacy of a new situation.’ Such an approach
supposes an interaction between social behaviour and a given objectified
condition. It is here that we could perhaps locate the position of
architecture in Bourdieu’s discourse.
Architecture, in Bourdieu’s terms, can be understood as a type of
‘objectivated cultural capital’. Its value lies dormant and in permanent
potential, but it has to be reactivated by social practices which will, as
it were, ‘revive’ it. In this respect, architecture belongs to the same
category as other cultural objects: ‘Although objects — such as books
or pictures — can be said to be the repositories of objectivated cultural
capital, they have no value unless they are activated strategically in the
present by those seeking to modify their incorporated cultural capital.
All those objects on which cultural value has ever been bestowed lie
perpetually dormant waiting to be revived, waiting for their old value
5
to be used to establish new value in a new market situation.’ In other
words, what Bourdieu highlights is the need for praxis to ‘unlock’ the
meaning of an object. In a sense this comes close to the Wittgenstinian
model of language wherein meaning is defined by use. Just as words
can be understood by the manner in which they are used, so buildings
can be grasped by the manner in which they are perceived — by the
narratives of use in which they are inscribed.
This opens up a crucial problematic within an architectural dis-
course that has traditionally been premised almost solely on questions
of form. It is as though narratives of treatment and use stand largely
outside architectural concerns. Thus Critical Regionalism, for ex-
ample, in investing form with such significance, does not recognise

4
Derek Robbins, Bourdieu and Culture, London: Sage, 2000, p. 30.
5
Derek Robbins, Bourdieu and Culture, London: Sage, 2000, p. 35.

17
how the same form will take on radically different connotations in dif-
ferent cultural milieus. The same concrete tower block — replicated
in, say, New York, Hong Kong, Latin America and Eastern Europe
— will effectively appear different as it is treated and used differ-
ently in each context. Furthermore, in standard architectural theory
there is no accepted framework for exploring how people make sense
of place and identify with it, apart from Heidegger’s seemingly out-
dated notion of ‘dwelling’. Without this, the relation of architecture to
cultural identity can hardly be addressed. In order for architecture to
be understood in terms of cultural identity, some kind of identifica-
tion with architecture must have taken place. But how exactly does
this identification occur?
This article attempts to offer one model that might help to explain
this process, and that might therefore address one of the crucial prob-
lems that exists within theories such as Critical Regionalism that restrict
themselves to a discourse of form. It argues that a highly suggestive
model for understanding the relationship between physical form and
cultural identity — ‘belonging’ — can be drawn from Judith Butler’s
work on ‘performativity’. In a culture of ever increasing mobility, the
article concludes, the notion of ‘belonging’ offers us a far more flexible
and versatile paradigm for understanding relationship to place than
Heidegger’s somewhat static notion of ‘dwelling’.

Butler and Performativity

Judith Butler has elaborated a vision of identity which is based on
the notion of ‘performativity’. It is an approach that allows her to
perceive identity in a far more fluid and dynamic way than traditional
approaches to the question. It is an approach, moreover, that recognises
identity politics as a field of individual empowerment.
Butler is a theorist of gender politics — and more specifically
lesbian politics. Her concern is to formulate a notion of identity that is
not constrained by traditional heterosexual models and to offer a radical
critique of essentialising modes of thinking. According to Butler, it is

18
precisely our actions and behaviour that constitute our identity, and not
our biological bodies. Gender, she argues, is not a given ontological
condition, but it is performatively produced. It is ‘a construction that
conceals its genesis,’ such that, ‘the tacit collective agreement to
perform, produce and sustain discrete and polar genders as cultural
6
fictions is obscured by the credibility of those productions.’
We may effectively rearticulate our identities and reinvent our-
selves through our performativities. Here it is important to note that
identity is the effect of performance, and not vice versa. Performativity
achieves its aims not through a singular performance — for
performativity can never be reduced to performance — but through
the accumulative iteration of certain practices. It is grounded in a form
of citationality — of invocation and replication. As Judith Butler ex-
plains: ‘Performativity is thus not a singular ‘act’, for it is always a
reiteration of a norm or set of norms, and to the extent that it acquires
an act-like status in the present, it conceals and dissimulates the con-
7
ventions of which it is a repetition.’
Butler figures identity not as something interior — an essentialising
‘given’ — but rather as something exterior, a discursive external ef-
fect. It is borne of ‘acts, gestures and enactments’ that are ‘performative,’
as Butler puts it, ‘in the sense that the essence or identity that
they otherwise purport to express are fabrications manufactured and
sustained through corporeal signs and other discursive means. That
the gendered body is performative suggests that it has no ontological
status apart from the various acts which constitute its reality. This also
suggests that if that reality is fabricated as an interior essence, that
very interiority is an effect and function of a decidedly public and
social discourse, the public regulation of fantasy through the surface
politics of the body, the gender border control that differentiates inner

6
Judith Butler, Gender Trouble, London: Routledge, 1990, p. 140, as quoted in Vikki
Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 136.
7
Butler, Bodies that Matter, London: Routledge, 1993, p. 12.

19
 8
from outer and institutes the ‘integrity’ of the subject.’ Importantly,
this relates not just to lesbian sexuality, but to all sexualities, such that
heterosexuality itself emerges as a socially transmitted construct that
depends upon a behavioural norm being ‘acted out’.
Here the connections between gender and ‘mime’ begin to emerge.
Indeed Butler’s whole discourse, it would appear, depends upon mime
in general and the mimetic in particular. All behaviour is based on a kind
of mimicry, including normative heterosexual behaviour that is thereby
‘naturalised’ and instantiated by the force of repetition: ‘All gendering is
a kind of impersonation and approximation. . . the naturalistic effects of
heterosexualised genders are produced through imitative strategies; what
they imitate is a phantasmatic ideal of heterosexual identity, one that is
9
produced by imitation as its effect.’
Cultural practices are governed by the hegemonic. They instantiate
a certain order, and encourage acquiescence to that order. They are
propagated through a desire to conform. This is particularly evident in

8
Butler, Gender Trouble, London: Routledge, 1990, p. 136, as quoted in Vikki Bell
(ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 136.
9
Butler, ‘Imitation and Gender Insubordination’, in D Fuss (ed.), Inside/Out: Lesbian and
Gay Theories, New York: Routledge, 1991, as quoted in Bell, p. 137. There are paral-
lels here with Irigaray’s use of mimesis in the constitution of gender: ‘to play with
mimesis is thus, for a woman, to try to recover the place of her exploitation by dis-
course, without allowing herself to be simply reduced to it. It means to resubmit her-
self — in as much as she is on the side of the ‘perceptible’, of ‘matter’ — to ‘ideas’,
in particular to ideas about herself, that are elaborated in/by a masculine logic, but so
as to make ‘visible’ by an effect of playful repetition, what was supposed to remain
invisible: the cover up of a possible operation of the feminine in language.’ [Luce
Irigaray, This Sex Which is not One, trans. C Porter and C Burke, Ithaca, NY: Cornell
University Press, 1985, p. 76.] There is an important distinction, however, between
Butler’s and Irigaray’s use of the term. For Irigaray mimesis is at work in feminine
language and offers a means of resisting a dominant, masculine logic, while for But-
ler mimesis explains the manner in which gender of whatever kind is constituted. As
Bell notes: ‘For Irigaray, mimesis is on the level of strategy — one that reveals through
its repetition of ideas about women — and not of constitution, as it is for Butler.’ [Bell,
p. 139.]

20
 10
the case of gender practices. Normative gender practice is controlled
by the logic of camouflage. To subscribe to the dominant cultural norm
is to avoid conflict and to follow the behavioural systems of a naturalised,
hegemonic order. And it is as a camouflage that gender can be
understood as an ‘effective’ cultural praxis.
Gender, in this sense, approaches a notion of drag. It is a position
that is ‘assumed’, and played out within the logic of conformity to
some accepted norm. In making this claim, Butler destablises the tradi-
tional authority of heterosexuality: ‘To claim that all gender is like drag,
or is drag, is to suggest that ‘imitation’ is at the heart of the heterosexual
project and its gender binarisms, that drag is not a secondary imita-
tion that presupposes a prior and original gender, but that hegemonic
heterosexuality is itself a constant and repeated effort to imitate its own
11
idealisations.’
Butler is concerned to challenge the hegemony of the given. Nothing
is authentic in itself. Everything is authorised through repetition. Yet
through its own repetition it begins to instantiate a certain norm. It is
important to recognise, however, that any norm can be destabilised. And
it is precisely the normative nature of received views on gender that
Butler seeks to undermine. For Butler, gender should be seen not as a
given state, but as a condition of ‘becoming’. Echoing Deleuze she sees
it as a rhizomatic condition, that is an actative process: ‘If gender is
something that one becomes — but can never be — then gender is itself
a kind of becoming or activity, and that gender ought not to be conceived

10
This leads to a certain pessimism in Butler’s work. As Vikki Bell argues: ‘The cat-
egory of mimicry as Butler employs it in her work is one that I would argue carries
with it a sense of sadness, both of forfeiting (possibilities of being otherwise) and of
resignation to ‘carrying on’ under duress. There is no playful repetition here. Gen-
der performance is regarded as a strategy of survival, formed within a heterosexual
matrix which, while not compulsory, is hegemonic, such that the psychic structures
it deploys are analogous to melancholia, in which the lost object is incorporated into
psychic life as part of the ego, object of ambivalence, ie both loved and hated.’
[Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 140.]
11
Butler, Bodies that Matter, p. 125.

21
as a noun or a substantial thing or a static cultural marker, but rather as
12
an incessant and repeated action of some sort.’
Butler’s discourse is effectively an extension to Pierre Bourdieu’s
debate about habitus as a dynamic field of behaviour, of position-
taking where individuals inherit the parameters of a given situation,
13
and modify them into a new situation. But what Butler brings to
that debate is the possibility of political agency, and of subverting
received norms. It is through its repetitive citational nature that
performativity has the power to question and subvert that which it
cites. Whereas Bourdieu stresses the production of the subject
through culture, for Butler, social structures have themselves been
‘performed’. Hence performativity offers an obvious mode of chal-
lenging such structures. Imitation lies at the heart of all cultural prac-
tices. It is that which reinforces them, but — equally — that which
potentially destablises them.
This is a radical re-evaluation of the mechanics of cultural prac-
tice, that has ramifications for every aspect of cultural life. Without
collapsing sexuality, class, race and ethnicity into the same category,
all types of identity can also be interpreted as dependent upon
14
performative constructs. While each operates within its own individual
paradigms, the general framework remains similar. Each depends upon
the performative, each is citational in character, and each is ‘effec-
tive’. This is not to overlook the significance of physical characteris-
tics, but rather to challenge the notion that these characteristics are the
sole determinants of identity.

12
Butler, Gender Trouble, p. 112.
13
As Derek Robbins explains: ‘The habitus of every individual inscribes the inherited
parameters of modification, of adjustment from situation to position which provides
the legacy of a new situation.’ Derek Robbins, Bourdieu and Culture, London: Sage,
2000, p. 30.
14
Bell discusses the possibility of understanding Jewishness in this light in Vikki Bell
(ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999. See also Sneja Gunew,
‘Performing Australian Ethnicity: “Helen Demidenko”, in W. Ommundsen and H.
Rowley (eds.) From a Distance: Australian Writers and Cultural Displacement,
Geelong: Deakin University Press, 1996, pp. 159-171.

22
 According to such a view, the constitution of one’s identity through
performativity extends beyond questions of appearance into modali-
ties of behaviour and modes of perception and expression. In the con-
text of race, for example, we have to acknowledge how the process of
‘racing’ something or ‘being raced’ might operate. For performativity also
operates in modes of perception, such as the ‘gaze’ which, as it were,
‘colour’ and frame our view of the world, but — importantly — also
15
constitute it. To be ‘black’ is to view the world with a ‘black’ gaze.
What applies to the gaze also applies to other modes of perception or
expression.
Butler importantly locates performativity at the heart of our cultural
identity today. In an age increasingly colonised by ‘fictional worlds’, as
Marc Augé has observed, where fantasy allows identities to be assumed
and discarded like fashion accessories, and where self-realisation often
conforms to models drawn from Hollywood, the concept offers a more
productive alternative to traditional understandings of the constitution
16
of the self. The whole notion of identity as some fixed and stable
condition deserves to be re-interrogated in an age of theming, role-playing
and identity politics, where identities must be perceived in the plural, as
multiple and often seemingly contradictory modes of personal expression.
Nor is this necessarily negative. Indeed such tactics can be analysed as a
defensive mechanism that allows the individual to ‘survive’ within
contemporary cultural conditions. Indeed, as Sherry Turkle has argued

15
Butler herself has addressed this question: ‘I do think that there is a performativity to
the gaze that is not simply the transposition of a textual model onto a visual one; that
when we see Rodney King, when we see that video we are also reading and we are
also constituting, and that the reading is a certain conjuring and a certain construction.
How do we describe that? It seems to me that that is a modality of performativity,
that it is radicalization, that the kind of visual reading practice that goes into the
viewing of the video is part of what I would understand as the performativity of
what it is ‘to race something’ or to be ‘raced’ by it. So I suppose that I’m interested
in the modalities of performativity that take it out of its purely textualist context.’
[Judith Butler (interviewed by Vikki Bell), ‘On Speech, Race and Melancholia’, in
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 169.]
16
Marc Augé, A War of Dreams, trans. Liz Heron, London: Pluto, 1999.

23
within the context of a proliferation of ‘screen identities’ as a result of
the increasingly widespread use of the computer, multiple personality
disorder can be seen less as a problematic symptom of an age of
instability and depthlessness, and more as a strategy of survival — a
kind of cultural camouflage — that enables individuals to operate
17
productively in a variegated and multi-faceted world.

Politics and Space

The emphasis which Butler places on performativity does not
undermine the underlying value of form. Indeed this is the main message
18
in Butler’s seminal work, Bodies that Matter. Hers is an essentially
corporeal philosophy of identity. Butler’s discourse also serves, however,
as a corrective to a certain positivistic theory of form that is still pervasive.
Matter — in Butler’s terms — does not exist outside of discourse. As
Mariam Fraser observes, following Butler: ‘Matter does not ‘exist’ in
and of itself, outside or beyond discourse, but is rather repeatedly
produced through performativity, which “brings into being or enacts that
19
which it names”.’
This has obvious ramifications for any discourse of gender and
space. Butler’s incisive comments on gender — gender identity being
defined not in biological terms, but in performative terms as an iden-
tity that is ‘acted out’ — can be profitably transposed to the realm of
physical space. For if identity is performed, then the space in which
that performativity takes place can be seen as a stage. After a
certain number of performances that stage will no longer seem neu-
tral. It will be imbued with associations of the activities that took place
there, on the part of those who witnessed those activities. If identity is a
performative construct — if it is acted out like some kind of ‘filmscript’
— then architecture could be understood as a kind of ‘filmset’. But it

17
Sherry Turkle, Life on the Screen, New York: Simon and Schuster, 1995.
18
Butler, Bodies that Matter, London: Routledge, 1993.
19
Mariam Fraser, ‘Classing Queer’ in Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging,
London: Sage, 1999, p. 111.

24
is as a ‘filmset’ that it derives its meaning from the activities that have
taken place there. Memories of associated activities haunt physical
space like a ghost.
It is here that Butler’s thinking can be deployed as a way of cut-
ting through much confusion that exists on the question of the
gendering of space. Too often there has been a simplistic collapsing
of a particular political ideology on to a particular form, as though a
political ideology can be conflated with an aesthetic ideology. This
refers as much to politics in general as it does to the specific ques-
tion of gender politics. According to this logic, certain forms are in
and of themselves imbued with a certain content. Just as there are
seen to be certain ‘democratic’ forms, so there are certain ‘feminine’
forms. It is this thinking that Fredric Jameson has sought to chal-
lenge. Form, for Jameson, is essentially ‘inert’ and whatever content
20
is grafted on to it is ‘allegorical’ in character. There is no intrinsic
meaning or political potential to any form. Whilst there may indeed
be certain forms that ‘lend’ themselves to democratic purposes rather
than totalitarian ones, and — equally — no doubt certain forms
that ‘embody’ a feminine sensibility, it is surely a mistake to map
certain activities on to certain forms, as though those activities were
a consequence of those forms.
What Butler’s logic seems to suggest is that particular spaces are
given meaning by the practices that take place there. The gendering of
space, in other words, depends more on the performativities that are
articulated there than the form itself. A space can only be gendered by

20
’I have come to think that no work of art or culture can set out to be political once and
for all, no matter how ostentatiously it labels itself as such, for there can never be
any guarantee that it will be used the way it demands. A great political art (Brecht)
can be taken as a pure and apolitical art; art that seems to want to be merely aesthetic
and decorative can be rewritten as political with energetic interpretation. The political
rewriting or appropriation, then, the political use, must be allegorical; you have to
know that this is what it is supposed to be or mean — in itself it is inert.’ [Jameson,
‘Is Space Political?’, in Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking Architecture, London:
Routledge, 1997, pp. 258-59.]

25
association. Certain associations are ‘projected’ on to those spaces, but
those associations are defined not by the material properties of those
spaces, but by the activities that take place there. Moreover, they de-
pend upon the memory of those associations being kept alive. In this
sense, a space used for particular activities will accrue a certain char-
acter over time, but as new activities take over — and as memories of
the former activities fade — the space will take on a different character. A
‘masculine’ space may invert into being a ‘feminine’ space. A ‘fascist’
space may turn into a ‘democratic’ space. And, by extension, a ‘colo-
nial’ space can be turned into a ‘post-colonial’ space. Often these pro-
cesses are charged with a sense of strategic reappropriation, and are
set against the memory of previous associations. At other times they
may be facilitated by conditions of amnesia or the repression of
memory, factors which release a space from its previous associations.

Identification with Place

Symbolic attachments may be grafted on to physical form. This opens
up the possibility, as Vikki Bell has explored, of a discourse of
performativity and ‘belonging’, where ‘belonging’ might be perceived
21
as an identification with a certain place. It suggests a way in which
communities might colonise various territories through the literal
‘performances’ — the actions, ritualistic behaviour and so on — that
are acted out within a given architectural stage, and through those
performances achieve a certain attachment to place.
This is based on the idea that just as communities are ‘imagined’
communities, so the spaces of communities — the territories that they
have claimed as their own — are also ‘imagined’. ‘Imagining a community’,
as Anne-Marie Fortier observes, ‘is both that which is created as a common
history, experience or culture of a group — a group’s belongings — and
about how the imagined community is attached to places — the location

21
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999.

26
 22
of culture.’ Fortier has explored how through ritualised repetition of
symbolic acts, often conducted within an overtly religious context and
performed within specific architectural spaces, these ‘imagined’
23
communities can ‘make material the belongings they purport to describe.’
Central to this sense of belonging is the principle of ritualistic
repetition. This can be understood within the logic of psychoanalytic
theory that posits repetition as a means of miming and thereby controlling
trauma. Just as the child in Freud’s famous example of the fort-da game
seeks to overcome the anxiety of being abandoned by the mother by

22
Anne-Marie Fortier, ‘Re-membering Places and the Performance of Belonging(s)’, in
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 42.
23
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 3. Fortier’s
own study is of a specific Italian emigré community in London, whose ritualistic
performances often bound to specific religious festivals, negotiated a sense of
spatial belonging that was both part of an emigrant — and specifically Italian —
community, but also quintessentially ‘in Britain’. The study was based on a commu-
nity and its association with a particular church — St Peter’s — its rituals and forms
of cultural expression. Her study relies heavily on Butler. As Fortier puts it: ‘As I sat
there in the pews, it seemed as if I was watching a re-run of part of an identity in the
making: the ‘stylised repetition of acts’ reached into some deep-seated sense of
selfhood that had sedimented into my body. The rituals, in turn, cultivated a sense of
belonging.This short episode made me realize the extent to which cultural identity
is embodied, and memories are incorporated, both as a result of iterated actions.
And how these, in turn, are lived as expressions of a deeply felt sense of identity and
belonging.’ [Anne-Marie Fortier, ‘Re-membering Places and the Performance of
Belonging(s)’, in Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage,
1999, p. 48.] Fortier concludes: ‘St Peter’s is a place of re-membering. It is a place
of collective memory, in which elements of the past are cobbled together to mould a
communal body of belonging. It is a place where individual lives, present and past,
are called upon to inhabit the present space, to ‘member’ it. Finally, it is a site where
individual bodies circulate, come and go; where bodies are signifying actors in claims
for, and practices of, the identity of St Peter’s and former Little Italy. These bodies,
in turn, are projected into a structure of meaning that precedes them and re-members
them into gendered definitions of identity and becoming. Re-membering “The Hill”
works through bodies that are ethnicized and gendered at once, while the circulation
of these bodies that are ethnicizes and genders a space in the process of claiming it
as an Italian (terrain of) belonging(s).’ [Anne-Marie Fortier, ‘Re-membering Places
and the Performance of Belonging(s)’, in Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and
Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 59.]

27
acting out that process of departure and return in various games about
‘loss’ and ‘retrieval’, so repetition of certain spatial practices amounts to
a kind of overcoming the alienation of abstract space, and a means of
inscribing the self in the environment. Repetition leads to a normalisation
and consequent familiarisation. When acted out within a particular
context it may lead to an associative sense of belonging that effectively
materializes this process of identification. ‘The repetition,’ Bell notes,
‘sometimes ritualistic repetition, of these normalized codes makes
24
material the belongings they purport to simply describe.’
What then happens through these stylised spatial practices is that
these spaces are ‘demarcated’ by certain groups by a kind of spatial appro-
priation. This is a visceral process of identification which depends upon
bodily memories. Through the repetition of those rituals these spaces
are ‘re-membered’, such that those participating reinscribe themselves
into the space, re-evoking corporeal memories of previous enactments.
The space becomes a space of projection, as memories of previous ex-
periences are ‘projected’ on to the material form of the space. At the
same time, the body becomes the site of introjection, as a recording sur-
face registering those previous spatial experiences. As a combined re-
sult of the echoing and reinforcement of these two sets of experiences
— introjection and projection — over time, a sense of mirroring and
consequent identification is achieved. Identification is always specular.
It is always a question of recognising the self in the other. The rituals are
naturalised through these corporeal memory acts, and the spaces in which
they are enacted become spaces of belonging for those involved. These
spaces are ‘appropriated’ through these rituals and become communal
sites of embeddedness. As Fortier observes: ‘Belongings refer to both
‘possessions’ and appartenance. That is, practices of group identity are
about manufacturing cultural and historical belongings which mark out
terrains of commonality that delineate the politics and social dynamics
25
of ‘fitting in’.’

24
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 3.
25
Anne-Marie Fortier, ‘Re-membering Places and the Performance of Belonging(s)’, in
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 42.

28
 What is so suggestive about the concept of ‘belonging’ as a product
of performativity is that it enables us to go beyond the limitations of
simple narrative. It exceeds the ideas of Michel de Certeau for
narrativising the city through spatial tactics that amount to types of ‘pe-
destrian speech acts’, as a means of ‘making sense of’ the city, to sug-
gest a mechanism of identification. De Certeau, after all, although posit-
ing a theory of overcoming alienation, does not fully articulate a theory
of identification. It also privileges the idea not of reading the environ-
ment, as though its meaning were there and simply waiting to be deci-
phered, but rather of giving meaning to the environment by collective or
individual behaviour. ‘Belonging’ to place can therefore be understood
as an aspect of territorialization, and out of that ‘belonging’ a sense of
identity might be forged.
The attraction of the application of performativity to place is that it
resists more static notions of ‘dwelling’ emanating from Heideggerian
discourse that seem so ill at ease with a society of movement and travel.
The increasing homogenisation of space within a world of global capital
has indeed led to a predominant condition of ‘non-place’ — as Marc Augé
has coined it. But this should not lead us back to old models of ‘dwelling’
as a way of resisting this condition, as though models formulated in the
past will necessarily still be relevant in the present. Rather it encourages
us to formulate new paradigms for understanding attachment to place that
are in tune with contemporary modes of existence.
Indeed it could even be claimed that new types of attachment are a
direct result of a cosmopolitan culture of ‘non-places’, in that place and
non-place are locked into a dialectic of reciprocal presupposition. Just
as globalisation leads to regionalisation — or even the hybrid manifestation
of ‘glocalisation’ — so placelessness automatically encourages an
attachment to place, as though the blurring of spatial boundaries leads to
26
a corresponding increase in awareness of those boundaries. This new

26
This is in line with Foucault’s thinking that transgression of the limit does not deny
the limit, but rather illuminates it in the ‘flash of its passage’. On this see Foucault.
‘Preface to Transgression’ in Donald Bouchard (ed.), Language, Counter-Memory,
Practice, Donald Bouchard and Sherry Simon (trans.), Ithaca, New York: Cornell
University Press, 1977, pp. 33-4.

29
condition, though, must be seen as a product of — and not a resistance
to — the homogenising placelessness of global capitalism. Any
theoretical formulation of new kinds of attachment must address the
very mechanisms of late capitalism itself — its transiency, provisionality
and ever-renegotiable field of operations — and not fall back on models
formulated in different cultural conditions.
Equally, such understandings of ‘belonging’ should be inscribed
within a context of ‘non-belonging’. The very notion of ‘belonging’
contains within itself a certain sense of initial alienation. The possibil-
ity of forging an attachment necessarily follows hard upon the heels of
27
the very act of detachment. We might therefore posit ‘belonging’ as a
form of attachment to place that operates as a ‘gestalt’ formation, as a
kind of ‘figure-ground’ relation between the self and the environment. It
depends upon a certain differentiation of the self from the environ-
ment, but that differentiation itself invites a reciprocal sense of attach-
ment. Yet equally that sense of attachment presupposes a sense of dif-
ferentiation.
What is being proposed here through the model of ‘belonging’
derived from Butler’s thinking is not some discourse of fixed ‘roots’,
but rather a more transitory and fluid discourse of territorialization
— in the Deleuzian sense — which provides a complex and ever
renegotiable model of spatial ‘belongings’. The model is essentially
a rhizomatic one of nomadic territorializations and deterritorializations.
For territorialization belongs to the same logic as deterritorialization.
It is precisely because of the ‘deterritorialised’ nature of much of

27
This echoes in part the discourse of identity that emerges from Lacan’s formulation of
the Mirror Stage. Significantly, Lacan refers to Caillois’s earlier essay on ‘Mimicry
and Legendary Psychasthenia’. Caillois’s concern is not for identification, but the
horror of non-differentiation between the self and the environment. The condition is
problematic because identity depends on the ability of an organism to distinguish
itself from its surroundings. Jacques Lacan, ‘The Mirror Stage’ in Anthony Easthope
(ed.), Contemporary Film Theory, London: Longman, 1993, p. 35; Roger Caillois,
‘Mimicry and Legendary Psychasthenia’, October, 84, pp. 16-32, reprinted in
October, the First Decade, 1976-86, pp. 58-74.

30
contemporary existence that some sense of ‘territorialisation’ must be
forged. But this very ‘territorialisation’ necessarily presupposes a con-
sequent form of ‘deterritorialisation’. What we find, then, is that the
very provisionality of such territorializations colludes with the ephem-
erality of any sense of belonging. Just as territorializations are al-
ways shifting, so too identifications remain fleeting and transitory,
while all the time leaving behind traces of their passage. In this sense
‘belonging’ comes close to the rhizomatic sense of ‘becoming’ described
by Deleuze and Guattari in their evocative description of the interac-
tion between the wasp and the orchid, where the wasp ‘becomes’ like
28
the orchid, just as the orchid ‘becomes’ like the wasp. And like ‘be-
coming’, ‘belonging’ remains an actative process, and not a given state.
As Bell comments: ‘The rhizome has been an important analogy here,
conveying as it does an image of movement that can come to tempo-
rary rest in new places while maintaining ongoing connections else-
29
where.’
It is clear that, within the context of post-colonial studies, architectural
theorists can profit from engaging with the theories of cultural
identity emanating from the work of Homi Bhabha and Judith
Butler. Not only will this open up a debate trapped within a discourse
of form to engage with sophisticated discourses outside the discipline
of architecture, but it will also introduce new and more subtle ways
of understanding attachment to place. In this regard, Butler’s work
on ‘performativity’ and the consequent notion of ‘belonging’ are
particularly productive.
It may well be that the concept of ‘belonging’ — an ever provisional,
rhizomatic model of attachment to place — offers us a viable paradigm
to replace the now somewhat outmoded model of ‘dwelling’ that once so
dominated architectural discourse. For just as identity itself is today no

28
Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, London: Athlone, 1988,
p. 10 and passim.
29
Vikki Bell (ed.), Performativity and Belonging, London: Sage, 1999, p. 9.

31
longer a fixed condition, but a continually re-negotiable site of
individual expression, so ‘belonging’ offers an equally flexible concept
that can accommodate the transitory nature of contemporary existence.
In a realm whose paradigmatic figures include the ‘wanderer’, ‘migrant’,
‘refugee’ and ‘exile’, the notion of ‘belonging’ offers a more
sympathetic framework for understanding contemporary modes of
identification with place.

32
 FORGET HEIDEGGER

Introduction

Imagine yourself in what is perhaps an all too familiar scenario.

You walk into a hotel room, a slightly grotty hotel room perhaps. The
walls may be somewhat dirty; paint, perhaps, is pealing from the
furniture; and there may be a musty smell. Initially you feel a sense of
alienation. The room is unfamiliar. You don’t feel at home in it.
Nevertheless you unpack your bags. You put your washbag in the wash
room and hang your clothes in the wardrobe. Gradually, as you lay out
these familiar objects, the room seems less alienating. But what is most
curious is that after a night or two spent sleeping in the room, what once
seemed alienating and unfamiliar gradually becomes familiar, to the point
that you begin to feel at home in the room. Maybe you even become
slightly fond of it, with its shabby furniture and musty smells. You start
to feel cosy there, and almost do not want to leave. Somehow — almost
imperceptibly — a shift has happened. What once appeared grim and
alienating, now appears familiar and homely.
This is a phenomenon with which we are all too familiar, and yet
somehow no one, to my mind, has yet attempted to analyse it fully. It
applies equally to questions of design. What once seemed ugly may
eventually appear less objectionable after a period of time. And it
applies also to questions of technology. Take the example of satellite
dishes. At first sight they may appear unfamiliar and out of place, but

33
before long they have been accepted as part of the familiar language of
the street. And the same principle, no doubt, applied to traffic lights
before them. Even the most seemingly alienating of technological forms
can soon become absorbed within our symbolic horizons, such that they
no longer appear so alienating.
Of course the situation is often not that simple. Other factors may
come into play. There may be some further consideration — an un-
pleasant association, for example — that prevents you from ever feeling
at home in a particular environment. Yet such factors appear merely to
mitigate against what seems to be an underlying drive to ‘grow into’, to
become familiar and eventually identify with our environment. It is as
though there is a constant chameleon-like urge to assimilate that governs
human nature.
What, then, is going on here? What exactly is this process of ‘growing
into’, becoming fond of, familiarising oneself with our environment?
How does this mechanism operate? And more especially, within the
context of this particular enquiry, how might this phenomenon prompt
us to rethink the question of technology? How might, for example, the
overtly negative stand taken by certain theorists on the supposedly
alienating effect of technology be revisited in the light of these
observations? Can technology be viewed more positively? All these
questions are addressed to an architectural culture still dominated in
certain areas by a broadly Heideggerian outlook, and which remains
largely critical of technology.

Heidegger and the Question Concerning Technology

What, then, was Heidegger’s attitude towards technology? Technology
is a crucial concern throughout his work, but the issue is addressed most
1
explicitly in his essay, ‘The Question Concerning Technology’.
Heidegger was not opposed to technology as such. But rather he saw in

1
Martin Heidegger, Basic Writings, David Farrell Krell (ed.), New York: Harper Collins,
1993, pp. 311-341.

34
technology a mode of ‘revealing’, and it was here that the danger lay.
‘The essence of modern technology,’ as he puts it, ‘lies in enframing.
2
Enframing belongs within the destining of revealing.’ The problem lies,
for Heidegger, in precisely this ‘destining’ of this revealing, in that it
3
‘banishes man into the kind of revealing that is an ordering.’ And this
form of ‘revealing’ is an impoverished one as it denies the possibility of
a deeper ontological engagement: ‘Above all, enframing conceals that
revealing which, in the sense of poiesis, lets what presences come forth
4
into appearance.’ Rather than opening up to the human it therefore
constitutes a form of resistance or challenge to the human, in that it
‘blocks’ our access to truth: ‘Enframing blocks the shining-forth and
5
holding sway of truth.’
What we find in our contemporary age, according to Heidegger, is a
condition in which humankind treats nature as a form of resource,
something to be exploited, stockpiled and so on. ‘Everywhere everything
is ordered to stand by, to be immediately on hand, indeed to stand there
just so that it may be on call for a further ordering. Whatever is ordered
about in this way has its own standing. We call is the standing-reserve
6
[Bestand].’ And it is this sense of ‘standing-reserve’, rather than poiesis,
that lies at the heart of modern technology: ‘The essence of modern
technology shows itself in what we call Enframing. . . It is the way in
7
which the real reveals itself as standing-reserve.’ The problem is not so
much of nature being devalued as standing-reserve, but humankind
finding itself in the same condition: ‘As soon as what is concealed no
longer concerns man even as object, but exclusively as standing-reserve,
and man in the midst of objectlessness is nothing but the orderer of the
standing-reserve, then he comes to the very brink of a precipitous fall;

2
Ibid., p. 330.
3
Ibid., p. 332.
4
Ibid., p. 332.
5
Ibid., p. 333.
6
Ibid., p. 322.
7
Ibid., pp. 328-329.

35
that is, he comes to the point where he himself will have to be taken as
8
standing-reserve.’
Technology therefore comes to be associated with a form of
alienation. It prevents humankind from being in touch with a richer form
of revealing which operates within a more poetic dimension. But it is
important to stress that the danger lies not in technology, but its essence:
‘What is dangerous is not technology. Technology is not demonic; but
its essence is mysterious. The essence of technology, as a destining of
9
revealing, is the danger.’
Needless to say, Heidegger’s comments on ‘truth’ are as deeply
unfashionable in contemporary theoretical circles as is his belief in
‘essences’. And even attempts by more recent thinkers in this intellec-
tual tradition, such as Gianni Vattimo, to update Heidegger’s thought
for a postmodern world of ‘difference’ and ‘differals’ of meaning, can
do little to redeem such a position. The question will always remain:
‘Whose truth?’ And this refers to all forms of human engagement. As
Félix Guattari comments on the subject of technology: ‘Far from appre-
hending a univocal truth of Being through techné, as Heideggerian
ontology would have it, it is a plurality of beings as machines that give
themselves to us once we acquire the pathic or cartographic means of
10
access to them.’
Heidegger’s approach always threatens to reduce human beings
to a single, universal individual, and to collapse the subject into the
object, so that the agency of the interpreter is somehow overlooked,
and ‘meaning’ is deemed to be unproblematically ‘given’. Yet we
might more properly approach such questions from an individual per-
spective, and treat meaning not as some universal ‘given’, but in sym-
bolic terms as that which may vary from individual to individual.

8
Ibid., p. 332, as quoted in Scheibler, ‘Heidegger and the Rhetoric of Submission’ in
Verena Andermatt Conley (ed.), Rethinking Technologies, Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 1993, p. 116.
9
Ibid., p. 333.
10
Félix Guattari, ‘Machinic Heterogenesis’ in Rethinking Technologies, p. 26.

36
Symbolic meaning — like beauty — lies in the eye of the beholder,
but is no less real for that. And symbolic meaning, as Fredric Jameson
11
reminds us, is ‘as volatile as the arbitrariness of the sign’. An ob-
ject might mean one thing to one person, and quite the opposite to
another. This is not to sanction relativism, so much as to highlight
the need to acknowledge the agency of the interpreter and the per-
spective from which an interpretation is made. As such we might do
better to retreat from such abstract universals and address the specific-
ity of the concrete situation.
What such thinking fails to interrogate is how our understanding of
the world is always mediated. It fails to address questions of consciousness.
What is important, surely, when we address objects in the world is to
consider not only the objects themselves but also the consciousness by
which we know those objects. The phenomenological tradition does not
perceive this as an area of concern. It therefore fails to grasp the very
fluid and dynamic way our engagement with the world takes place. And
this includes technology. Just as humans invest and subsequently transfer
notions of ‘home’ by cathecting it from one dwelling to another, so they
take a more dynamic and flexible attitude to technology. They may come
to invest it with meaning, and to forge an attachment to it, that serves
ultimately to overcome any initial resistance to it. As such they may
reappropriate it from the realm of standing-reserve.
In sum, what needs to be brought into the frame is the notion of
‘appropriation’. Heidegger, to be sure, has been criticised elsewhere
for overlooking the question of ‘appropriation’. As Derrida argues con-
vincingly, the whole principle of hermeneutics is based on a form of
undisclosed appropriation — ‘claiming’ — where the agency of the
12
interpreter in making that interpretation is not fully acknowleged. But
by ‘appropriation’ I refer here to the process of ‘familiarisation’ over

11
Fredric Jameson, ‘Is Space Political?’ in Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking Architecture,
London: Routledge, 1997, p. 258.
12
Jacques Derrida, Truth in Painting, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987,
pp. 255-382.

37
time. Just as one can question whether the ‘authenticity’ or indeed
‘inauthenticity’ (in Heideggerian terms) of an artefact will endure
once memory of its creation is lost, so technology can never be seen
to be the enduring site of alienation. Technology is always open to
poetic appropriation.
The somewhat monolithic attitude of Heidegger towards technol-
ogy needs to be challenged. Those who argue that technology is
the perpetual source of alienation clearly overlook the potential for
human beings to absorb the novel and the unusual within their
symbolic framework. We need to adopt a more flexible, dynamic
framework, that is alert to the very chameleon-like capacity for psy-
chical adaptation that is a fundamental aspect of what it is to be hu-
man. It may, of course, be that we can locate an opening in Heidegger’s
thought, and argue, as does Ingrid Scheibler, that Heidegger also al-
lows for what he terms, ‘meditative thinking’, and that this can be
deployed in the realm of technology so as to forge a less determinis-
13
tic relationship between human beings and technology. But such
strategies will tend to bear the character of an apology, a qualifica-
tion to an earlier argument. The sheer force of Heidegger’s critique
of technology foregrounds calculative thinking as the dominant mode
of engagement, and it is not at all clear when, if ever, calculative
thinking gives way to meditative thinking.
Moreover, we need to adopt a more open attitude towards technology
not least because we live in a technological age. Technology has
permeated all aspects of contemporary existence, and has suffused
itself within our background horizon of consciousness. We live our lives
so much through technology, that we begin to see them in terms of
technology. With time not only do we eventually accept technology, but
we even begin to identify with it. We call our cars names and speak to
our computers. Ultimately we even begin to constitute our identity through

13
Ingrid Scheibler, ‘Heidegger and the Rhetoric of Submission’ in Rethinking Technologies,
pp. 115-139.

38
technology — through our cars, computers and electronic gadgetry. We
are the car we drive, or so the advertisers would have us believe: sleak,
elegant, sophisticated, rugged, adventurous, whatever. Technology can
lend us our lifestyles, can lend us our identities.

Mimetic Identification
How, then, might we adopt a more sympathetic attitude towards
technology? What theoretical framework might allow us to address these
concerns more openly? I want to propose that the work of Walter
Benjamin and Theodor Adorno on the concept of mimesis offers a more
subtle approach to questions of assimilation and identification in
general, and to the problem of the alienation of technology in particular.
To quote Adorno:
According to Freud, symbolic intention quickly allies itself to
technical forms, like the airplane, and according to contemporary American
research in mass psychology, even to the car. Thus, purposeful forms are
the language of their own purposes. By means of the mimetic impulse,
14
the living being equates himself with objects in his surroundings.
This last sentence, ‘By means of the mimetic impulse, the living
being equates himself with objects in his surroundings’, is, surely, one
that holds the key to exploring the whole question of how human be-
ings situate themselves within their environment, and points to an area
in which the domain of psychoanalysis may offer crucial insights into
the mechanism by which humans relate to their habitat. It begins to
suggest, for example, that the way in which humans progressively feel
‘at home’ within a particular building, is precisely through a process of
symbolic identification with that building. And equally they may come
to identify with technological objects. This symbolic attachment is
something that does not come into operation automatically. Rather it is
something that is engendered gradually, in Adorno’s terms, through the
‘mimetic impulse’.

14
Theodor Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 10.

39
 Mimesis here should not be understood in the terms used, say, by
Plato, as simple ‘imitation’. Nor indeed does it have the same meaning
that Heidegger gives it. Rather mimesis in Adorno, as indeed in Walter
Benjamin, is a psychoanalytic term — taken from Freud — that refers
to a creative engagement with an object. It is, as Adorno defines it, ‘the
non-conceptual affinity of a subjective creation with its objective and
15
unposited other’. Mimesis is a term, as Freud himself predicted, of
16
great potential significance for aesthetics.
To understand the meaning of mimesis in Adorno we must
recognise its origin in the process of modelling, of ‘making a copy
of’. In essence it refers to an interpretative process that relates not
just to the creation of a model, but also to the engagement with that
model. Mimesis may operate both transitively and reflexively. It
comes into operation both in the making of an object and in making
oneself like an object. Mimesis is therefore a form of imitation that
may be evoked both by the artist who makes a work of art, and also
by the person who views it. Yet mimesis is richer than straight imita-
tion. In mimesis imagination is at work, and serves to reconcile the
subject with the object. This imagination operates at the level of fan-
tasy, which mediates between the unconscious and the conscious,
dream and reality. Here fantasy is used as a positive term. Fantasy
creates its own fictions not as a way of escaping reality, but as a way
of accessing reality, a reality that is ontologically charged, and not
constrained by an instrumentalised view of the world. In effect mi-
mesis is an unconscious identification with the object. It necessarily

15
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, C Lenhardt (trans.), G Adorno, R Tiederman (eds.), Lon-
don: Routledge, 1984, p. 80.
16
‘. . . I believe that if ideational mimetics are followed up, they may be as useful in
other branches of aesthetics. . .’ Sigmund Freud, Jokes and Their Relation to the
Unconscious (1905), trans. James Strachey, London: Routledge, 1960, p. 193. For
further reading on mimesis, see Erich Auerbach, Mimesis, trans. Willard Trask,
Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953; Michael Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity,
London: Routledge, 1993; Gunter Gebauer and Christoph Wulf, Mimesis, trans.
Don Reneau, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995.

40
involves a creative moment on the part of the subject. The subject
creatively identifies with the object, so that the object, even if it is a
technical object — a piece of machinery, a car, a plane, a bridge,
whatever — becomes invested with some symbolic significance, and
is appropriated as part of the symbolic background through which
individuals constitute their identity.
It is important to recognise here the question of temporality. Sym-
bolic significance may shift — often dramatically — over a period of
time. What was once shockingly alien may eventually appear reas-
suringly familiar. The way in which we engage with architecture must
therefore be seen not as a static condition, but as a dynamic process.
The logic of mimesis dictates that we are constantly assimilating
to the built environment, and that, consequently, our attitudes to-
wards it are for ever changing. Our engagement with the built environ-
ment is never a given, static condition, but an ongoing process of con-
stant adaptation. While books have been devoted to ‘weathering’, to
the performance of the building in time, few seem to have addressed
the question of our own reception of the building itself within a tempo-
ral framework.
Mimesis therefore constitutes a form of mimicry, — but it is an
adaptive mimicry — just as when a child learns to speak and adapt to
the world, or when owners take on the characteristics of their pets. In
fact it is precisely the example of the child ‘growing into’ language
that best illustrates the operation of mimesis. The child ‘absorbs’ an
external language by a process of imitation and then uses it creatively
for its own purposes. Similarly, within the realm of any aspect of de-
sign we might see mimesis at work as designers develop their design
abilities: it is this process which also allows external forms to be ab-
sorbed and sedimented as part of a language of design.
Although mimesis involves a degree of organised control, and
therefore operates in conjunction with rationality, this does not mean
that mimesis is part of rationality. Indeed, in terms of the dialectic of
the enlightenment, we might perceive mimesis as constitutive not

41
of rationality, but of myth, its magical ‘other’. Mimesis and rational-
17
ity, as Adorno observes, are ‘irreconcilable’. If mimesis is to be per-
ceived as a form of correspondence with the outside world which is
articulated within the aura of the work of art, then enlightenment ra-
tionality, with its effective split between subject and object, and in-
creasing emphasis on knowledge-as-quantification over knowledge-as-sen-
suous-correspondence, represents the opposite pole. In the
instrumentalised view of the enlightenment, knowledge is ordered
and categorised, valorised according to scientific principles, and
the rich potential of mimesis is overlooked. All this entails a loss, a
reduction of the world to a reified structure of subject/object divides,
as mimesis retreats even further into the mythic realm of literature and
the arts.
At the same time mimesis might be seen to offer a form of dialecti-
cal foil to the subject/object split of enlightenment rationality. This is
most obvious in the case of language. Language becomes the ‘highest
level of mimetic behaviour, the most complete archive of non-sensuous
18
similarity’. Mimesis for Benjamin offers a way of finding meaning in
the world, through the discovery of similarities. These similarities be-
come absorbed and then rearticulated in language, no less than in dance
or other art forms. As such language becomes a repository of meaning,
and writing becomes an activity which extends beyond itself, so that in
the process of writing writers engage in unconscious processes of which
they may not be aware. Indeed writing often reveals more than the
writer is conscious of revealing. Likewise the reader must decode
the words resorting to the realm of the imagination which exceeds
the purely rational. Thus the activity of reading also embodies the prin-
ciples of mimesis, serving as the vehicle for some revelatory mo-
ment. For Benjamin the meaning becomes apparent in a constella-
tory flash, a dialectics of seeing, in which subject and object become

17
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, p. 81.
18
Benjamin, ‘Mimetic Faculty’ in Reflections, trans. Edmund Jephcott, New York:
Schocken, 1978, p. 336.

42
one for a brief moment, a process which relates to the experience of
architecture no less than the reading of texts.
Architecture along with the other visual arts can therefore be
viewed as a potential reservoir for the operation of mimesis. In the
very design of buildings the architect may articulate the relational cor-
respondence with the world that is embodied in the concept of mime-
sis. These forms may be interpreted in a similar fashion by those who
experience the building, in that the mechanism by which human be-
ings begin to feel at home in the built environment can also be seen as
a mimetic one.
Mimesis, then, may help to explain how we identify progressively
with our surroundings. In effect, we read ourselves into our surround-
ings, without being fully conscious of it. ‘By means of the mimetic
impulse,’ as Adorno comments, ‘the living being equates himself with
objects in his surroundings’. Elsewhere I have argued that this may be
19
understood in terms of the myth of Narcissus. The mimetic impulse
might be seen as a mechanism for reading ourselves into the other. We
relate ourselves to our environment by a process of narcissistic iden-
tification, and mimetically absorb the language of that environment.
Just as Narcissus saw his own image in the water, without recognising
it as his own image, so we identify ourselves with the ‘other’ — sym-
bolically — without realising that recognition of the ‘other’ must be
understood in terms of a mimetic identification with the other, as a
reflection of the self. And this refers not to a literal reflection of our
image, so much as the metaphorical reflection of our symbolic outlook
and values.
The aim throughout is to forge a creative relationship with our
environment. When we see our values ‘reflected’ in our surroundings,
this feeds our narcissistic urge, and breaks down the subject/object
divide. It is as though — to use Walter Benjamin’s use of the term

19
Leach, ‘Vitruvius Crucifixus: Architecture, Mimesis and the Death Instinct, AA Files,
38, July 1999.

43
mimesis — in the flash of the mimetic moment, the fragmentary is
recognised as part of the whole, and the individual is inserted within an
harmonic totality.

Rethinking Technology
What, then, can we read into this process of assimilation that is
implied in the concept of mimesis, and how might it prompt us to rethink
the issue of technology? There are clear comparisons to be made
between Heidegger’s championing of poiesis over ‘standing reserve’,
and the corresponding championing by Benjamin and Adorno of
knowledge-as-sensuous-correspondence over knowledge-as-quantification.
Both traditions would criticise the world of enlightenment rationality as
an impoverished one, and indeed mimesis here can be seen to offer a foil
to this condition. But only with Heidegger is technology assigned
unreservedly to this condition.
Let us take Heidegger’s example of the airliner. The airliner that stands
on the runway, for Heidegger, is ‘surely an object. . . Revealed, it stands
on the taxi strip only as standing-reserve, inasmuch as it is ordered to
20
insure the possibility of transportation.’ The point here is that our under-
standing of that airliner is defined solely in terms of its ‘standing reserve’:
21
‘The object disappears into the objectlessness of the standing-reserve.’
The possibility that the airliner might be viewed in any other way is not
entertained. And yet airliners, as Barthes once commented of buildings,
22
are a combination of ‘dream and function’. But Heidegger fails to ad-
dress the crucial role that an airliner might play as a symbolic form in its
own right, a vehicle for dreams, emotions and desires. As such Heidegger
offers a somewhat restrictive approach to the question. In his account
there is no potential for the object to be withdrawn from the realm of
standing-reserve. There is no potential for it to be reappropriated.

20
Heidegger, p. 322.
21
Ibid., p. 324.
22
Roland Barthes, ‘The Eiffel Tower’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 174.

44
 Intriguingly, Adorno also cites the example of an airplane, but
his thinking remains more flexible. The argument of mimesis sug-
gests — and indeed Adorno explicitly states — that symbolic identi-
fication may take place even with technological objects, such as a
car or a plane, so that they too may be appropriated as part of our
symbolic background: ‘According to Freud, symbolic intention
quickly allies itself to technical forms, like the airplane, and ac-
cording to contemporary American research in mass psychology,
23
even to the car.’ The airplane is not consigned — irredeemably —
to the realm of knowledge-as-quantification. It can be reappropriated
within the realm of the symbolic. In other words our consciousness
of the airplane is itself altered.
Adorno’s further example of the car reveals how the technologi-
cal has come to colonise our everyday lives not as standing reserve,
but as something to which symbolic intention is always already be-
ing ‘attached’. The point here is that we have to understand that our
engagement with technology involves a moment of ‘proprioception’.
Technology may come to operate as a form of ‘prosthesis’ to the hu-
man body that is appropriated such that it becomes part of the motil-
ity of the body. In driving a car we come to navigate the road through
that car. As such, the car as an item of technology is not divorced —
alienated — from the body. Indeed it becomes a form of extension
to that body. What I am arguing here is not some simplistic manifesto
for cyborgs, claiming that human beings can become part human and
part machine. Rather I am trying to tease out the logic of mimesis
itself. For according to this logic, human beings have absorbed tech-
nology at an unconscious level, such that they have come to operate
through technology, as though by way of some tele-kinesis.
Not only this, but technology may actually influence the way
that human beings think. It may itself affect our consciousness. Let
us take the example of the computer. For, if as Walter Benjamin once
argued, the factory worker in the modernist age comes to absorb the
jolting, jarring repetitive action of the machine, such that those move-
23
Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 10.

45
ments are appropriated into the worker’s own behaviour, so too people
today have absorbed the thinking and fluid circuitry behind the com-
puter screen. New conditions breed new ways of thinking. As Dou-
24
glas Rushkoff observes, a new computer generation is emerging.
The computer kids of today come to behave like their computers.
They identify with them, play with them, and mimic their operations.
Analogical reasoning is out. Non-linear, multiple-layered thinking is
in — Deleuzian surfing. Fractals, rhizomes and clones, fluidity and
flux — these are the buzz words of this new generation. In such a
context, those who argue against the use of the computer in the con-
temporary studio are failing to address the concrete ontological real-
ity of life today, and are doing no service to the students, for whom
knowledge of computer programmes has become a ‘given’ within
25
the contemporary office. This is not to say that the computer should
be accepted uncritically within the studio. Indeed the lessons of those
design schools that have accepted the computer wholesale would
seem to indicate that the concerns expressed in The Anaesthetics of
Architecture about the potential aestheticisation and hence
anaesthetisation of social issues are borne out only too clearly in such
26
contexts. Rather it is a call for a self-critical, theoretically informed
engagement with such realms. Theory may be unable in itself to com-
bat the potential problems of aestheticisation. Yet it may provide the
first crucial step. Once a problem has been exposed, one is no longer
trapped by that problem.

24
Douglas Rushkoff, Children of Chaos, London: Flamingo, 1997.
25
It may be that the still prevalent antipathy towards digital technology is merely a form
of ‘denial’. As in the case of homophobics, who often deny their latent homosexuality,
critics of technology may be repressing a secret fascination with technology. (An
obvious example of this is the incident in the film, American Beauty, where the
homophoebic father proves to have homosexual leanings.) An individual ‘in denial’
may be fascinated by some personal psychic obsession, but, not wishing to acknowledge
it, will project that obsession on to some external object, and then criticise it. But
whether this antipathy towards digital technology is a form of repressed fascination
or not, it is clearly out of place in what has become a highly digitalised world.
26
Leach, The Anaesthetics of Architecture, Cambridge, MA.: MIT Press, 1999.

46
 The consequences are all too obvious. Not only have we accepted
technology as an essential part of our everyday life, such that the
distinction once posed between techné and technology seems no longer
valid, but our whole existence has become conditioned by technology.

Technology and Design

Yet this argument only raises a further question: does technol-
ogy belong to one uniform category, or can it be differentiated? How
are we to distinguish between different forms of technology? When does
technology constitute a form of knowledge-as-quantification, and when
does it not? And does ‘design’ play any role? Indeed the logic of mime-
sis raises a question about the whole status of design. For if we are con-
stantly assimilating to the built environment, why do we need to bother
with ‘good design’?
Here I want to take another argument from Adorno, in order to argue
that mimesis is precisely a call for ‘good design’. Much of Adorno’s
article, ‘Functionalism Today’, is devoted to a critique of Adolf Loos’s
article, ‘Ornament and Crime’. Adorno accuses Loos of undialectical
thinking. Loos attempts to separate art from technology. Loos champions
an architecture of pure functionality, in which ‘art’ has no place. Loos
bases this on the Kantian distinction between the ‘purposive’ and the
‘purpose-free’. Yet as Adorno points out, there is no item so purely
functional that it is rinsed of any sense of art, while, conversely, forms of
art — one thinks immediately of dance — do have a ‘function’, albeit a
‘social’ function. ‘There is,’ as Adorno puts it, ‘no chemically pure
27
purposefulness set up as the opposite of the purpose-free aesthetic.’
Art and function must therefore be viewed dialectically, and all
forms of the aesthetic recognised for their social ‘function’. Equally, ar-
chitecture that claims to be merely functional must also have some
aesthetic dimension. Indeed, much of what is termed ‘functional’ in
architecture either incorporates unfunctional features — such as flat roofs

27
Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 8.

47
— or borrows its aesthetic from other domains — such as ships, grain
silos etc. — which have their own functional rationale which is quite
independent of architectural concerns. Adorno therefore concludes that
the ‘functionalism’ that Loos is referring to is precisely an aesthetic
category. ‘Hence,’ as Adorno remarks, ‘our bitter suspicion is formu-
28
lated: the absolute rejection of style becomes style.’
The point to be made here, though, is that we must view the
question of technology dialectically. It is not a question — as some might
imply — of drawing a distinction between art and technology, or indeed
‘architecture’ and ‘engineering’, but of considering to what extent
technology and art are ‘folded into’ one another; to what extent — in the
context of Loos’s argument — technology is designed. What we find in
Heidegger is the same problem, only inverted. Loos forces a distinction
between functionalism and art, Heidegger between poiesis and engineering.
Of course, practical questions of functionality must be foregrounded in
addressing technology, but visual questions — aesthetic appearance —
must not be overlooked.
The answer, it would seem, would be to approach the question
dialectically, introducing the sutleties and flexibilities implied in
the concept of mimesis. While Adorno is himself quite critical of
the totalitarian capacity of technology, of its potential terroristic domi-
nation, we might nonetheless infer from his comments on the car
and the airplane that such objects may be viewed from within the
realm of mimesis. Technological objects may embody the principle
of mimesis.
The argument, then, to be made about the role of mimesis in
technology is simply this. Mimesis operates both in the design of the
item, and in the relationship between the viewer and the item itself. It
therefore follows that when a technological item has been designed
with a view to a mimetic understanding of the world it will lend itself
to being absorbed mimetically. In other words, if we are to under-

28
Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Rethinking Architecture, p. 10.

48
stand mimesis as offering a mechanism of relating to the world, of
forging a link between the individual and the environment, of offer-
ing a means — in Fredric Jameson’s terms — of ‘cognitively map-
ping’ oneself within the environment, good design has an important
social role. The image — far from being the source of alienation as
one might begin to infer from Guy Debord — has a positive role to
play of identification. And if technology can in fact embody mime-
sis, this role is open equally to technological objects. Technology,
according to such a logic, far from being necessarily alienating, as
some would argue, may be the source of identification, provided that
it has been ‘well designed’, designed that is, according to the prin-
ciples of mimesis.
There was a time when Heideggerian thought made a substantial
and noteworthy contribution to architectural culture in challenging the
spirit of positivism that was once so pervasive. But now Heideggerian
thinking must not itself go unchallenged, in that it threatens to install
itself as a set of fixed values out of tune with contemporary society.
And while some would criticise postmodern thought for being relativ-
istic in accommodating plurality and difference, and questioning the
ground on which any particular statement is made, the true relativism
lies surely in a tradition that forecloses even the possibility of even
asking these questions, by doggedly adhering to a set of out of date
values, and by failing to engage substantively with any critical dis-
course.
It is time, it would seem, to adopt a more flexible and tolerant
attitude towards technology. It is time to break free from the shackles of
the past. It is time, perhaps, to forget Heidegger.

49
 SACRIFICE

Several myths survive within popular culture which associate hu-

man sacrifice with the construction of buildings. They tell the tale of
human beings incarcerated within walls or buried in the foundations
during the process of construction. Many of these myths emanate from
Central and Eastern Europe, and one of the most famous examples is
1
that of ‘The Ballad of Master Manole and the Monastery of Arges’.
The ballad tells the tale of Master Manole and his nine masons who
agree to build ‘a high monastery, unequaled on earth’ for the Black Prince.
If they succeed they will be given gold and turned into noblemen, but if
they fail they will be walled in alive in the foundations. The masons
work away for four consecutive days, but each night the section of wall
they have built the previous day collapses. The workmen are in despair,
and the Black Prince threatens to carry out his promise. In a dream,
however, Master Manole hears a voice from the sky: ‘All that is built
will fall at night until we decide, all of us together, to wall in the wife or
the sister who at dawn tomorrow will be the first to come bringing food
2
to her husband or her brother.’ Manole persuades the others to agree
that whosoever appears first at dawn the next day will be walled in.
Unfortunately for Manole, this proves to be his own wife, Ana. Manole
catches sight of her from afar, and entreats the gods to send send raging
1
For the complete ballad see Mircea Eliade, Zalmoxis: The Vanishing God, trans. Willard
Trask, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972, pp.164-170.
2
Eliade, p. 167.

51
winds and torrents of rain to block her route. Although they accede to
Manole’s request, there is nothing they can do to prevent her arriving.
The great masters, apprentices, and masons were glad when they saw
her. But Manole sadly embraces his sweetheart, takes her in his arms, and
climbs the scaffold. He set her on the wall and said to her, jestingly:
‘Fear nothing, my dear one, for we are going to wall you in up here,
but it is only in jest.’
Ana trusted him and laughed and blushed. And Manole sighed and
began to raise the wall. The wall grew and buried her, up to the ankles,
then to the calves. And she — poor thing! — stopped laughing and said:
‘Manole, Manole, stop your jesting now, for the jest is not good,
Manole, Manole, Master Manole! The wall presses me too hard and
breaks my little body!’
But Manole did not answer her and went on working, the wall rose
even higher, burying her, up to the ankles, up to the calves, up to the ribs,
up to the breasts. But she — poor thing! — went on weeping and speaking
to him:
‘Manole, Manole, Master Manole, the wall presses me too hard and
crushes my breasts and breaks my child.’
Manole, in a fury, worked on. And the wall rose and covered her, up
to the sides, up to the breasts, up to the lips, up to the eyes. And so the poor
thing was seen no more; but they heard her still, speaking from the wall:
3
‘Manole, Manole, the wall presses me too hard, and my life is failing!’
Once Ana has been walled in, the wall stands firm, and Manole and
his masons manage to complete the monastery. But the Black Prince
then asks the masons if they can build him another one, even more
splendid. In their pride, the workmen boast that they can build one ‘far
more shining, and far more beautiful’. The Prince listens and ponders.
They had promised to build him a monastery ‘unequaled on earth’, yet
now they claim to be able not only to equal it, but even to surpass it. In
their own terms they have clearly broken their promise. Accordingly, the
Prince has the scaffold torn down, and leaves the workmen stranded on
the roof. And so the workmen, in a bid to escape, build themselves wings
3
Eliade, p. 168.

52
in the manner of Daedalus and Icarus. But as they leap down from the
roof they crash to the ground, and are killed. And as Manole himself
leaps, he hears a voice from the wall, ‘Manole, Manole, Master Manole,
the wall presses me too hard and crushes my weeping breast and breaks
my child and my life is failing.’ He too is killed as he strikes the ground,
and a spring then gushes up from that spot.
There are numerous variations on this theme throughout Central
and Eastern Europe, especially the Balkans. Although the victim is
always female — usually the wife of one of the masons — and is al-
ways tricked into being immured or buried in the foundations, the bal-
lads vary in their details. In the Romanian version it is a monastery
which is being constructed, in the neo-Greek version a bridge, and in
the Serbo-Croatian and Hungarian versions it is a city. In the Macedo-
Romanian, Serbian and Bulgarian versions the women begs to have
her breast left exposed so that she can continue to suckle her child, and
in the Serbo-Croatian version she also asks for a window in front of
her eyes, so that she can still see her house. Yet, despite the differ-
ences, the central theme remains consistent: a victim needs to be
sacrificed in order to guarantee the structural stability of a new con-
struction.
James Frazer presents further variations of this theme in The Golden
Bough. In other cultures an animal can be sacrificed instead of a human
being: ‘In modern Greece, when the foundation of a new building is
being laid, it is the custom to kill a cock, a ram, or a lamb, and to let its
blood flow on the foundation-stone, under which the animal is
afterwards buried. The object of the sacrifice is to give strength and
4
stability to the building.’ More enigmatically, perhaps, a shadow can be
sacrificed instead, even though the ‘capturing’ of the shadow is thought
to lead to the death of the owner of the shadow, as if by some form of
sympathetic magic:

4
Frazer, p. ?

53
 But sometimes, instead of killing an animal, the builder entices a
man to the foundation-stone, secretly measures his body, or a part of
it, or his shadow, and buries the measure under the foundation-stone;
or he lays the foundation-stone upon the man’s shadow. It is believed
that the man will die within the year. The Roumanians in Transylvania
think that he whose shadow is thus immured will die within forty
days; so persons passing by a building which is in the course of erection
may hear a warning cry, ‘Beware lest they take thy shadow!’ Not
long ago there were still shadow-traders whose business it was to
provide architects with the shadows necessary for securing their
walls. In these cases the measure of the shadow is looked on as equiva-
lent to the shadow itself, and to bury it is to bury the life or soul of a
man, who, deprived of it, must die. Thus the custom is a substitute
for the old practice of immuring a living person in the walls, or
crushing him under the foundation-stone of a new building, in order
to give strength and durability to the structure, or more definitively
in order that the angry ghost may haunt the place and guard it against
5
the intrusion of enemies.’
Clearly the shadow here is equated with the spirit, and the cap-
turing of the shadow will animate the stone. These substitutions
come to supercede the sacrifice of actual human beings. Yet, as Mircea
Eliade points out, ‘the discovery of skeletons in the foundations of
sanctuaries and palaces in the ancient Near East’ provides evidence
6
that such sacrifices did occur. And there is substantial documen-
tary evidence to suggest that the practice was widespread, and could
7
be found as far a field as England.
How then do we account for these strange rituals, and what is their
significance? Obviously, the rituals were intended to give strength and

5
Frazer, pp. 230-231.
6
Eliade, p. 181.
7
See G Cocchiara, ‘Il Ponte di Arta e i sacrifici di costruzione’, in Annali del Museo
Pitrè, I (Palermo, 1950), p. 60.

54
durability to the walls, but how was this perceived to happen? And how
might we appraise them from a theoretical perspective?

Sacrifice as Animation
Mircea Eliade explains these sacrificial building rites as follows:
‘To last, a construction (house, technical accomplishment, but also a
spiritual undertaking) must be animated, that is, must receive both life
and a soul. The “transference” of the soul is possible only by means of
a sacrifice; in other words, by a violent death. We may even say that
the victim continues its existence after death, no longer in its physical
body but in the new body — the construction — which has been “ani-
mated” by its immolation; We may even speak of an “architectonic
8
body” substituted for a body of flesh.’
Eliade notes how traditional societies saw the human dwelling
as a form of imago mundi. And so, just as the world was founded on
the primordial sacrifice of a Divine Being, so too each construction,
as an embodiment of that world, should require the sacrifice of a
victim. This sacrifice is seen as both a positive and creative gesture,
as the victim transfers its vitality into the structure: ‘On the plane of
construction rites the immolated being, as we have seen, acquires a
new body: the building that it has made a “living”, hence enduring,
thing by its violent death. In all these myths death by violence is
9
creative.’
In their seminal study of sacrifice Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss
offer a further response to these questions. For them the building
sacrifice aims to evoke some form of guardian spirit: ‘In the building
sacrifice. . . one sets out to create a spirit who will be the guardian of the
house, altar, or town that one is building or wants to build, and which
will become the power within it. Thus the rites of attribution are
developed. The skull of the human victim, the cock or the head of the
owl, is walled up. Again, depending on the nature of the building, whether

8
Eliade, Zalmoxis, pp. 182-183.
9
Eliade, Zalmoxis, p. 186.

55
it is to be a temple, a town, or a mere house, the importance of the victim
differs. According as the building is already built or about to be built, the
object of the sacrifice will be to create the spirit or the protecting divinity,
or to propitiate the spirit of the soil which the building operations are
10
about to harm.’
But how exactly is that spirit evoked, and what purpose does the
sacrifice serve compared to, say, a mere offering? Hubert and Mauss
observe that there are two types of relation forged through sacrifice.
On the one hand, the sacrifice may benefit the sacrifier as subject.
Hubert and Mauss define the sacrifier as follows: ‘We give the name
‘sacrifier’ to the subject to whom the benefits of sacrifice thus ac-
11
crue, or who undergoes its effects.’ On the other hand, the benefits
of the sacrifice may be conferred on an object, which relates in some
way to the sacrifier. They therefore define sacrifice as follows: ‘Sac-
rifice is a religious act which, through the consecration of a victim,
modifies the conditions of the moral person who accomplishes it or
12
that of certain objects with which he is concerned.’
‘In the sacrifice that takes place in the building of a house,’ they
remark, ‘it is the house that is affected by it, and the quality that it
acquires by this means can survive longer than its owner for the time
13
being.’ It is important to recognise, however, that two mechanisms of
sacrifice are related and often co-exist. So it is with the sacrifice to
consecrate the house that this gesture also has an effect on the moral
standing of the person officiating and those connected with that person.
As Hubert and Mauss observe: ‘When the father of a family offers a
sacrifice for the inauguration of his house, not only must the house be
14
capable of receiving his family, but they must be fit to enter it.’

10
Henri Hubert and Marcell Mauss, Sacrifice: its Nature and Function, trans. W. D.
Hallls, London: Cohen and West, 1964, p. 65.
11
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 10.
12
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 13.
13
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 10.
14
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 11.

56
 For Hubert and Mauss, sacrifice acts as a form of intermediary
mechanism, between either the sacrifier and the god, or the object of
sacrifice and the god. In the case of building rituals, both mechanisms
come into operation. The principle here is that the victim serves as a
form of intermediary which acts like some electrical resistor to weaken
15
the force of the sacrifice which would otherwise be too intense. Hubert
and Mauss explain this as follows: ‘If the religious forces are the very
principles of the forces of life, they are in themselves of such as nature
that contact with them is a fearful thing for the ordinary man. Above all,
when they reach a certain level of intensity, they cannot be concentrated
in a profane object without destroying it. However much he has need of
them, the sacrifier cannot approach them save with the utmost prudence.
That is why between these powers and himself he interposes intermediaries,
16
of whom the principal is the victim.’ And again: ‘The rites of exit . . .
weaken the force of the consecration. But by themselves they could not
weaken it sufficiently if it had been too intense. It is therefore important
that the sacrifier or the object of sacrifice receive the consecration only
when its force has been blunted, that is to say, indirectly. This is the
17
purpose of the intermediary.’
It is here that we sense the significance of sacrifice in building
rituals. For the whole thrust of sacrifice appears to be to endow the
object with a certain vital force, whose true nature might be understood
by analogy with electrical current. Indeed Hubert and Mauss even use
18
the term ‘current’ to refer to the flow of energies at that moment. The
victim therefore acts like a lightning conductor as a form of conduit to
the divine spirit, an intermediary mechanism which offers a vicarious
communion with the godhead. All sacrifices entail a process of
redemption. Here the victim is redeemed on behalf of others. In the
moment of the sacrifice the otherwise profane victim is purified and

15
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 99.
16
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 98.
17
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 99.
18
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 97.

57
consecrated, and through that process of consecration, the sacrifier and
those associated with that person, along with the building as object of
sacrifice, enjoy the benefits of this act.
Sacrifice has a vitalising power. It is through the example of
christian communion that we might best recognize this. The ‘non-death’
of the soul is assured by the ritualistic repetition of the sacrifice of
Christ. Above all sacrifice must be seen as a social act. Through sacri-
fice individuals, with no little degree of self-interest, invest their prop-
erties with powers which belong to society at large. As Hubert and
Mauss put it, ‘They confer upon each other, upon themselves, and upon
those things they hold dear, the whole strength of society. . . They
surround, as if with a protective sanctity, the fields they have ploughed
19
and the houses they have built.’
Such a view would be in keeping with Eliade’s conclusion that
sacrifice facilitates the ‘transference’ of the soul of the victim. The
violence of the sacrifice ensures this, and although the victim dies in one
sense, it lives on in another through its new body — the building as body
20
— animated as it now is by the immolation. The sacrifice of the victim
is a creative death.

Sacrifice as Identification
An alternative approach to sacrifice might be found in the work of
the French anthropologist, Claude Lévi-Strauss. Lévi-Strauss places
emphasis less on the vitalising power of sacrifice, and more on the
action of sacrifice as a mechanism of identification. ‘For the object of
sacrifice precisely is to establish a relation,’ he notes, ‘not of resem-
blance but of contiguity, by means of a series of successive identifica-
21
tions.’ He discusses sacrifice in the context of totemism, which he re-
gards as a logical and coherent system. While he supports the concept of

19
Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 102.
20
Eliade, pp. 182-183.
21
Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, p. 224.

58
totemism, Lévi-Strauss dismisses sacrifice: ‘The system of sacrifice
22
represents a private system having no good sense.’ Yet, although Lévi-
Strauss may be somewhat biased in his views, he successfully recog-
nizes the essential purpose of sacrifice. Whereas totemism is based on
a ‘postulation of homology between two parallel series’, in sacrifice,
‘the series of natural species. . plays the part of an intermediary be-
tween two polar terms, the sacrificer and the deity, between which there
23
is essentially no homology nor even any sort of relation.’ Sacrifice
must therefore attempt to match this homology which already exists in
totemism.
It is this sense of sacrifice as a mechanism of identification which
serves to overcome the abstract alienation of contemporary society that
lies at the basis of Georges Bataille’s lengthy engagement with the
topic. Sacrifice is a key theme in Bataille’s oeuvre, and it is through
24
the practice of the Aztecs that Bataille explores this theme. From
the perspective of our present enquiry the architectural features of
these practices — the pyramids, zigurrats, towers, steps etc — are less
significant than the social issues. Architecture remains, as always for
Bataille, the embodiment of social practices. But it is the social prac-
tices themselves which deserve attention when we address the ques-
tion of identification.
Bataille describes in elaborate detail the rituals on which the Aztec
sacrifice was based. He recounts, for example, the story of a beautiful
youth selected a year in advance from prisoners of war. The youth was
given special privileges, and treated as though he were himself a god:

22
Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1989,
p. 228.
23
Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, pp. 224-225.
24
Part of Bataille’s project is to expose the constructed way in which we frame the
world. Our understanding of the world is dominated, according to Bataille, by so-
cial norms and established hierarchies which can be exposed as fictions. They often
attempt to deny the contradictions that lie at their core. It is through his often counter-
intuitive writing that Bataille attempts to move beyond our inherited understanding
of the world. In his often gory and lurid description of sacrifice Bataille seeks to
undermine the tenets on which Western civilisation is based.

59
‘He went through the whole town very well dressed, with flowers in his
hands and accompanied by certain personalities. He would bow
graciously to all whom he met, and they all knew he was the image of
Tezcatlipoca [one of the greatest gods] and prostrated themselves be-
25
fore him, worshipping him wherever they met him.’ The youth
was allowed access to the temple on top of the pyramid of
Quauchxicalco, where he would play the flute, day and night, when-
ever he wished. Right before the ceremony he received even more spe-
cial treatment: ‘Twenty days previous to the festival they gave this
youth four maidens, well prepared and educated for this purpose. Dur-
ing those twenty days he had carnal intercourse with these maidens.
The four girls they gave him as wives and who had been reared with
special care for that purpose were given names of four goddesses. . .
Five days before he was to die they gave festivities for him, banquets
held in cool and gay places, and many chieftains and prominent people
accompanied him. On the day of the festival when he was to die they
took him to an oratory, which they called Tlacuchcalco. Before reach-
ing it, at a place called Tlapitouaian, the women stepped aside and left
him. As he got to the place where he was to be killed, he mounted the
steps by himself and on each of these he broke one of the flutes which
26
he had played during the year.’
But the end was vicious and swift, the aim being to tear out his heart
while still beating and offer it as a sacrificial gift to the sun: ‘He was
awaited at the top by the satraps or priests who were to kill him, and
these now grabbed him and threw him onto the stone block, and, holding
him by feet, hands and head, thrown on his back, the priest who had the
stone knife buried it with a mighty thrust in the victim’s breast and, after
drawing it out, thrust one hand into the opening and tore out the heart,
27
which he at once offered to the sun.’

25
Bataille quoting Bernardino da Sahagún, Historia General de las cosas de Nueva
España, Mexico City: Porrúa, 1956, in The Accursed Share, Vol. I, trans. Robert
Hurley, New York: Zone Books, 1988, pp. 49-50.
26
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 50.
27
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 50.

60
 To be sure, Bataille is far from offering a eulogy of sacrifice. He
acknowledges throughout that while some victims go willingly, many
are reluctant, screaming and crying as they made their way up the steps
to the altar. All are coerced into being victims. None volunteer. Yet
although they were treated humanely up until the moment of sacrifice
— the victims were encouraged to stay up the night before, singing
and dancing in ecstasy, or they were given a concubine — not every-
one was given the same respect afterwards: ‘Ordinary victims were
thrown down the steps to the bottom. The greatest violence was ha-
bitual. The dead person was flayed and the priest then clothed himself
in the bloody skin. Men were thrown into a furnace and pulled out with
a hook to be placed on the executioner’s block while still alive. More
often than not the flesh consecrated by the immolation was eaten. The
festivals followed one another without interruption and every year the
divine service called for countless sacrifices: Twenty thousand is given
28
as the number.’

The Necessity of Sacrifice

Why, then, is Bataille so interested in sacrifice? For Bataille,
the principle of sacrifice exposes the limitations of ‘productive ex-
penditure’. In his discussion of sacrifice Bataille distinguishes be-
tween what he terms ‘productive expenditure’ and ‘non-productive
expenditure’. Productive expenditure provides the principle on which
Western economy is based, a utilitarian project aimed at supporting
the propagation of a species. Hence whatever might be geared to-
wards profit and gain falls into the category of productive expendi-
ture. Against this is set the category of non-productive expenditure
which is premised on the notion of loss. This project embraces all
that is denied by productive expenditure — death, horror and so on.
It remains an essential part of Western culture, but is often disguised in
different forms. As John Lechte puts it: ‘Within western bourgeois
28
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 51.

61
society, the full realization of nonproductive expenditure is often
veiled behind other kinds of activities — those, for instance, of liv-
ing in luxury, mourning, war, sports, arts, perverse sexual activity,
etc. Unproductive expenditure gives full reign to the pleasure prin-
ciple, is governed by a logic of destruction and is, according to
29
Bataille, the basis of true poetry.’
Within the profane world of productive expenditure the subject
has become reified — has been turned into a thing. Sacrifice chal-
lenges the very abstraction and ontological reduction of this world
of things: ‘Sacrifice restores to the sacred world that which servile use
has degraded, rendered profane. Servile use has made a thing (an ob-
ject) of that which, in a deep sense, is of the same nature as the subject,
30
is in a relation of intimate participation with the subject.’ Sacri-
fice, in other words, challenges the object relations within utilitarian
society, and celebrates subjectivity. The aim here is to re-establish some
form of communion. What has to be destroyed are not plants and ani-
mals as such. Rather, as Bataille puts it, they must be destroyed ‘inso-
31
far as they have become things.’
Physical destruction is itself not necessary, although the destruc-
tion of the real order is the one most ‘favourable’ to the symbolic
order. Indeed to sacrifice is not necessarily to kill, but rather to surren-
der and give up. Certainly a straitened, profane form of utilitarian de-
struction will hardly have the full effect: ‘The victim of a sacrifice
cannot be consumed in the same way that a motor uses fuel. What the
ritual has the virtue of rediscovering is the intimate participation of the
32
sacrificer and the victim, to which a servile use had put an end.’ This
intimacy, this ‘immanence’ between subject and object, is described
by Bataille in terms of the intimacy in which the wife is known in
sexual consumption. In the eyes of Bataille the sacrificer exclaims in

29
John Lechte, Julia Kristeva, London: Routledge, 1990, p. 73.
30
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 55.
31
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 56.
32
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 56.

62
the act of sacrifice: ‘Intimately, I belong to the sovereign world of god
and myths, to the world of violent and uncalculated generosity, just
as my wife belongs to my desires. I withdraw you, victim, from the
world in which you were and could only be reduced to the condition of
a thing, having a meaning that was foreign to your intimate nature. I
call you back to the intimacy of the divine world, of the profound im-
33
manence of all that is.’
The question of thingness, or reification, gives Bataille’s thoughts
an obvious marxist slant. Once a slave has been treated as an instru-
ment working for the master, the slave has become an object that can
almost be sold. The slave has been rendered a commodity, and any
relation between master and slave has been lost. While slavery itself
has been abolished, capitalism, Bataille observes, maintains the object
relation of the ‘order of things’. Sacrifice, however, challenges this
logic by subscribing to nonproductive expenditure, so antithetical to
capitalist accumulation. It seeks to replace the real order — the order
of things — with the divine order, not by restoring the consecrated
object to the real order, but by liberating it. ‘Sacrifice destroys an
object’s real ties of subordination,’ as Bataille puts it, ‘it draws the
victim out of the world of utility and restores it to that of intelligible
34
caprice.’
Even within a slave economy, however, there is a problem with
sacrifice in that a slave will always be treated in part as an object.
The sacrifice of a slave will therefore be compromised, and will tend
towards the violence wrought in war, where the enemy is always treated
as a thing. The key difference between internal sacrifice and external
war is that sacrifice is always controlled and limited, not least because
the victim cannot fight back. From this perspective, the ideal sacrifice,
for Bataille, would not be that of a slave or prisoner of war — those
from the lowest echelons of society, — but of a prince or king, the very

33
Bataille, Theory of Religion, trans. Robert Hurley, New York: Zone Books, 1992, p. 44.
34
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 43.

63
highest members of society: ‘Intense consumption requires victims at
the top who are not only the useful wealth of the people, but this people
itself; or at least, elements that signify it and that will be destined for
sacrifice, this time not owing to an alienation from the external world
— a fall — but, quite the contrary, owing to an exceptional proximity,
such as the sovereign or the children (whose killing finally realizes the
35
performance of the sacrifice twice over).’ Moreover, if sacrifice in its
highest form involves the sacrifice of some deity, then the sacrifice of
a sovereign will always be correspondingly more significant than that
of a slave.
The principle behind sacrifice is that the subject always feels the
need for recourse to the order of things, so as to subordinate itself to that
order. Sacrifice reverses this: ‘The victim is a surplus taken from the
mass of useful wealth. And he can only be withdrawn from it in order to
be consumed profitlessly, and therefore utterly destroyed. Once chosen,
he is the accursed share, destined for violent consumption. But the curse
tears him away from the order of things; it gives him a recognizable
figure, which now radiates intimacy, anguish, the profundity of living
36
beings.’
The point here is that death discloses the ‘imposture’ of reality which
has sought to suppress the force of intimate life so as to protect the order
of things. Intimacy poses a risk to this order, as it threatens to release its
infinite violence. Intimacy is perceived as violent here, because it
disrupts the autonomy of the individual. ‘The real order,’ Bataille notes,
‘does not so much reject the negation of life that is death as it rejects the
affirmation of intimate life, whose measureless violence is a danger to
the stability of things, an affirmation which is fully revealed only in
death. The real order must annul — neutralize — that intimate life and
37
replace it with the thing that the individual is in the society of labor.’

35
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 61.
36
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 59.
37
Bataille, Theory of Religion, pp. 46-47.

64
It is only in death that what has been hidden is revealed: ‘The power of
death signifies that this real world can only have a neutral image of life,
that life’s intimacy does not reveal its dazzling consumption until the
38
moment life gives out.’
Furthermore, although death is normally accompanied by sorrow,
for Bataille sorrow is not so far from its supposed opposite, joy. Sor-
row is expressed by tears. Yet tears represent ‘a keen awareness of
shared life grasped in its intimacy’, and it is through absence that this
39
awareness is brought most sharply into focus. Hence we find
the common expression, ‘I never knew how close I was to them,
until they were gone’. And if familiarity over time somehow neutral-
izes the emotions, so too the abrupt denial of this condition ‘uncovers
40
a ground of things that is dazzlingly bright’. Death therefore re-
veals the exquisite intimacy of things in their mythical order.
In a sacrifice the victim operates as a vicarious object of identification.
The victim is offered up on behalf of others, as a controlled mechanism
that grants violence its due expression. By expiating violence, sacrifice
serves to contain violence. As Bataille observes: ‘It is always the purpose
of sacrifice to give destruction its due, to save the rest from the mortal
41
danger of contagion.’

38
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 47.
39
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 48.
40
Bataille, Theory of Religion, p. 48. It is here that the link with poetry is revealed, but
so too the danger of the extremes that such a position invites. For it is one thing to
claim that contemporary society has lost its understanding of sacrifice, another to
reintroduce sacrifice in the name of art. For in the aesthetic moment the very ‘will to
power’ that Nietzsche had celebrated always threatens to lead to violence. Nor can it
be guaranteed that this violence will be contained, as in a sacrifice. In this intensely
poetic moment of the sacrifice we can therefore recognise also the potential
aestheticization of politics which, as Walter Benjamin has observed, lies at the root
of fascism. The key concern here is the question of control. Sacrifice is violent, but
it also serves to contain violence. Fascism, by contrast, may prove purely anarchic.
41
Bataille, The Accursed Share, p. 59.

65
 Sacrifice as Communion
These two approaches — sacrifice as a form of vitalisation and sacri-
fice as a form of identification — can be understood as variations on the
same theme. Their purpose is essentially similar. Within the context of
sacrificial building rites the animation of the building through sacrifice
serves, as it were, to equate the builder with the building. By ‘animating’
the building, sacrifice confers on the structure the same status as that of
the builder. Moreover, the principle of countering the reification of objects
relations that lies behind Bataille’s approach leads — in the case of build-
ing sacrifices — if not to an animation of the building, then at least to an
opening up to a more dynamic engagement with that building on the part
42
of those involved in the sacrifice. The two mechanisms, it would appear,
are two sides of the same coin. Either the object is animated to become
like the subject, or the subject is released from the restrictions of object
relations to enjoy a more intimate engagement with that object.
In both cases a shift is inaugurated towards a more intuitive
relationship with the building, one that is no longer static or objecti-
fied, but dynamic and animated. For Bataille, like Hubert and Mauss,
sees sacrifice as being premised on the notion not of life and not of
death, a life which has a greater intimacy, and which escapes the alien-
ation of object relations. If for Hubert and Mauss sacrifice serves as a
conduit to animate the inanimate, and to endow it with a certain life
force, so for Bataille, the ‘death’ of sacrifice serves as a form of re-
lease from the constraints of the productive economy which themselves
constitute a form of ‘living death’. Just as for Hubert and Mauss this
life force will not only protect the building like some form of tutelary
deity, but will also give it literal strength, so for Bataille sacrifice comes
to stand not for death, but for life.

42
Indeed, Bataille also links sacrifice to questions of identification: ‘In the sacrifice, the
sacrificiant identifies with the animal struck with death. Thus he dies while seeing
himself die, and even, in a certain way, by his own will — the heart with the arm of
the sacrifice.’ Bataille, Oeuvres XII, 336, as quoted in Borch-Jacobsen, Lacan, p. 256.

66
 In either model sacrifice can therefore be seen as a mechanism of
communion. In the ecstatic moment of sacrifice, the distinction be-
tween self and other is dissolved. In the narcissistic intimacy of identi-
fication, the individual enters a moment of pure subjectivity. But, more
than this, sacrifice breaks down the abstraction of object relations and
creates a bond between sacrifier and object of sacrifice. The sacrifice
therefore serves as a way of inscribing oneself in the building. In sur-
rendering the victim, the sacrifier lives on through the object of sacri-
fice. In sacrificing the human being — or surrogate human being — in
the foundations, the builder not only ‘guarantees’ the stability of the
building, but also identifies with that building. The builder gives himself
over to the building. At a symbolic level he becomes part of the build-
ing. It is an ecstatic moment, as he steps out of the alienation of object
relations, and enters into a communion with that building.
Hence we might recognise the ‘sacrifice’ that lies at the basis of
all architecture. As such, myths of sacrifice, which have filtered
into architectural folklore might be understood within the framework
of questions of identity. It is as though the sacrifice of a human life is
required not only in order to ‘animate’ the inanimate stone, but also to
establish an intimate relationship with the building. And, beyond this,
we might read this ‘sacrifice’ as being replicated in the sacrifice of the
self within the ecstatic moment of aesthetic experience.
In contemplation of aesthetic composition we become ‘one’ with
that composition, as we give ourselves over to it in aesthetic contemplation.
We succumb to the death instinct — in order to live on through the work.
Aesthetic contemplation becomes a way of transcending death at a
symbolic level. The mechanism is that of the ‘sacrifice’, and it is one
that applies to aesthetic contemplation, erotic encounters and religious
devotion alike. We surrender ourselves to the ‘other’, in order to live on
through the ‘other’. We give ourselves up to death, in order to transcend
death.
Just as in a religious context the ‘sacrifice’ of the religious moment
opens up the possibility of living in some paradise, so too we might

67
recognise the condition of love, and equally the state of being at one
with our aesthetic environment as having an essential paradisical
component. Through the ‘bliss’, the ecstasy of being at one with the
environment, we live on in a state of almost religious intoxication, a
paradise of the senses.

68
 REFLECTIONS ON ALCATRAZ

In a recent visit to Alcatraz, the one time United States penitentiary

which is now a museum, I was struck by the following remarks of a
former inmate — one Leon ‘Whitey’ Thompson — on his relationship
to his cell:
I knew every mark, every thing in that cell. And pretty soon that cell
became like part of me or I became a part of the cell. I couldn’t visualize
living anywhere else in the prison than in my cell. It was like coming
1
back and greeting an old friend really, because it was part of me.
The inmate, it would seem, had so assimilated himself to his physi-
cal environment that he had begun, in effect, to read himself into
that environment. This is all the more remarkable, given the harsh
conditions there. A cell in Alcatraz can hardly have been the most
sympathetic environment in which to live. Indeed it is hard to think
of anywhere less hospitable. But it may be that the inmate’s reaction
is a direct response to the sheer inhospitability of Alcatraz. In a diffi-
cult situation straightforward resistance is often futile, and the best
way to overcome and deal with that situation is to enter into its logic.
It is as though the inmate needed to familiarise himself with that envi-
ronment through assimilation, in order to survive the alienating effects
of that environment. Assimilation leads to familiarisation leads to
normalisation. Assimilation becomes a mechanism of defence.

1
Leon ‘Whitey’ Thompson, Alcatraz Cellhouse, audio tour produced by the Golden
Gate National Park Association.

69
 One is reminded here of the case of Nelson Mandela, who, following
his release, had a bungalow built for himself that was an exact replica of
the one in which he had been held under house arrest in Paarl prison in
South Africa. Mandela was in a position to choose almost any design,
and yet — remarkably — opted for one associated with previous traumas.
It is as though the bungalow had served as a means of overcoming those
traumas. As in the case of the inmate from Alcatraz, Mandela had forged
a relation with the bungalow, as if it were an ‘old friend’. It is as though
Mandela had so assimilated to that bungalow, that he had become
familiar with it. He had become part of it, and it had become part of him,
so that, consequently, he took a certain security from living in a building
that seemed to replicate that environment.
This urge to assimilate and to become part of one’s surroundings
is, of course, one that is to be found throughout everyday life, usually
in less hostile circumstances. Imagine yourself in what is, no doubt, an
all too familiar scenario. You walk into a hotel room, a slightly un-
kempt hotel room. The walls may be somewhat dirty; paint, perhaps, is
pealing from the furniture; and there may be a musty smell. Initially
you feel a sense of alienation. The room is unfamiliar. You do not feel
at home in it. Nevertheless you unpack your bags. You put your washbag
in the wash room and hang your clothes in the wardrobe. Gradually, as
you lay out these familiar objects, the room seems less alienating. But
what is more curious is that after a night or two spent sleeping in the
room, what once seemed alienating and unfamiliar gradually becomes
familiar, to the point that you begin to feel at home in the room —
maybe you even become slightly fond of it, with its shabby furniture
and musty smells. You start to feel cosy there, and almost do not want
to leave. Somehow — almost imperceptibly — a shift has happened.
What once appeared grim and alienating, now appears familiar and
homely.
This is, of course, a principle that operates not just in hotel rooms,
but in all forms of habitable space, from flats to houses, from villages
to cities. Indeed it extends to the region and the entire country.

70
Environments which were once unfamiliar become appropriated within
one’s symbolic horizon, so that with time they come to appear deeply
familiar. From this we might make an interesting observation: human
beings have the capacity to gradually ‘grow into’ their habitat, to
familiarise themselves with it, and eventually to find themselves ‘at
home’ there. This is an ongoing, adaptive process which never ceases.
It is one that exists within a constant state of flux. Indeed it is pre-
cisely the example of ‘the home’ that illustrates best the adaptability
of the human organism. For ‘the home’ is a floating concept which
takes time to assert itself in each new location, but which can always
shift from place to place. This may, of course, not be easy. Moving
home constitutes a deep wrench from an established symbolic hori-
zon. But it is by no means an impossible wrench. While fond memo-
ries of previous homes persist, the human psyche has the capacity to
make itself at home in ever new locations, and eventually to under-
stand those locations as ‘home’.
Human beings adapt to new environments. This same principle
applies to aesthetic questions. What at first seems ugly may eventually
become acceptable. It is not so much that an object can lose its ugliness.
Rather it becomes less noticeable and therefore less offensive. Indeed,
with time, an ugly object may be viewed with some affection. But equally
beauty and attractiveness may take time to reveal themselves. This is
what is evoked when reference is made to a tune ‘catching on’ or an item
of clothing ‘becoming’ fashionable. It is precisely the use of the present
participle — ‘catching’ and ‘becoming’ — that highlights the gradual
nature of aesthetic recognition. And it applies also to questions of
technology. Even the most seemingly alienating of technological forms
can soon become absorbed and appropriated as part of our symbolic
horizons.
Clearly this phenomenon does not operate solely within a visual
register. It operates also through smell, touch and sound. Indeed the
‘home’ is as much an ensemble of sounds and smells, such as the odour
of drying raisins that Gaston Bachelard associates with his oneiric

71
house, as it is of visual images. Smell and taste can often be far more
evocative than appearance. A hint of a familiar smell or taste — as in
the case of Proust and his memory of the madeleine cakes — may
conjure up whole worlds involuntarily. Likewise the notion of ‘the
home’ extends to include questions of motility and spatial practices.
‘Home’ may equally be constituted by a set of familiar actions. The
way in which one may climb a staircase, for example, or perform cer-
tain daily ritualistic tasks, like cleaning teeth or folding clothes, can
be absorbed into one’s familiar world, such that they take on the
status of highly charged symbolic rituals. Through repetition, other-
wise mundane actions can come to form part of one’s stable symbolic
framework. As such, these actions take on a deeply meaningful role,
operating as a fixed horizon against which to measure one’s life.
Through experiencing not only familiar images, smells, sounds and
textures, but also through making certain familiar movements and ges-
tures we achieve a certain symbolic stability. Remove that experience,
and the stability is disturbed. This is what is evoked by the popular
expression of ‘climbing out of bed on the wrong side’. For it is pre-
cisely one’s psychic equilibrium which is disturbed by a disruption
to one’s familiar world.
Human beings are dominated by a compulsion to return to the
familiar, or, when that is not familiar, to familiarise themselves with the
unfamiliar. So it is that they start adopting routines, strategies of the
familiar. They return to the same places, the same familiar bars, restaurants
and shops, the same holiday locations, and even the same lockers in a
changing room, as though these are places prescribed for them within
the anonymous space of the universe. Like animals returning to their
traditional breeding grounds, they mark out for themselves their own
familiar territories. And so it is that certain places, as though enchanted,
are invested with some special significance. Just as certain special
numbers, associated with one’s date of birth or other personal associations,
come to be invested with magical properties, like numbers in the lottery,
so too particular places feature within the realm of the symbolic as the
site of meaning.

72
 Often this urge to assimilate to one’s environment may be compro-
mised by other factors. There may be some further consideration —
an unpleasant association, for example — that prevents us from ever
feeling totally at home in a particular environment. Yet such factors
appear merely to mitigate against what seems to be an underlying drive
to ‘grow into’, to become familiar and eventually identify with our
environment. And this happens, as in the case of the inmate at Alcatraz,
in even the most inhospitable of circumstances. It is as though there
is a constant chameleon-like urge to assimilate that governs human
nature.
What, then, is going on here? What exactly is this process of ‘grow-
ing into’, becoming fond of, familiarising oneself with our environ-
ment? How does this mechanism operate? Here I want to outline how
the theory of mimesis can begin to explain this phenomenon.

Benjamin and Mimesis

I want to start with two examples used by Walter Benjamin to
describe a process of what is essentially a form of empathetic identification
that is particularly prevalent in children’s behaviour. Benjamin describes
how as a young boy chasing a butterfly, he found himself turning into a
butterfly, and the butterfly coming to resemble himself.
The old rules of hunting took over between us: the more my be-
ing, down to its very fibres, adapted to my prey (the more I got but-
terflies in my stomach), the more the butterfly took on in all it did
(and didn’t do) the color of human resolution, until finally it was as
if capturing it was the price, was the only way I would regain my
2
humanity.
But it is his very evocative description of a child playing ‘hide-and-
seek’ that best illustrates the potential of the human being to identify
empathetically with an architectural environment.

2
Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften, IV: 1, 262-263, quoted in Gebauer and Wulf, Mime-
sis: Culture, Art, Society, pp. 277-278.

73
 Standing behind the doorway curtain, the child becomes himself
something floating and white, a ghost. The dining table under which
he is crouching turns him into the wooden idol in a temple whose
four pillars are the carved legs. And behind a door he is himself a
door, wears it as his heavy mask and as a shaman will bewitch all
those who unsuspectingly enter. At no cost must he be found. When
he pulls faces, he is told, the clock need only strike and he will re-
main so. The element of truth in this he finds out in his hiding place.
Anyone who discovers him can petrify him as an idol under the table,
weave him for ever as a ghost into the curtain, banish him for life
into the heavy door. And so, at the seeker’s touch he drives out with
a loud cry the demon who has transformed him — indeed, without
waiting for the moment of discovery, he grabs the hunter with a shout
3
of self-deliverance.
What is striking about this telling description of a child hiding is
the way in which the child becomes one with the environment. Behind
the curtain, the child turns into the curtain, ‘floating and white, like a
ghost’. Under the dining table the child becomes a wooden idol in a
temple, and behind a door ‘he himself is a door’. The child has become
so perfectly at one with the environment that he fears that he may never
escape. Just as he might carry the burden of the face he is pulling, if
caught making the expression when the clock strikes, so he risks re-
maining camouflaged and absorbed into the environment. He needs to
offer a shriek of self-deliverance so as to free himself from the spell
under which he had made himself identical to the interior landscape
around him.
The theory that lies behind these examples is the theory of mimesis
or mimetic identification. Mimesis here should not be understood in the
terms used, say, by Plato, as simple ‘imitation’. Rather mimesis in
Benjamin, as indeed in Adorno, is a psychoanalytic term — taken from
4
Freud — that refers to a creative engagement with an object. Freud uses
3
Benjamin, One-Way Street, p. 74.
4
It is, as Adorno defines it, ‘the non-conceptual affinity of a subjective creation with its
objective and unposited other’. [Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, C Lenhardt (trans.),
G Adorno, R Tiederman (eds.), London: Routledge, 1984, p. 80.]

74
the term to explain the way that we empathise with the subject of a joke.
When someone is described as slipping over a banana skin, for example,
we can mimic the event in our minds, recalling memory traces of similar
movements we have made ourselves. We thereby mimetically identify
with that individual. From this it is clear that mimesis relates closely to
the notion of identification in the context of film theory. We identify
with the subject of a joke the same way that we identify with a character
in a film. Clearly mimesis is a term, as Freud himself predicted, of great
5
potential significance for aesthetics.
Put simply, mimesis offers a way of finding meaning in the world
through the discovery of apparent similarities. The mimetic impulse is
the urge to discover these similarities, and through them assimilate to
6
that world. The more the similarities, the closer the affinity, and the
greater the identification. To understand the meaning of mimesis in
Benjamin and Adorno we must recognise its origin in the process of
imitating, of ‘making a copy of’. In essence it refers to an interpreta-
tive process that relates not just to the creation of a model, but also to
the engagement with that model. Mimesis may operate both transi-
tively and reflexively. It comes into operation both in the modelling of
an object and in modelling oneself on an object. Mimesis is therefore a
form of imitation that may be evoked both by the artist who makes a
work of art, and also by the person who views it. Yet mimesis is richer
than straight imitation. In mimesis imagination is at work, and serves
to reconcile the subject with the object. This imagination operates at
the level of fantasy, which mediates between the unconscious and the

5
‘. . . I believe that if ideational mimetics are followed up, they may be as useful in other
branches of aesthetics. . .’ Sigmund Freud, Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious
(1905), trans. James Strachey, London: Routledge, 1960, p. 193. For further reading
on mimesis, see Erich Auerbach, Mimesis, trans. Willard Trask, Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1953; Michael Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity, London: Routledge,
1993; Gunter Gebauer and Christoph Wulf, Mimesis, trans. Don Reneau, Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1995.
6
’Everyday,’ writes Benjamin, ‘the urge grows stronger to get hold of an object at very
close range by way of its likeness, its reproduction.’ [Benjamin, Illuminations, p. 217.]

75
conscious, dream and reality. Here fantasy is used as a positive term.
Fantasy creates its own fictions not as a way of escaping reality, but
as a way of accessing reality, a reality that is ontologically charged,
and not constrained by an instrumentalised view of the world.
Mimesis therefore constitutes a form of mimicry, — but it is an
adaptive mimicry — just as when a child learns to speak and adapt to
the world, or when owners take on the characteristics of their pets. In
fact it is precisely the example of the child ‘growing into’ language
that best illustrates the operation of mimesis. The child ‘absorbs’ an
external language by a process of imitation and then uses it creatively
for its own purposes. Similarly, within the realm of architecture we
might see mimesis at work as architects develop their design abilities:
it is this process which also allows external forms to be absorbed and
sedimented as part of a language of design. Clearly, mimesis goes be-
yond straightforward mimicry, if by mimicry we understand a response
which is merely instinctual. Mimesis necessarily involves a sense
of volition and intentionality on the part of the subject. It does not
simply look back and mimic what is already given, but it relies on a
process of creative engagement, of ‘conjuring up’ something for the
future. It is in this moment that the magical base of mimesis mani-
fests itself. Like the magician who plans the trick, mimesis contains
within it the sense of control of some organised project. Yet what
distiniguishes mimesis from magic is that it does not attempt to de-
ceive in the same way. Thus, for Adorno, art as a form of mimesis is
7
‘magic delivered from the lie of being truth.’ In distancing itself from
the illusionistic claims of magic, mimesis surpasses magic, while none-
theless remaining within its conceptual orbit.
Although mimesis involves a degree of organised control, and
therefore operates in conjunction with rationality, this does not mean
that mimesis is part of rationality. Indeed, in terms of the dialectic of
the enlightenment, we might perceive mimesis as constitutive not

7
Adorno, Minima Moralia, trans. E F Jephcott, London, 1978, p. 222.

76
of rationality, but of myth, its magical ‘other’. Mimesis and rational-
8
ity, as Adorno observes, are ‘irreconcilable’. If mimesis is to be per-
ceived as a form of correspondence with the outside world which is
articulated within the aura of the work of art, then enlightenment
rationality, with its effective split between subject and object, and in-
creasing emphasis on knowledge-as-quantification over knowledge-as-
sensuous-correspondence, represents the opposite pole. In the
instrumentalised view of the enlightenment, knowledge is ordered
and categorised, valorised according to scientific principles, and
the rich potential of mimesis is overlooked. All this entails a loss, a
reduction of the world to a reified structure of subject/object divides,
as mimesis retreats even further into the mythic realm of literature and
the arts.
At the same time mimesis might provide a dialectical foil to the
subject/object split of enlightenment rationality. This is most obvious
in the case of language. Language becomes the ‘highest level of mi-
metic behaviour, the most complete archive of non-sensuous similar-
9
ity’. Mimesis for Benjamin offers a way of finding meaning in the
world, through the discovery of similarities. These similarities become
absorbed and then rearticulated in language, no less than in dance or
other art forms. As such language becomes a repository of meaning,
and writing becomes an activity which extends beyond itself, so that in
the process of writing writers engage in unconscious processes of which
they may not be aware. Indeed writing often reveals more than the writer
is conscious of revealing. Likewise the reader must decode the words
resorting to the realm of the imagination which exceeds the purely
rational. Thus the activity of reading also embodies the principles of
mimesis, serving as the vehicle for some revelatory moment. For Ben-
jamin the meaning becomes apparent in a constellatory flash, a dia-
lectics of seeing, in which subject and object become one for a brief
moment, a process which relates to the experience of architecture no
less than the reading of texts.

8
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, p. 81.
9
Benjamin, Reflections, p. 336.

77
 The play between the animate and the inanimate, between life and
death, is crucial to understanding the force of mimesis. The assimilation
which mimesis demands with the inanimate world reveals the link with
the death instinct. The action of mimesis constitutes a process of
adaptation which, as Miriam Hansen observes, ‘involves the slippage
between life and death, the assimilation of lifeless material . . or feigning
10
death for the sake of survival.’ The origin of this process lies in the
instinctual mechanisms of self-preservation. Animals, when trapped in
potentially life-threatening situations, rather than run away, will often
freeze into seemingly lifeless forms. Through this action they attempt to
blend with their environment, and thereby escape the gaze of the predator.
11
A similar trait may be found in humans. Thus, somewhat paradoxically,
the feigning of death preserves life. ‘Death’ is used in the service of
12
life. This is a tactic that represents not simply the subordination of the
self to nature, but also an overcoming of nature, a defence against the
dissolution of the self. This ‘surrendering’ of life in the moment of
becoming one with the inanimate world serves ultimately to reinforce
life. These gestures of surrender are in fact predicated on survival.

Adorno and Mimesis

Mimesis may help, then, to explain how we identify progressively
with our surroundings. In effect, we read ourselves into our surroundings,
without being fully conscious of it. It is Adorno, however, who

10
Miriam Hansen, ‘Mass Culture as Hieroglyphic Writing: Adorno, Derrida, Kracauer’,
Critical Enquiry, vol. 39, 1993, p. 53.
11
‘The reflexes of stiffening and numbness,’ as Adorno and Horkheimer note, ‘are
archaic schemata of the urge to survive, by adaptation to death life pays the toll of its
continued existence.’ [Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of
Enlightenment, trans. John Cumming, London: Verso, 1979, p.180.]
12
Here we should note, however, that according to Slavoj Zizek the death drive, like the
term ‘heimlich’ coincides with its negation, and according to Joan Copjec the death
drive inhibits its own aim by effectively ‘sublimating’ that aim. See Salvoj Zizek,
The Ticklish Subject, London: Verso, 1999, p. 294; Joan Copjec, ‘The Tomb of
Perseverance: On Antigone’ in Copjec and Michael Sorkin (eds.), Giving Ground,
London: Verso, 1999, p. 249.

78
articulates most clearly how the concept of mimesis might allow one to
‘equate’ oneself with one’s architectural environment:
According to Freud, symbolic intention quickly allies itself to technical
forms, like the airplane, and according to contemporary American
research in mass psychology, even to the car. Thus, purposeful forms are
the language of their own purposes. By means of the mimetic impulse, the
13
living being equates himself with objects in his surroundings.
This last sentence, ‘By means of the mimetic impulse, the living
being equates himself with objects in his surroundings’, is, surely, one
that holds the key to exploring the whole question of how human be-
ings situate themselves within their environment, and points to an area
in which the domain of psychoanalysis may offer crucial insights into
the mechanism by which humans relate to their habitat. It begins to
suggest, for example, that the way in which humans progressively feel
‘at home’ within a particular building, is precisely through a process of
symbolic identification with that building. This attachment is some-
thing that does not come into operation automatically. Rather it is
something that is engendered gradually, in Adorno’s terms, through
the ‘mimetic impulse’.
Adorno inherits the term ‘mimesis’ from Benjamin. But with
Adorno mimesis becomes an aesthetic concept, which lies at the heart
of all art. And whereas for Benjamin the term is a largely passive one,
which in essence constitutes a mechanism for finding meaning in the
world, for Adorno mimesis displays a more actative, creative charac-
ter. Not only does mimesis allow for the potential to identify with the
world, but it also provides for that vital experience that flares up in the
moment of aesthetic recognition. And it is precisely the sense of ‘vi-
tality’ that reveals the erotic nature of aesthetic gestures. As Gebauer
and Wulf observe, ‘In the flashes of aesthetic experience is contained
a promise of happiness, which presupposes an affinity between the

13
Theodor Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’ in Neil Leach (ed.), Rethinking Architecture,
London: Routledge, 1997, p. 10.

79
 14
work and the recipient of it.’ But, above all, what Adorno intro-
duces into the discussion of mimesis is the potential for the principle
to be acted out in the domain of design. Mimesis comes to mean ‘art’
in its broadest sense. Benjamin lays stress on the urge to find meaning
by the discovery of existing similarities. Adorno lays stress on the urge
to find meaning by the creation of new similarities through aesthetic
production. He emphasises the potential for the artwork to serve as
a vehicle for mimesis. It is precisely through art, in other words, that
we might find our place in the world.
Adorno’s use of the term, mimesis, is drawn heavily from Ben-
jamin. But where Adorno’s understanding of mimesis would also seem
to differ from that of Benjamin is in its connection with the body. For
Adorno it is linked to a form of sensuousness, and is associated with
a childlike world of ‘touching, soothing, snuggling up, coaxing’ and
so on. It is specifically not ‘conceptual’. It is, as Adorno defines it,
‘the non-conceptual affinity of the subjectivity produced with its
15
unposited other.’ Mimesis overcomes the alienation of conceptual
thought, and offers an alternative, more empathetic model of human
16
interaction.
By contrast, mimesis for Benjamin is a form of ‘non-sensuous
correspondence’. If sensuousness is involved it is an ideational
sensuousness. In this sense Adorno’s understanding of mimesis seems
strangely at odds with Benjamin’s understanding of the term. Yet it

14
Gebauer and Wulf, Mimesis, p. 292.
15
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, p. 54.
16
As Martin Jay observes: ‘Conceptual thought can be understood as an act of aggression
perpetrated by a dominating subject on a world assumed to be external to it; it
subsumes particulars under universals, violently reducing their uniqueness to
typifications or exemplars of a general or essential principle. Mimesis, in contrast,
involves a more sympathetic, compassionate, and non-coercive relationship of
affinity between non-identical particulars, which do not then become reified into
two poles of a subject/object dualism.’ Martin Jay, ‘Mimesis and Mimetology: Adorno
and Lacoue-Labarthe’ in Tom Huhn and Lambert Zuidervaart (eds.), The Semblance
of Subjectivity, Cambridge, MA, 1997, p. 32

80
may be possible to reconcile the two if one considers that the non-
sensuous ideational mimesis of Benjamin prepares the way for the non-
conceptual, sensuous mimesis of Adorno. The one is grounded in the
other. The ideational mimesis presupposes the sensuous one. Indeed
the ideational serves as a vehicle for memories of the sensual, as is
implied by Freud’s early use of the term in the context of jokes, which
are understood ideationally through a form of empathetic memory of
physical sensations. Ideas serve as a medium through which to trans-
mit corporeal memories, whereby physical sensations are articulated
as ideas and then translated into the body. The logic of mimesis is one
of transubstantiation.
It is, moreover, through the purely linguistic play of words that
Benjamin claims to form an affinity with ‘buildings, furniture and clothing’.
Certainly there is more than just a mere hint of the body in Benjamin’s
concept. It is, after all, through the body that the child plays at being a
train or a windmill. And dance, as one of the earliest seats of mimetic
behaviour, is clearly a bodily activity. Thus, although mimesis can be
understood as ideational — as a ‘non-sensuous similarity’ — what it
spawns is a sensuous access to the world.
Mimesis involves a sense of surrender, which is the precondition
of all acts of love. For love is borne not of resistance, but of a sense of
yielding to the other. Gebauer and Wulf describe it as follows: ‘Mime-
sis, accordingly, is a precondition of fellow feeling, compassion, sym-
pathy, and love toward other people. It is imitation, assimilation, sur-
render; it leads one to copy in experience the feelings of others, without
17
objectifying or becoming hardened towards them.’ As Adorno ob-
serves, ‘Love you will find only where you may show yourself weak
18
without provoking strength’. Love constitutes a form of mirroring, of
allowing the other to see him or herself in the subject, and of the sub-
ject seeing him or herself in the other. ‘The point’, note Gebauer and
Wulf, ‘is now to allow the Other the possibility of seeing himself or

17
Gebauer and Wulf, pp. 286-7.
18
Adorno, Minima Moralia, p. 192

81
 19
herself, now to see oneself in the mirror of the Other.’ But this is not
a closed-off narcissistic mirroring. Rather it is an open process of
reciprocity and negotiation, which serves not to reinforce the ego, but
to weaken it by undermining its autonomy and self-control. Love over-
comes the resistance of the ego. As Gebauer and Wulf explain: ‘Love
thus leads the subject to exceed its capacities to control its feelings
and drives, to domesticate its inner nature, and to engage in the world
in ways that cede precedence to the outer, in this case, to the Other;
the goal of love is a broadening of the self, the assimilation of the
self to a counterpart. Mimesis, sympathy and love are movements
that transcend the subject, in which the principles of identification
and self-assertion lose their significance, while the nonidentical,
the unintelligible and mysterious aspects of the world and the Other
20
come into view.’
There is, then, an overlap between mimesis, as an aesthetic
formulation, and the effects of love. Indeed Adorno compares the
aesthetic experience directly with the act of love: ‘This immanent
dynamic,’ he notes, ‘is, in a sense, a higher-order element of what
artworks are. If anywhere, then it is here that aesthetic experience
resembles sexual experience, indeed its culmination. The way the
beloved image is transformed in this experience, the way rigidification
is united with what is most intensely alive, effectively makes the experience
21
the incarnate prototype of aesthetic experience.’
It is mimesis, then, that allows one to forge a symbolic relationship
with one’s environment. Mimesis may help to explain how we identify
progressively with our surroundings in general. We read ourselves into
our surroundings, without being fully conscious of it. In effect mimesis
is an unconscious identification with the object. It necessarily involves a
creative moment on the part of the subject. The subject creatively

19
Gebauer and Wulf, p. 287.
20
Gebauer and Wulf, Mimesis, p. 287.
21
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, 1997, p. 176, as quoted in Connell, p. 72.

82
identifies with the object, so that the object, even if it is a technical
object — a piece of machinery, a car, a plane, a bridge, whatever —
becomes invested with some symbolic significance, and is appropriated
as part of the symbolic background through which individuals constitute
22
their identity.
The aim throughout is to forge a creative relationship with our
environment. When we see our values ‘reflected’ in our surroundings,
this feeds our narcissistic urge, and breaks down the subject/object
divide. It is as though — to use Walter Benjamin’s use of the term
mimesis — in the flash of the mimetic moment, the fragmentary is
recognised as part of the whole, and the individual is inserted within an
harmonic totality.
When Adorno refers to the principles of mimesis, he does so prima-
rily with reference to literature. It is not in the objectified, mechanis-
tic writings of technical manuals and so on, that one might glimpse mi-
mesis at work, but rather in the poetic, intuitive writings of authors
such as James Joyce. By extension, one can imagine the kind of archi-
tecture that this might imply — a Joycean architecture of sensuousness
and sensitivity. Adorno calls for an architecture ‘innervated’ by the
imagination. ‘Imagination,’ Adorno notes, ‘means to innervate this
23
something.’ ‘Architecture worthy of human beings,’ he adds, ‘thinks
24
better of men than they actually are.’ The example that Adorno offers
of mimetic architectural expression is the Philharmonic Hall in Berlin
by Hans Scharoun: ‘Great architecture gains its suprafunctional lan-
guage when it works directly from its purposes, effectively announc-
ing them mimetically as the work’s content. H. B. Scharoun’s Philhar-
monic Hall in Berlin is beautiful because, in order to create the ideal

22
On the question of mimesis and technology, see Leach, ‘Forget Heidegger’, Scroope,
12, 2000, pp. 50-59.
23
Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’, p. 14. The term ‘innervation’ refers in Freud to the
transmission of energy along a nerve-pathway. On this see Laplanche and Portalis,
p. 213.
24
Adorno, ‘Functionalism Today’, p. 15.

83
spatial conditions for orchestral music, it assimilates itself to these con-
ditions rather than borrowing from them. By expressing its purpose
25
through the building, it transcends mere purposiveness.’
Architecture along with the other visual arts can therefore be
viewed as a potential reservoir for the operation of mimesis. In the
very design of buildings the architect may articulate the relational cor-
respondence with the world that is embodied in the concept of mime-
sis. These forms may be interpreted in a similar fashion by those who
experience the building, in that the mechanism by which human be-
ings begin to feel at home in the built environment can also be seen as
a mimetic one. Through the concept of mimesis in Adorno we might
begin to understand the mechanism for inscribing oneself into the built
environment. Importantly, it is a concept that has various affinities with
love and friendship. It may therefore explain how the bond between
the inmate in Alcatraz and his cell was like a relationship with an ‘old
friend’.

Conclusion
What, then, are the consequences of this for design? If human
beings can assimilate to almost any form of architecture — such as the
cells of Alcatraz — does this mean that architects might as well design
buildings like Alcatraz? Does this mean that architects are effectively
redundant? Does this mean, in short, that design is unimportant?
The message of mimesis is in fact precisely the opposite. Adorno’s
argument is a plea for good design — design which is informed by the
principles of mimesis, and which opens the possibility for a sensuous
correspondence with the world. Design — according to the principles of
mimesis — should serve as a form of mediation. For mimesis operates
both in the design of the item, and in the relationship between the viewer
and the item itself. It follows that an item that has been designed with a
view to a mimetic understanding of the world will lend itself to being

25
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, 1997, p. 44.

84
absorbed mimetically. It will therefore serve as a form of mediation
between individuals and their environment.
If architecture can be designed according to ‘sensuousness’ of
mimesis, it can prove a mechanism for human beings of relating to the
world. It can operate as a mode of symbolisation, a form of connectivity.
Not only that, but mimesis seems to share something with the nature of
‘love’. It opens up and broadens the horizons of the subject, such that a
form of empathy develops between subject and object that is akin to that
of love or friendship. Design becomes an important mechanism for
making people feel at one with their world. It has the capacity to
overcome alienation. In this respect, good design has an important
social role. And it is precisely through an understanding of the principles
of mimesis — which, for Adorno, allows for a ‘sensuous correspondence’
between the individual and the environment — that we can glimpse the
potential of architecture to fulfil this role.
The lesson of Alcatraz, then, is not that architects should design
buildings that resemble state penitentiaries. Rather it is that architects
should design buildings which facilitate a process of assimilation, and
allow users to immediately feel at one with their surroundings. The lesson
of Alcatraz is that architects should strive to design buildings according
to the principles of sensuous correspondence embodied in the concept to
mimesis.

85
 THE DARK SIDE OF THE DOMUS

The redomestication of Central and Eastern Europe

Within recent architectural theory architecture as ‘dwelling’ has
become something of a dominant paradigm amid calls for a regionalist
architecture and celebration of the concept of genius loci. This is an
approach which emanates from the work of the German philosopher,
Martin Heidegger, and which has been pursued by those who have
developed his thought — architectural theorists such as Christian
1
Norberg-Schulz and philosophers such as Gianni Vattimo. Many have
looked to an architecture of ‘dwelling’ as a means of combatting the
alienation of contemporary society and of resisting the homogenising
placelessness of International Style architecture.
In the context of Central and Eastern Europe, in particular, architects
have looked to such an approach as an antidote to the bland uniformity
of state architecture of the communist years. It is an approach that reflects
the sudden upsurge of interest in the philosophy of Heidegger within
culture in general following the collapse of communism. What I wish to
argue, however, is that taken to an extreme ‘dwelling’ itself — the logic

1
Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture,
London: Academy Editions, 1980; Gianni Vattimo, ‘The End of Modernity, The
End of The Project?’, trans. David Webb, Journal of Philosophy and the Visual
Arts, Academy Editions, pp.74-7.

87
of the domus — can have negative consequences. There is, I wish to
maintain, a negative side to ‘dwelling’ — a dark side to the domus –
which makes this approach somewhat inappropriate for a new Europe
that has already come under the shadow of the dark side of nationalism.

Heidegger and the question of dwelling

According to Heidegger, one’s capacity to live on this earth —
to ‘dwell’ in the phenomenological sense — is an essentially archi-
tectural experience. The very Being of being is linked to one’s
situatedness in the world. This is the thesis that comes out most clearly
in his essay, ‘Building, Dwelling, Thinking’. As the title of this essay
infers, for Heidegger there is a clear link between ‘dwelling’ and
architecture. The whole concept of ‘dwelling’ is grounded in the ar-
chitectural. For Heidegger a building should be on and of the soil, of
the location on which it is built. He illustrates this with the example
of a Greek temple, which sits so naturally within its setting it is as
though it has been ‘brought forth’ by its setting. Throughout
Heidegger’s thinking there is an emphasis on the soil, on the earth,
and this applies especially to the question of architecture. Buildings
are not buildings in the abstract, but they gain their very sense of
presence through being situated where they are, through their Dasein.
‘Does not the flourishing of any work of art,’ he asks, ‘depend upon
2
its roots in a native soil?’ This evocation of the soil, this call for a
‘situated’ architecture, can be read as an evocation for the heimat, for
the homeland. And for Heidegger it is not in the cities but in the
countryside — where one is most in touch with nature and tradition
— that the sense of homeland may flourish:
Homeland is most possible and effective where the powers of
nature around us and the remnants of historical tradition remain to-
gether, where an origin and an ancient, nourished style of human exist-
ence hold sway. Today for this decisive task perhaps only the rural

2
Heidegger, Discourse on Thinking, trans. J. M. Anderson and E. H. Freund, New York:
Harper and Row, 1966, p. 47.

88
counties and small towns are competent — if they recognise anew
their unusual qualities, if they know how to draw the boundaries be-
tween themselves and life in the large cities and gigantic areas of modern
3
industrial complexes.
This appeal to the homeland would appear to be part of a consistent
nationalistic outlook in his thought, which is echoed in a series of forced
etymological strategies in his writings which attempt to lend authority to
the German language, by tracing the origins of certain German words to
ancient Greek. All this would seem to infer that there is a potential
nationalism that permeates the whole of his thought, a nationalism which,
in the context of pre-war Germany, shared something in common with
fascism.
It would be wrong to associate Heidegger’s thought too closely
with the excesses of fascist ideology. There is much to be praised in
his work, and one could argue that his philosophy need not necessarily
lead to a nationalistic outlook, and that to judge his thought solely at
the level of the political would be to do him an injustice. Indeed his
work is open to a variety of interpretations, and the complexity of his
thought defies any neat categorisation. But equally, the point should
be made that his work lends itself to a nationalistic outlook, and that
his own life was inscribed within a nationalistic outlook. Thus it hardly
seems inconsistent that a philosopher such as Heidegger should have
belonged at one stage to the National Socialist party, a stand for which
he has been highly criticised.
It is in ‘The Self-Assertion of the German University’, his rectoral
address of 1933, that Heidegger most closely associates his thoughts
with the aspirations of National Socialism. He unequivocally links the
question of Being to the ‘soil and blood of a Volk’:

3
Heidegger, ‘Homeland’, trans. Thomas Franklin O’Meara, Listening, Vol. 6, No. 3 (autumn,
1971), pp. 231-238, cited in Michael Zimmerman, Heidegger’s Confrontation with
Modernity, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1990, p. 71.

89
 . . .[S]pirit is the determined resolve to the essence of Being, a
resolve that is attuned to origins and knowing. And the spiritual world
of a Volk is not its cultural superstructure, just as little as it is its arsenal
of useful knowledge and values; rather, it is the power that comes from
preserving at the most profound level the forces that are rooted in the
soil and blood of a Volk, the power to arouse most inwardly and to shake
4
most extensively the Volk’s existence.
Similar themes are echoed in Heidegger’s speech in honour of the
German nationalist hero, Albert Leo Schlageter, who had been executed
in 1923 for acts of sabotage against the French army of occupation. Here
the ‘soil’ is specifically identified with the Black Forest:
Student of Freiburg! German student! When on your hikes and
outings you set foot in the mountains, forests and valleys of this Black
Forest, the home of this hero, experience this and know: the mountains
among which the young farmer’s son grew up are of primitive stone, of
granite. They have long been at work hardening the will. The autumn
sun of the Black Forest bathes the mountain ranges and forests in the
most glorious clear light. It has long nourished clarity of heart. As he
[Schlageter] stood defenceless facing the rifles, the hero’s inner gaze
soared above the muzzles to the daylight and mountains of his home that
he might die for the German people and its Reich with the Alemannic
5
countryside before his eyes.
And it was precisely in the soil of this Alemannic countryside that
Heidegger declared his own thought to be rooted:
The inner relationship of my own work to the Black Forest and its
people comes from a centuries-long and irreplaceable rootedness in the
6
Alemannian-Swabian soil.

4
Martin Heidegger, ‘The Self-Assertion of the German University’ in Richard Wolin (ed.),
The Heidegger Controversy, Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 1993, pp.29-39. Other
examples of pro-Nazi rhetoric on the part of Heidegger are to be found in this volume.
5
Martin Heidegger, ‘Schlageter’ in Richard Wolin (ed.), The Heidegger Controversy,
Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 1993, p.41.
6
Martin Heidegger, ‘Schneeberger’, p. 216, trans. Thomas Sheehan, cited in Sheehan,
Heidegger: The Man and the Thinker, Chicago: Precedent Publishing, 1981, p.213.

90
 The very evocation of the soil in Heidegger echoes a consistent trope
within fascist ideology. As Klaus Theweleit has argued in the context of
pre-war German fascism, this evocation can be understood in psycho-
analytic terms as a need to reinforce and protect the ego by identifying
7
with a larger body. This larger identity would be constituted in a social
order, and would be embodied in a figurehead, and a physical location:
ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer. Identity therefore becomes territorialised
and mapped on to a geographic terrain. The individual becomes one
with the land in a process of identification which is itself mythic, and
this process is often supported by other myths of identification. In this
dissolving into nature, difference is suppressed and a new identity is
forged with mother earth. Thus we find constant references to natural
phenomena — storms, blood and soil — in fascist ideology. As Ernst
Jünger, a figure who exerted a great influence on Heidegger, wrote of
prewar German fascism:
What is being born is the essence of nationalism, a new relation
to the elemental, to Mother earth, whose soil has been blasted away
in the rekindled fires of material battles and fertilised by streams of
8
blood.
And it can be seen that it is precisely in the context of an identity
rooted to the soil, that those groups not rooted to the soil become
excluded. Traditionally, Jews and gypsies are both ‘wanderers’, al-
though each for different reasons: the gypsies largely by choice, the
Jews mainly by necessity. Neither are rooted to the soil. The ‘wanderer’

7
Klaus Theweleit argues in the case of German Freikorp soldiers that it is often
precisely the underdeveloped and ‘not-fully-born’ egos young males within a
particular constellation of social and political circumstances that this ‘need’ is most
acute. Klaus Theweleit, Male Fantasies, Vol. 1, trans. Stephen Conway, Cambridge:
Polity Press, 1987; Male Fantasies, Vol. 2, trans. Chris Turner and Erica Carter,
Cambridge: Polity Press, 1989.
8
Cited by Theweleit, vol. 2, p. 88. For the influence of Jünger on Heidegger, see Michael
Zimmerman, Heidegger’s Confrontation with Modernity, Bloomington and India-
napolis: Indiana University Press, 1990, pp. 66-93.

91
does not fit within a concept of situatedness or rootedness to the soil,
and therefore does not fit within the philosophy of the heimat. The
‘wanderer’ is the element that cannot be controlled, cannot be domes-
ticated, cannot be contained within the logic of the domus. The ‘wan-
derer’ is therefore treated as the ‘other’, the excluded one, and is per-
ceived as a threat to the nation. Just as nationalism forms a symbolic
identification with the soil, so it also generates an antagonism towards all
that cannot be identified with the soil. For it is precisely the fear of
flows and movements which cannot be stemmed, as Klaus Theweleit
9
has observed, that characterises the fascist obsession with control.

The Domus and the Megalopolis

Heidegger’s involvement with the National Socialists has been known
to German intellectuals for some time, but it was not until the publica-
tion in 1987 of Victor Farias’s Heidegger et le nazisme that the full ex-
tent of his involvement with the organisation and his anti-semitism be-
came known to French intellectuals. This event fanned the flames of
what was to become known as the ‘Heidegger controversy’. Those who
have attempted to defend him for his political indiscretions have claimed
that he was either politically naive or that his own philosophy is essentially
10
apolitical. Others, such as Jean-François Lyotard, have been less
11
charitable towards him. In his book, Heidegger and ‘the jews’, Lyotard
uses ‘jew’ with a lower case ‘j’ to signify not just Jews themselves, but
all minority groups who might be perceived as the ‘other’: outsiders,
non-conformists, artists, anarchists, blacks, homeless, Arabs and
anyone else who might be perceived as alien and potentially threatening.

9
Klaus Theweleit, Male Fantasies, Vol. 1, pp.229-435.
10
See, for example, Fred Dallmayr, The Other Heidegger, Ithaca and London: Cornell
University Press, 1993; Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, Heidegger, Art and Politics, trans.
Chris Turner, Oxford: Blackwell, 1990.
11
Victor Farías’s work was translated into English in 1989, as Heidegger and Nazism,
trans. Paul Barrell et al., Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Jean-François
Lyotard, Heidegger and ‘the jews’, trans. Andreas Michel and Mark Roberts,
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990.

92
For Lyotard, the crime in Heidegger, and so too in all thought, lies in the
forgetting, and the forgetting of the forgetting. It is in what is left out,
what is excluded, what is in effect ‘repressed’, that his thinking is at
fault. And this more general forgetting includes the more specific
forgetting: the failure on the part of Heidegger to acknowledge and
12
apologise fully for his support of National Socialism.
Lyotard picks up the problem of Heidegger’s thought in the context
13
of architecture in his piece, ‘Domus and Megalopolis’. Lyotard contrasts
the traditional domus with our present condition, that of the megalopolis.
In other words he is contrasting two models of existence, two ideals of
living. Although the one, the domus, is associated with the simple
homestead, and the other, the megalopolis, with the city, he is not
contrasting the homestead with the city, so much as the condition of the
homestead with the condition of the city. He is contrasting the myth of
the domus — the phenomenon of ‘home’ — with the more alienated
model of ‘city-life’ within the age of the megalopolis.
The traditional domus has been presented as a bucolic idyll, where
all you do is serve the phusis — the natural order — and place yourself
at the service of its urge. The traditional domus has its natural rhythm
which contains and controls everything. The domestic hierarchy of the
domus likewise has its natural order, with the master and mistress, the
dominus and the domina, and the ancilla, the female servant. Yet this
image of the bucolic idyll, for Lyotard, remains but an image. Since the
time of Virgil, the domus has no longer been possible. ‘Domesticity,’
Lyotard comments, ‘is over, and probably it never existed, except as a
14
dream of the old child awakening and destroying it on awakening.’

12
These questions are discussed at length in Richard Wolin (ed.), The Heidegger
Controversy, Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 1993. See especially the exchange of
letters between Herbert Marcuse and Martin Heidegger. Other books on this subject
include Hans Sluga, Heidegger’s Crisis, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1993.
13
Jean-François Lyotard, The Inhuman, trans. Geoffrey Bennington and Rachel Bowlby,
Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991, pp.191-204.
14
Lyotard, p. 201.

93
For the current domus is but a myth, a product of the megalopolis, the
nostalgic yearning for what can now only be a mirage. For Lyotard there
can be no more domus; the megalopolis has now stifled the domus, and
has ‘gnawed away’ at the domus and its community. With the advent of the
megalopolis the traditional values of the domus have been transformed, and
the hegemony of the natural order has been supplanted by the artifi-
15
cial. But the crucial point for Lyotard is that the domus constitutes a form
of myth. It is not that myths — ‘the myths we live by’ — are in themselves
bad, but rather that there is something potentially deceptive about myth,
because its own identity as myth is often concealed. And it is precisely in
its reliance on the mythic that Heidegger’s own thought is most suspect.
In such a context the values of the domus likewise become facades.
They can never be invoked, but only be mimicked as in the case of the
Nazis. Thus, for Lyotard, the ‘service’ of nature in the original domus
leads inexorably to the ‘service’ — dienst — of Heidegger’s rectorship
address — a hollow and ironic sense of ‘service’, where ‘knowledge
service’ is treated at the same level as ‘labour service’ and ‘military
16
service’. The domus here has a different ‘take’. For in the age of the
megalopolis — in an age when the god-nature has been doubled as an
anti-god — when there is no ‘nature’ to serve, service is incorporated
within a generalised system of exchange — business — whose aim is
profit, and whose governing principle is performativity. Under this new
condition the violence of the domus is exposed. Everything that was
ordered and contained within an hierarchised structure, which served to
replicate and repeat the cycle of domesticity, all that was once tamed and
controlled — ‘domesticated’ — within the domus, is revealed for what it
is in the figure of modern man, homo re-domesticus (redomesticated
man). To quote from Lyotard:

15
For Lyotard what takes over from the ‘control’ of the domus in the megalopolis is a
form of techno-science which offers a new form of control, one that is no longer
territorialised and historicised, but computerized.
16
Lyotard, p. 195. See Martin Heidegger, ‘The Self-Assertion of the German Univer-
sity’ in Richard Wolin (ed.), The Heidegger Controversy, Cambridge, Mass: MIT
Press, 1993, p. 35.

94
 The undominated, the untamed, in earlier times concealed in the
domus, is unleashed in the homo politicus and homo economicus but
under the ancient aegis of service, Dienst. . . Homo re-domesticus in
power kills in the street shouting ‘You are not one of ours’. . . The ruin of
the domus makes possible this fury which it contained and which it
17
exercised in its name.
What masquerades as the domus in fact constitutes ‘domestication
without the domus’. It contains a violence repressed within it. ‘The
untameable was tragic,’ for Lyotard, ‘because it was lodged in the heart
18
of the domus.’ And here we might recognise a Freudian moment within
Lyotard. Indeed the house itself, as Freud suggested, can be taken as a
model for repression. The terms which Freud uses in this context —
‘heimlich’ (homely) and ‘unheimlich’ (uncanny) — are terms with clear
architectural resonances.

For Freud the heimlich contained the unheimlich repressed within it:

For this uncanny is in reality nothing new or alien, but something

which is familiar and old-fashioned in the mind and which has become
19
alienated from it through a process of repression.
It is as though the very foundations of the house and of all that is
homely are built on the repression of its opposite, the unheimlich buried
deep beneath the heimlich. Yet heimlich and unheimlich, it would seem,
are terms that fold into one another. As Freud comments: ‘This heimlich
is a word the meaning of which develops in the direction of ambivolence,
20
until it finally coincides with its opposite, unheimlich.’ Thus any
definition of the term heimlich made ‘against’ the term unheimlich is

17
Lyotard, p. 197.
18
Lyotard, p. 202.
19
Sigmund Freud, Art and Literature, Penguin Freud Library, volume 14, trans. James
Strachey, London:Penguin, 1985.
20
Freud, p. 347.

95
clearly a false one. The very ‘opposition’ that is posited denies the
reciprocal tension that binds the two terms together. This denial
constitutes a form of conscious repression which always threatens to be
unleashed in the realm of the unconscious. The ‘fury’ of the uncanny
haunts the home like a ghost.

The Myth of ‘Place’

Place’
The domus, then, can be seen as a myth of the present, and it is within
this framework that we can now also begin to understand regionalism
as a movement grounded in myth. Thus what purports to be a sentimental
evocation of traditional forms can be seen as part of a larger project of
constructing and reinforcing a regional or national identity. We might
therefore recognise within regionalism not only the potential dangers in-
herent in all such calls for a regional or national identity, but also the
essential complicity of the concept within the cultural conditions of late
capitalism. For regionalism is presented as a movement which has arisen
in opposition to the homogenised space of late capitalism. The very
placelessness of contemporary society has prompted a fresh interest in
‘place’ as ‘difference’. But against this it could be argued — in line with
Fredric Jameson — that it is late capitalism itself that has in part sanc-
21
tioned these developments. In a world dominated by all-consuming capi-
talism ‘difference’ itself can be seen to be a product of the market. As such
Jameson’s views can be understood within the framework of Lyotard’s
remarks on the domus. Postmodern calls for ‘place’ echo postmodern calls
for the domus. If the countryside — the realm of the domus — is seen
increasingly in terms of tourism and vacation, then ‘place’ as difference
could be understood in equally cynical, ironic terms, as the site of the
‘exotic’. Just as the call for difference can be understood as spawned by
— and not resistant of — global capitalism, so ‘place’ becomes another
commodity in the marketplace.

21
See Fredric Jameson, The Seeds of Time, New York: Columbia University Press, 1994,
pp.189-205.

96
 These values are particularly suspect in an age when there has been
a fundamental shift in the ways in which we relate to the world. Not only
must we question the primacy of a concept such as ‘dwelling’ as a source
of identification, but we must also ask whether a concept which is so
place-specific can any longer retain much authority.
For Lyotard, in the age of the megalopolis even the concept of dwelling
is marked by a form of passage. ‘Lost behind our thoughts, the domus is
also a mirage in front, the impossible dwelling’, so that we are trapped
in a form of passage between an awakening, in the form of a phantom-
like remembrance of the lost domus, and the re-inscription of this
awakening in the future:

So only transit, transfer, translation and difference. It is not the house

passing away, like a mobile home or the shepherd’s hut, it is in passing
22
that we dwell. [my italics]

Thus for Lyotard it is not the mobility of the house per se, so much
as the endless reinscription of the concept that constitutes the ‘passage’
of dwelling. To claim otherwise would be to subscribe to the myth of the
domus. Yet equally one might point towards more concrete manifesta-
tions of the transiency of dwelling. For it could also be said that the
‘mobile home’ remains the condition of the present, if by ‘mobile home’
we understand a flexible range of indexical markers on which identity
might be cathected as a form of symbolic ‘grounding’. Not only has the
home been largely redefined as property, so that what was once a stable
point of origin has become a commodity, exchangeable in the market-
place, — located within a price range, if no longer constrained by place
— but, arguably, there has also been a shift in the way in which we relate
to the world.
The possibility of such a shift is afforded by an age which constitutes
its identity less through notions of place — place of origin, birth place
etc. — and increasingly through more transitory phenomena, such as

22
Lyotard, p. 198.

97
jobs and possessions. These possessions may include even technological
objects, such as cars and computers. Indeed technology, far from being
the necessary source of alienation, as Heidegger had supposed, may
itself offer mechanisms of symbolic identification. For what thinkers
such as Heidegger overlook is the fundamental capacity for human
beings to accommodate and adapt to new conditions. This chameleon-
like tendency ensures that human beings eventually absorb technology
as part of their symbolic background, to the point where they may grow
attached to and identify with technological objects.
Furthermore advances in technology have themselves influenced
the way that we relate to ‘place’. Technological developments in
transportation have caused physical distance to be largely displaced by
‘time-distance’. Meanwhile, developments in communications technology
have deeply affected the space of inter-personal relationships. In an age
where the actual space of the cross roads is giving way to the virtual
space of the internet, the hegemony of the physical is being progressively
23
eroded. This is not to deny the necessity of place. Rather it is to recognise
the possibility of a shift in mechanisms of symbolic identification. In a
society that is constantly mobile, and whose archetypal space is the
transport interchange or the airport lounge, identity can be defined
increasingly in terms of departures and impending arrivals. The concept
of the domus as the stable site of ‘dwelling’ therefore comes across not
only as a myth, but as a nostalgic myth.
Indeed calls for the domus and for regionalism share something of
the nostalgia for a lost tradition — a lost paradise — that is embodied in
other contemporary projects to recapture the past. In an age whose
fashions are often dominated by ‘retro’ imagery, reproduction itself —
whether furniture, clothes or architecture — must be viewed within this
context. As such the distinction between ‘authentic’ reproduction and
postmodern ‘retro’ pastiche begins to be effaced. Indeed it is precisely
against the charge of ‘inauthenticity’ that so-called ‘authentic’ appeals

23
On this see Paul Virilio, The Lost Dimension, trans. Daniel Mosheberg, New York:
Semiotext(e), 1991.

98
to the past must defend themselves most virulently, while — paradoxically
— claiming their authority in their very ‘authenticity’.
Inevitably any architectural approach which is grounded in a
Heideggerian framework must be based on terms such as ‘authenticity’.
Yet it is precisely for its ‘jargon of authenticity’ that Theodor Adorno
24
criticises the whole of Heidegger’s work. For Adorno ‘authenticity’ in
Heidegger amounts to little more than the aura of authenticity — the
myth of the authentic. This evocation of ‘authenticity’ becomes particularly
suspect in our contemporary cultural condition if, as Fredric Jameson
25
has argued, ‘authenticity’ is prone to collapse into its opposite. Calls
for an ‘authentic’ regionalism may themselves share something of the
‘inauthenticity’ of Disneyland, and other patently artificial worlds. And
it is precisely the model of Disneyland that offers us a crucial insight
into the mechanisms at play in this evocation of ‘authenticity’. For
Disneyland, in Jean Baudrillard’s eyes, is complicit within a broader
deception. By declaring itself ‘unreal’ in opposition to the ‘real’ world
outside, Disneyland is presented as a device to lend authority to that
‘reality’. Yet, as Baudrillard argues, Disneyland is in fact precisely part
26
of the reality — or hyper-reality — of the world outside. A similar
mechanism in reverse underpins contemporary claims of ‘authenticity’
or ‘reality’. By positing themselves in opposition to the ‘inauthentic’ or
‘unreal’, they claim an authority which is itself suspect. As such calls for
regional identity can themselves be seen to be the mythic products of a
postmodern age. Questions will always remain as to what constitutes an
‘authentic’ architectural tradition — the distant past or the immediate

24
Theodor Adorno, The Jargon of Authenticity, trans. Knut Tarnowski and Frederic Will,
London: Routledge, 1973. For Adorno, Heidegger’s thought hides behind contentless
jargon. It represents a self-referential system which, by failing to address the real
political and economic framework of society, serves only as an ideological mystification
of the actual processes of human domination.
25
Fredric Jameson, ‘History Lessons’ in Neil Leach (ed.), Architecture and Revolution,
London: Routledge, 1999, pp. 79-80.
26
Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulations, trans. Sheila Faria Glaser, Michigan:
Michigan University Press, 1994, p. 12.

99
past — and whether indeed there can ever be any such thing as a ‘return’
to a tradition of the past. In this context we might ask, for example,
whether the concrete tower block does not itself now constitute an
‘authentic’ architecture for many Central and Eastern European cities,
and whether attempts to revive vernacular forms are not in themselves
‘inauthentic’ attempts to reconstruct a mythology of the past.

Towards the Cosmopolis

All this begins to suggest that there is a potential problem in too
readily adopting a Heideggerian model as the basis for a theoretical
model for a new Europe. We should be cautious in our present condi-
tion of all who invoke the idyll of the domus, that false façade, that
impossible dream. For the domus as domestication is potentially to-
talitarian. If, as Walter Benjamin once commented, ‘There is no docu-
ment of civilisation which is not at the same time a document of bar-
barism’, the civilisation of the domus is perhaps the very barbarism of
27
the domus. Likewise we should be cautious of all those who call for
a regional architecture, an architecture of the heimat. For such claims
for an architecture of the soil are informed by the same thinking that
underpins nationalism. We must, of course, be wary of too readily at-
tributing nationalistic or fascistic associations to any Heidegger-inspired
theory, as though blemished by contagion. Likewise we should be wary
of too easily attributing political content to any architecture, whatever
its theoretical underpinnings. Architecture should be seen as essen-
tially ‘inert’, and political content as an associative attribute whose
relationship is strictly allegorical. Nonetheless, architecture always
exists within a political context, and is therefore always ‘politicised’
by association. We must therefore be equally wary of any architecture
that lends itself to fascistic ideological appropriation, and which may
potentially support an overtly nationalistic project.

27
Walter Benjamin, Reflections, trans, Edmund Jephcott, New York: Schocken Books,
1978, p. 248.

100
 The dangers in the growth of nationalism following the collapse of
communism are becoming all too clear. Nationalism does not always
produce positive effects, as has been demonstated through events in the
former Yuglosavia, and the emergence of extreme right-wing groups all
over Central and Eastern Europe with their accompanying opposition to
28
Jews and gypsies, the ‘wanderers’ of society. The physical Wall has
been demolished only to be replaced by other emergent, social walls. All
such walls are potentially damaging. Just as there was a violence in the
Wall, there is a potential violence in the very ‘redomestication’ of
Central and Eastern Europe. The logic of exclusion remains. The ‘exclusion’
of the Wall threatens to be replaced by the ‘exclusion’ of nationalism.
This nationalism can be traced back to a philosophy which celebrates
rootedness, and which is modelled on the myth of the domus.
What, then, are the consequences of this for architecture? In a
tradition of architectural theory which has too often championed the
domus uncritically — from the simple homestead to an architecture of
regional identity — one should be aware of the negative side of this
ideal. For the domus in the age of the megalopolis — in the age of
performativity — can never be the true domus. The domus today is but a
mirage, a myth of the domus. There is much that is seemingly powerful
and seductive in this myth of the domus, much that responds to funda-
mental human desires, and that presents itself as the source of genuine
comfort. Vaclav Havel evokes this in his ‘dream’ for the future of the
Czech people beyond the ‘shock’ of freedom:

Life in the towns and villages will have to overcome the legacy of
greyness, uniformity, anonymity, and ugliness inherited from the
totalitarian era. It will have a genuinely human dimension. Every main
street will have at least two bakeries, two sweet-shops, two pubs, and
many other small shops, all privately owned and independent. Thus the

28
On this see Geoffrey Harris, The Dark Side of Europe: The Extreme Right Today,
Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1994.

101
streets and neighbourhoods will regain their unique face and atmosphere.
Small communities will naturally begin to form again, communities
centred on the street, the apartment block, or the neighbourhood. People
29
will once more begin to feel the phenomenon of home [my italics].

Havel depicts a gingerbread world of bakeries, sweet-shops and pubs,

a world seemingly unsullied by the grim reality of life in the factories, a
world where the ‘phenomenon of home’ is allowed to re-exert itself.
Havel’s dream reads as a utopian fantasy. Yet it is precisely as a fantasy
that — paradoxically — it has most authority. For, as Renata Salecl has
argued, a country is always already a kind of fiction, and the homeland a
30
fantasy structure. And herein lies the apparent danger, for it is in dreams
that the unconscious is most readily revealed, and it is precisely in this
dream — the fantasy of the homeland — that the repressed may be
unleashed. If, after the events of 1989, freedom itself was a ‘shock’,
there was a greater shock in the unexpected neo-nazi violence that
accompanied the rise of nationalism in the East. But it was a shock that
might perhaps have been anticipated. Within the heimlich of the
homeland there lurks the unheimlich of nationalism. And the very
‘phenomenon of home’ contains a potential violence.
For our present society we should be open to an alternative model
of architectural theory more congenial to the complexities of modern
society, a model which likewise avoids the domination and exclusion
implicit in the domus, and which can accommodate the more flexible
modes of existence that characterise our contemporary condition.
Perhaps, then, rather than continuing to champion the domus — the
architecture of ‘dwelling’ — which, it has been argued, is the mythical
product of a postmodern age, we might look instead to more appropriate
models suggested by the megalopolis — the city — itself. And it is to the

29
Vaclav Havel, Summer Meditations, trans. Paul Wilson, London: Faber and Faber,
1992, p.104.
30
Renata Salecl, ‘The Ideology of the Mother Nation in the Yugoslav Conflict’, in Michael
Kennedy (ed.), Envisioning Eastern Europe, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 1994, pp.87-101.

102
specific model of the city as cosmopolis that I wish to turn. For just as
there is a dark side to the domus, the cosmopolis provides an acceptable
face to the megalopolis. The cosmopolis as a form of ‘city life’ offers an
ideal that deserves to be reappraised.
For the city constitutes the condition of the present, and urbanity, as
Iris Marion Young has observed, remains ‘the horizon of the modern,
31
not to mention the postmodern condition’. If, furthermore, we are to
understand our current condition as largely that of a transitory, fleeting
society, the predominant — if not universal — mode of existence, it
could be argued, is often precisely that of the ‘wanderer’. The Jew, then,
the gypsy, the ‘other’ of society provides in some senses the model for
the contemporary moment — rootless, international, mobile,
32
deterritorialised. This is in opposition to the rooted, the nationalistic
and the static. If the dominus, the stable and controlling master of the
domus is the creature of the traditional community, the ‘wanderer’
represents the freedom and flux of the city. As such the ‘wanderer’ is the
archetypal creature of our contemporary condition, a creature whose
existence reflects the very transiency of the city.
Often commentators of modernity criticised the city as alienating,
fragmentary, violent and disordered. Georg Simmel, for example,
observed how the metropolis spawned the modern blasé individual whose
disinterested existence within the city evokes the circulation of capital
itself. The modern city dweller has developed a form of anonymity,
itself a defensive cocoon against the overstimulation of life in the
metropolis. Yet this very anonymity breeds a certain tolerance. The city,
for example, tends to accept difference, and to accommodate the ‘other’.
Traditionally the city has provided a refuge for minorities: it is the city
where the Jew, the outsider, the ‘wanderer’ has often found a haven.

31
Iris Marion Young, Justice and the Politics of Difference, Princeton: Princeton Univer-
sity Press, 1990, p. 237.
32
Manchehr Sanadjian explores the concept of ‘deterritorialisation’ in ‘Iranians in Ger-
many’ in New German Critique, 64, Winter 95, 3-36; see also Caren Kaplan,
‘Deterritorialisations: The Rewriting of Home and Exile in Western Feminist Dis-
course’, Cultural Critique, 6, Spring 87, 191.

103
‘City life’ is the ideal where ‘difference’ is acceptable and on occasions
even celebrated, to the point where minority interest groups have often
been spawned by the city.
By comparison, the ‘community’ — the figure of the domus — can
be seen to be an homogenising, universalising model, which absorbs
and therefore denies ‘difference’. The notion of ‘community’ is based
on a myth of unmediated social relations. It assumes that all subjects are
transparent to one another, and that somehow each can fully understand
the ‘other’. ‘Difference’ is therefore collapsed into a single totalising
vision, which itself breeds a certain intolerance to whatever does not
conform to that vision. It is only when the city mimics the village, when
it fragments into ‘neighbourhoods’ which constitute autonomous
individual units that this model begins to break down. Within
‘neighbourhood watch schemes’ and other exclusionary mechanisms the
principle of the city — the heterogeneous, open cosmopolis — is
supplanted by the principle of the village — the homogeneous, closed
domus. And, as the extreme of this condition, we might cite past
examples of sectarian and political divides within cities such as Belfast,
Beirut or indeed Berlin.
‘City life’ — the life of the cosmopolis — offers an alternative to
the model of the domus. The cosmopolis retains the germ of an ideal
more in tune with our contemporary cultural conditions. It suggests a
possible model for living together in a form of interdependency, a model
which can allow for the fluidity and flux, the complexities and multi-
faceted solidarities of contemporary society, and which is characterised
by a non-oppositional, non-hierarchical openness to the ‘other’. Writ
large, the cosmopolis suggests a model for a pluralistic, open Europe,
free from the exclusions of nationalism.
And if the new Europe is to be an open, cosmopolitan Europe, then
surely we require an architecture whose language and forms match such
an ideal: an architecture which transcends the rigid constraints of the
genius loci — that ‘ultimate onto-theological component of Architecture
Appropriated’ as Daniel Libeskind has described it — and which resists

104
the nihilistic unfolding of tradition — an ‘open’ architecture. Perhaps
then we should be envisaging not ‘architecture’ so much as ‘architectures’
— unpredictable, flexible and hybrid ‘architectures’, as Libeskind calls
33
for ; architectures which match the fluidity, flux and complexity of
contemporary existence, an existence that is epitomised by the
cosmopolis; architectures that might therefore be described as
‘cosmopolitan architectures’; architectures born of the spirit of the
cosmopolis, but not limited to the cosmopolis: cosmopolitan architectures
for a cosmopolitan Europe.

33
Daniel Libeskind, ‘Traces of the Unborn’, in Architecture and Revolution, p. 127.

105
 CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................. 5

BELONGING .................................................................................... 15

FORGET HEIDEGGER ..................................................................... 33

SACRIFICE ....................................................................................... 51

REFLECTIONS ON ALCATRAZ ......................................................... 69

THE DARK SIDE OF THE DOMUS ................................................... 87