1992-Changing Places-Chapter 7

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FROM:

Changing Places:

Remaking Institutional Buildings

Lynda H. Schneekloth, Marcia F. Feuerstein, Barbara A. Campagna, Editors

WHITE PINE PRESS, Fredonia, NY, 1992

This book, was based on the Lecture Series and Symposium on "The Adaptive Reuse of Historically Significant Institutional Buildings and Grounds" developed in collaboration with The New York State Advisory Council for the Richardson Complex at the Buffalo Psychiatric Center. The Good and the Evil was presented at that Symposium as the Keynote Address.

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Divided into two parts for web access

PART II

Chapter 7

THE GOOD AND THE EVIL:

THE PRESERVATION OF MONUMENTS WITH A NEGATIVE SYMBOLIC IMAGE

by Randolph Langenbach

The Purpose Of A Monument: Emotional Response As A Legitimate Design Objective

Faced with the question of whether to preserve buildings and sites which are devoid of beauty, which provide no one with quality of life by any socially acceptable standard, and which are symbolic of either tragedy or cruelty, one is forced to consider what the purpose of a monument is. Three purposes are evident: first, an educational purpose: to inform people about an event or element of history. Second, a didactic purpose: to impress upon people a particular moral message. Third, a symbolic purpose: to represent an historic event, a person's life, an idea, a concept or an entire social movement. A monument as symbol goes beyond the mere conveyance of information or message to elicit an emotional response, to instill feeling as well as thinking.

Most monuments have attributes that fall into all of these categories, though perhaps unequally. This may also vary for different people. For the survivors of the Holocaust, the death camps as monuments elicit a different response than for most others. The definition of these differences lays the foundation for the understanding environmental designers and decision makers must have to avoid 'missing the point' when a particular historic site is preserved, rehabilitated and interpreted. The conservation of negative monuments goes against the grain. Preserving the monuments of an embarrassing or evil past fly in the face of one of the basic tenants of modernism: that the goal of architectural design should be to improve the quality of life by improvement of the environment. Applied to historic buildings, this philosophy encourages designers to "restore" buildings and sites to an idealized past or to emphasize the artistic qualities of an artifact over its didactic or symbolic attributes.

For example, Constance Greiff observed about John D. Rockefeller's famous and popular restoration of Colonial Williamsburg:

Williamsburg represents upper-class WASP history. The streets are clean; the slave cabins and out houses have been suppressed. It is history without depth and without continuity. The clock has stopped and the past has been enshrined behind glass....having put history in its niche, one can admire it and forget it. There is no spillover of history or art as a living presence able to enrich our lives. [xxxi]

Often negative symbolism is not the primary significance of an artifact, but a part of a more complex web of attributes. Such artifacts are common and are more representative of ordinary human life itself than concentration camps or Nazi parade grounds. Just as at Williamsburg, the symbolic meaning of these negative aspects is often missed in the design and interpretation of such places.

Example 3: The Factory Town As Monument

In the 1960s a student activist argued with this author's proposal to preserve the nineteenth century textile mills, the Amoskeag Mills, in Manchester, New Hampshire. He said that such an endeavor was wrong because “these buildings were symbols of the exploitation of the workers who had worked in the plant.” At the time, such arguments were hard to counter. It was awkward to promote the conservation of buildings that were not only the product, but so clearly the symbol of the emergence of corporate industrial capitalism.

At the time, it seemed to the author that the importance of the buildings' architectural and urban design justified their preservation. After ten years of research and documentation on the subject, a more substantial justification has emerged – and it emerged from those very same workers and former workers the activist claimed would want the buildings destroyed.[xxxii] One worker in the Amoskeag Mills said, “sometimes I take a walk through the millyard. A lot of it is torn down today; but as I look up, I can see those mills, how they flourished at one time, and then I don't feel as old as I am – its as if I was just walking though and there was the mill, ready to go to work again.”[xxxiii]

The fact that exploitation or other negative aspects of human life occurred in this environment does not mean that the historic artifact should be altered or erased. To do so might ease the conscience of planners, but it would fail to recognize the human need to deal directly with a phenomenon of history. As George Santayana warned: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

People want to understand the complexity and difficulties of past lives as a way of coming to terms with who they are. As Peter Marris observed concerning the social impact of English slum clearance, “the residents would like more space, better drains, repairs – but to achieve this only at the cost of destroying the neighborhood itself seems to them an inconceivable distortion of what is important....They identify with the neighborhood: it is part of them, and to hear it condemned as a slum is a condemnation of themselves too.”[xxxiv]

The debate inherent in the presentation of symbolic historic environments was driven home when a visitor to the Satanic Mills Exhibition in London in 1979[xxxv] observed in a letter to the author:

I thought I was the only person in the world who loved the old mills. We would see twentyfive or so factory chimneys from the school window....I used to pass the weaving shed of the Stack Mills on the way to school. The flagstones were hot and vibrating. Children would take their mothers chips, black peas, steak and kidney puddings in at dinner time....My mother-in-law started work in the paper mill at 11 years old – 6 o'clock start, bread and dripping for breakfast at 8, soup at 12, bread at 4, finish at 6. And no talking allowed.[xxxvi]

To understand how design intentions and a desire for 'neatness' can interfere with the real and symbolic messages of a monument one can turn to the new National Historical Park in Lowell, Massachusetts. This park was created in the nation's most famous planned textile mill town to commemorate the origins of America's industrial growth. When the park was established, plans were also made for a visitors' center. For political and economic reasons, this center was to be located in a factory building that was neither the oldest nor the most representative of the town's original factory complexes. The reason for locating it there was the fact that the site was going to be renovated and converted into retail shops and housing, and a newly renovated and cleaned up space would improve the adjacent retail complex.

From an administrative standpoint, this seemed to be the right site for the visitors' center, where exhibits and a slide film would be on display. But missing from the plan is any attempt to link the center serve as an integral to the park's purpose, commemorating the city's industrial heritage. This gutted and spruced up shell no longer carries the message at a symbolic level. The new visitors' center is educational (at least up to a point – the slide film is even a bit too didactic), but none of it has the power to stimulate the visitor into reflecting on the depth of experience and symbolic importance of this, the first of the great mill towns which established the United States as a world industrial power, and the towns which transformed how people lived and worked.

Ironically, when plans were being made for the visitors' center, the developers were also drafting contracts to evict a small wool-carding mill operation from the very space that was to become, in part, the visitors' center. The mill was a run down and messy operation, but it used old machines and produced a viable commercial product. Moreover, it could have been reconfigured to illustrate the very industry being commemorated! Instead the plant was evicted, the machines moved or scrapped, and the conversion of this building divorced Lowell even further from its textile mill past. At least until two years ago, the Park Service had a couple of antique looms on display at another mill in Lowell, and this was all that was available in this park to represent the tens of thousands which had once existed.[xxxvii]

For the purists, the wool-carding mill was neither old enough nor representative enough of the cotton industry for which Lowell had originally been established. For the bureaucrats, the management of the interface between such an operation was too complicated and messy compared to the controlled static display which took its place. And for the developers, the retention of the wool-carding mill would have interfered with their neat plans to develop residential units upstairs. The potential for noise and dirt from this operation was not seen as compatible with apartments nearby.

The appropriate solution would have been to relocate the carding mill to one of the older mill complexes where the building could remain in factory use, with a visitors' center next to it. While this is an eminently logical plan, there was no understanding of the carding mill's symbolic potential during the development of the visitors' center. From an educational standpoint, the current displays are informative about the technical and social history of the place, but there is no way to 'feel' what it was like to actually be in a mill or what it was like to live and work in a mill town. In order to convey that feeling, the textile mill operation doesn't have to replicate the historic type found in Lowell in the Nineteenth century exactly. That would be impossible. But it could be a genuine textile production facility, preferably using older machines. Such an operation would be symbolic of the industry as a whole, and that is the kind of experience which should separate a visit to Lowell from reading about it in history books.

Another example in Lowell is the National Park Service's interpretation of the corporation boarding houses where the early mill girls lived. Only a few fragments survive of almost 100 blocks of corporation-owned boarding houses and tenements. One such fragment existed in front of the earliest intact millyard, the Boott Mills. This building had been gutted and converted to a warehouse, leaving it shorn of the tops of its exterior walls and all of its interiors. (Figure 9) Another block existed only a hundred yards away, facing the adjacent Massachusetts Mills millyard. This block was almost completely intact on the exterior and in addition, had all of its original rooms, with fireplaces and finish work, intact on its upper two floors. (Figure 11) This one building was the only example of an intact interior of a block of corporation boarding houses, an extraordinarily important building type in American social history. In addition, at the time when the National Park Service was making its plans, this building was for sale!



LEFT: Figure 9: Lowell: Boott Mills Boarding House before reconstruction, ca. 1970. (Photo (c) Randolph Langenbach)

RIGHT: Figure 10: Lowell: Boott Mills Boarding House after reconstruction, ca. 1985. (Photo (c) Randolph Langenbach)

What was done? The National Park Service acquired the Boott Mills block and reconstructed its exterior. This shell will be turned into an exhibit hall including a partially reconstructed boardinghouse interior. The Massachusetts Mills block was purchased by a private developer and converted, not into a museum, but into a college dorm. All of its original historic interiors were ripped out! (Figure 12)



LEFT: Figure 11: Lowell: Massachusetts Mills boardinghouse showing original interiors, 1978. (Photo (c) Randolph Langenbach)

RIGHT: Figure 12: Lowell: Massachusetts Mills Boarding House after renovation into student housing, 1987. (Photo (c) Randolph Langenbach)

So, with every opportunity to preserve a museum-quality historic building, a fake took its place in order to conform to a "more educationally effective arrangement" of the boardinghouse museum in front of the mill museum. In this reconstructed boardinghouse, a vestige of a genuine interior will reportedly be used, and some of the artifacts removed from the Massachusetts Mills block will be reinstalled in the reconstruction.[xxxviii] What cannot be removed and relocated is the potential for emotional impact associated with the remains of a genuine boardinghouse of a type made famous by history, and in the literature of Charles Dickens, Chevalier and many others. Plans such as this, which focus primarily on aesthetics or on the "accurate" historic image, fail to understand what should be the primary responsibility of the stewardship of historic resources: protection and interpretation of the genuine historic artifact.   Only then can the symbolic meaning of the place survive for future visitors.

The quest for authenticity, and the search for "real" meaning through "honesty" of form, often leads to the destruction of that which it seeks by inducing fakery....Authenticity is not a property of environmental form, but of process and relationship....Authentic meaning cannot be created through the manipulation or purification of form, since authenticity is the very source from which form gains meaning.[xxxix]

A more unusual and sensitive example of a conservation effort rooted in the importance and symbolism of the authentic artifact is found in the story of a young man, Robert Mountford Aram, who traversed the north of England factory towns purchasing chimneys! At the time, clean air legislation and the redundancy of the mills usually meant that the chimneys were no longer needed, and most factory owners were having them demolished. The chimneys didn't cost much and they had no apparent use. What Robert Mountford Aram did buy, however, was the consummate symbol of the district – and of an era.[xl]

In England during the late nineteenth century, the mill chimney became more than a utilitarian funnel for waste. It symbolized the power and prestige of the company. As more and more chimneys were built, they were constructed higher and more ornately (the way skyscrapers are today). In Lancashire, it was common to emblazon each with the name of the mill. Today “chimneys are the steeples of the textile mill towns. They give them an identity which is unmistakable.”[xli] Their rapid disappearance stimulated Aram to save as many as he could.

This purchase of the redundant chimneys is an unusually direct and creative approach directed at preserving something that can continue to exist only as an historic symbol. The chimneys were not individually important, but collectively their preservation contributes to the conservation of an historic landscape. It was a landscape, which in any conventional definition of attractiveness would be considered by most to be more beautiful without these stark remnants of industry. But, in a deeper sense the landscape was so imbued with the history and folklore of the Industrial Revolution that the preservation of the chimneys was no less than the preservation of its defining symbolic image. (Figure 13)

Figure 13: Huddersfield, England: View over the mills, 1973. (Photo (c) Randolph Langenbach)

Geographer David Lowenthal has observed that “an ugly or unpleasant environment may contain many elements of interest, whereas a beautiful environment may be thought ordered but dull.”[xlii] English landscapes of mills and chimneys are premier examples of this. They have a richness of culture, history and the passage of time that transcends any attempt at beautification in the present.

Example 4: The Importance Of The Symbolic Image

In his anthropological study of the tourist, Dean McConnell said that the things that we go to see are examples of a moral order. “Public places contain the representations of good and evil that apply universally to modern man in general...like the sacred text of traditional society.”[xliii] We look at things to admire them. However, we also notice negative images that challenge us to improve or provoke us to condemn. “Together, the [negative and the positive] provide a moral stability to the modern touristic consciousness that extends beyond immediate social relationships to the structure and organization of the total society.”

McConnell observes that every site has what he calls a "marker." Whether or not it is positive or negative, “a marker...expands the physical reality into the realm where a connection is made with the meaning of one's life....Just seeing a site is not a touristic experience....An authentic touristic experience involves not merely connecting a marker to a sight, but a participation in a collective ritual, in connecting one's own marker to a sight already marked by others.”[xliv]

Consider another example: in Israel, Massada is a mountaintop fortress where early Jewish settlers were surrounded and attacked by a Roman battalion. In the end, with supplies cut off and the water running out, the Jews chose collective suicide over capture. Today, since the formation of the State of Israel, the site has become symbolic of great heroism and sacrifice as part of the early Jewish heritage. The site has been excavated, uncovering the ruins. Archaeological work been done since Israel gained the territory during the Six Day War, a cable car was installed to eliminate the long climb to the site. This site is of definite interest as an historic monument, but the collective focus on it since the establishment of Israel has imbued it with a symbolic power that transcends its specific meaning as an archaeological site. The ruins are no longer ruins alone. They have become the monument.

In contrast, near Massada stand the stark empty ruins of the village of Jericho, an abandoned city recently used as a settlement camp for displaced Palestinians. The tourist bus traveling through the area in 1973 did not stop nor did the guide interpret this site. Yet the vast spread of miles of mud dwellings of great interest, with a different kind of negative symbolic meaning to the Israelis in the present than Massada. This particular site, symbolic of a displaced people, will have to wait its turn before it will gain its "marker" and becomes a monument, while Massada, the site of a collective death, now is celebrated as a heroic symbol for Israel.[xlv]

The point here is not to focus on the importance of protecting monuments for tourism, or drawing attention to tourism itself. There are many other tracts which explore the psychology and the economics of tourism. For this study, tourists are not separate from the rest of society. The "tourists" are all of us. A poor approach in planning for tourism cheapens the environment for all. The point of this discussion of negative monuments is that these sites which are often the most revealing about history and human life. At the same time, they are often the first to be altered out of recognition by planners and political leaders who neither understand nor value the sites' symbolic significance.

A distinction should be made between signs and symbols: the equations and acronyms which scholars use to facilitate unequivocal meanings in conversation should more appropriately be called signs, while insignia, shrines, art and architecture, myth and metaphor, should be regarded as symbols. The former can function with just the sensory-motor or mechanical capacities of humanness; the latter point beyond themselves, and appeal to imagination, intuition, memory, as well as to intellect....Symbolic transformations are the stuff of human creativity.[xlvi]

Another example is Ellis Island in New York City, the gateway to the United States for over 12 million immigrants who passed through it on their way to this country in the early part of the twentieth century. Ellis Island was not only the "portal of hope and freedom," but it was also known as the "Island of Tears." For most, it symbolized their future in a new land, tinged with the sadness of their irrevocable decision to leave their homes. For some, it was the site of the misery of being refused entry and deportation back overseas. For all, it was a site of tremendous anxiety and fear as they were examined and waited for clearance.

For years the future of the Ellis Island buildings was in doubt. One early proposal for the island was to demolish the structures and erect a huge spiral ziggurat designed as a memorial by Philip Johnson. This proposal was symbolic of an approach that recognized the importance of the site, but did not recognize the role that physical presence of the buildings had in giving the site its symbolic value. In recent years this has changed, and by good fortune, the deteriorating but rugged buildings still exist. The National Park Service now plans to retain the historic buildings. What remains to be completed is the restoration of the complex and the conversion of the site into a museum under the National Park Service.

During recent decades, the buildings were abandoned, and they suffered from vandalism and deterioration. When the Park Service was given stewardship over them, the debris was cleaned up and the first organized tours were brought to the Island. At that time the buildings were unrestored and in partial ruins. It was an unusual moment in the history of a monument, suspended between the Island's celebrated past and its embalmed future. Ironically, the buildings were especially evocative in their deteriorated state, without the usual exhibits, films or "visitor orientation." (Figure 14) Each tour group passed through it as they would through a church in silent communion with their own thoughts. Many groups contained visitors who had actually come through Ellis Island as immigrants and they would share their experiences with the others. By the end, groups often felt like gathering of friends, sharing intimate recollections of the place. This was stimulated by the stark reality of the unrestored structures evoking powerful memories of the immigration experience. The deterioration gave a truth to the scene reflective of the time which has passed since that era.

Figure 14: Ellis Island: Interior immigration center before restoration. (Photo (c) Randolph Langenbach)

At Ellis Island the National Park Service faces a problem not only of the preservation of the buildings, but more profoundly, of the interpretation of the immigrant experience. Keeping the buildings in a deteriorated condition seems untenable, but cleaning up and refinishing their interiors raises many questions. In its "Request for Proposals" for the development of the interpretive center on the site, the National Park Service stated: the Main Building is considered an artifact in its own right. The basic approach will be to preserve key areas of the Main Building in their present evocative state, and to allow the resource to "speak for itself."...The goal is to encourage visitors to mentally recreate images of the past.[xlvii] In spite of this original objective, the multimillion-dollar restoration project on the Main Building, which is now being completed, will leave few surfaces untouched. The spaces will be pristine and well lit. Even the graffiti left by the immigrants will be carefully isolated and surrounded by freshly painted walls.

The visual impact of the Ellis Island buildings is partly a result of the visitor encountering their unrestored state. However, one argument raised against keeping them in this condition is that at the time of the historic event, which the monument commemorates, the buildings were in more pristine condition. The immigrants never saw it in ruins unless they returned as tourists. When the restoration of the interior is complete, and the interior is returned to its original condition, it may lose some of its impact. It will have been converted into a sort of stage set. Reversing the building's condition would not reverse the time or return the modern visitor to the turn of the century. Such restoration can only remove the vestiges left by the passage of time – but the visual manifestation of time is one of the most evocative qualities of preserved historic structures. As Donald Appleyard observed:

Some places we do not touch....One of the most poignant examples is the untouched cell in what is left of the gruesome Nazi prison in Warsaw. The peeled paint, primitive furniture, battered walls, and other traces of time and human presence engrave themselves on the mind of a visitor. Places which are not overly tidied up and sanitized, where the decisions and actions of the original occupants are still in evidence, can achieve an authenticity even if surrounded by a framed setting.[xlviii]

Conclusion

As suggested here, monuments convey messages in many different ways. In historic preservation, there is no one "correct" approach. This is particularly true with negative monuments of negative symbolism, where the original design is less important than the historic forces which gave the monument its meaning. In many cases, the conversion of old factories, state hospitals, or even former prisons into commercial centers, offices and apartments is a desireable and necessary alternative to demolition. The point of this paper is not that this should never be done, but that such conversions should not obliterate the visual memory of the structure's original use and symbolic meaning. In order to retain that meaning, it is important, first, to gain a specific understanding of how that meaning is carried in the historic structure – in other words, how has the passage of time and history left its traces on the physical fabric?

One of the biggest pitfalls in the interpretation of the symbolic meaning of historic artifacts is the tendency to play havoc with the authenticity of an artifact by attempting to enhance its emotional impact or imply a symbolic meaning that never existed in the first place. This is not the fault of Disney-style recreations, where the make-believe is apparent, but of projects where symbolic monuments are created out of objects with no historical basis.

One of the saddest and most absurd examples of the latter is the ruined fragment of the Anhalter Bahnhof in West Berlin. (Figure 15) When I came upon this ruined railway station in 1964, situated as it was then in the midst of a war-devastated landscape, it seemed to be a poignant symbol of the destruction of the entire city in the war. It was not until almost a quarter of a century later that I discovered that the facts were quite the opposite. The great station survived the war, only to be deliberately demolished in 1959 by the overly ambitious post-war city planners who wanted to remake Berlin to fit the image of a modern city. Its destruction was particularly egregious, considering the almost total devastation that the city suffered and the remarkable fact that it had survived. A fragment of the front facade was all that preservation activists could gain agreement to keep, and its shape was carefully crafted by a demolition expert simulate the effect of aerial bombardment! It is an image so convincing that it now stands safely as a false symbol, turning up in newspaper articles masquerading as a ruin of the war.[xlix] This fragment is actually a genuine symbol of the thoughtless arrogance of post-war city planners who thought that the modern city would transcend the value of the few surviving vestiges of pre-war Berlin. The site on which the rest of the building stood remains vacant to this day.

Figure 15: Ruins of the Anhalter Bahnhof, Berlin, 1964. (Photo (c) Randolph Langenbach)

In the case of the Buffalo State Hospital, the challenge of preserving an historic structure goes well beyond the celebration of its design by Henry Hobson Richardson, one of the nations' most celebrated architects. Its greatest significance lies in its long history as an insane asylum. In fact, the original brilliance of the architectural design is Richardson's recognition of the importance of the building as symbol! The building is atypical of Richardson. It is a mannerist building, somber, dark and foreboding. While one would expect the Richardson-designed towers to rise directly from the ground, instead they appear to emerge from the roof, leaving the viewer unsure whether he looking at the front or the rear. The design is complex and slightly unsettling. The overall size of the building is hard to perceive. Originally it was almost 2,200 feet in length, arranged as a series of receding steps to form a "V" with the entrance pavilion in the center.[l] Because its receding elements and its symmetry, the building seems infinitely extendible, a rather grand symbol for an insane asylum.

Retaining a memory of this history is not easy when the use of the building is changed. But it is accomplished in simple ways, such as retaining the building's original name, "Buffalo State Hospital for the Insane," in guidebooks and other "markers." (Imagine arriving at "H. H. Richardson Plaza" or "Richardson Arms Apartments"!) Retaining the memory can only be accomplished also with a sensitive approach to the programming and design of the rehabilitation project itself, and such a project goes beyond the restrictions enumerated in the Secretary's Standards For Rehabilitation. Perhaps the most important method will be to retain a section of the complex in its original form. For the rest, the message will be conveyed by small things, such as the existence of thick walls, doors and fittings which are recognizable a part of its original use.

In designing a building or an environment, clarity of aim and statement may not be the best goal. People often do not like being in places where perception is specifically directed, and where images are clear and straightforward. Their tolerance for ambiguity in environments may be much higher than most planners realize. Many of the best-liked urban environments are those about which there is the greatest difference of opinion; some of the least liked environments are straightforward and unambiguous milieus, about whose characteristics everyone agrees.[li]

An impersonal city is far worse than one which retains people's expression of feeling. Retaining things with negative symbolism is not in itself negative. It provides the basis for growth on a more profound level than even the most carefully designed precinct. It is the basis for a dialectic between good and evil which takes one beyond the materialism of everyday life. By questioning, accusing and provoking, such negative monuments serve to enlarge one's life beyond the realm of the self, and by so doing provide a chance for growth. Only with such growth can we hope for a more humane world.

- end-

FROM FRONTISPIECE OF THE BOOK CHANGING PLACES:

It is worthwhile, at certain hours of the day or night, to look closely at useful objects at rest. Wheels that have crossed long, dusty distances with their enormous loads of crops or ore, sacks from coal, barrels, baskets, the handles and hafts of carpenters tools. The contact these objects have had with the earth serves as a text for all tormented poets. The worn surfaces of things, the wear that hands give to them, the air, sometimes tragic, sometimes pathetic, emanating from these objects lends an attractiveness to the reality of the world that should not be scorned.

In them one sees the confused impurity of the human condition, the massing of things, the use and obsolescence of materials, the mark of a hand, footprints, the abiding presence of the human that permeates all artifacts.

This is is the poetry we search for, worn with the work of hands, corroded as if by acids, steeped in sweat and smoke, reeking of urine and smelling of lilies soiled by the diverse trades we live by both inside the law and beyond it.

A poetry impure as the clothing we wear on our bodies, a poetry stained with soup and shame, a poetry full of wrinkles, dreams, Observations prophesies, declarations of love and hate, idylls and beasts, manifestos, doubts, denials, affirmations and taxes...

From "Some Thoughts on an Impure Poetry by Pablo Neruda

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Appleyard, Donald, The Environment as a Social Symbol: Towards a Theory of Environmental Action and Perception, Institute of Urban and Regional Development, U. C., Berkeley, (unpublished paper), Berkeley, 1978, p.2.

Applyard, Donald, Ed., The Conservation of European Cities, MIT Press, Cambridge, 1979.

Becker, Carl, Everyman his own historian, p.22-3, quoted in David Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1985.

Binney, Marcus, "Introduction," in Satanic Mills, SAVE Britain's Heritage, 1979.

Fitch, James Marston, Historic Preservation, Curatorial Management of the Built World, McGraw Hill, New York, 1982.

Greiff, Constance, Lost America, The Pyne Press, Princeton, 1971, p.7, quoted in: Donald Appleyard, The Conservation of European Cities, MIT, Cambridge, 1970.

Hareven, Tamara, and Randolph Langenbach, Amoskeag, Life and Work in an American Factory City, New York City, Pantheon, 1978.

Hart, Kitty, Return to Auschwitz, Atheneum, New York, 1982.

Heikamp, Detlev, "Demolition in Berlin," in Architectural Design Profile: Post-War Berlin, Doug Clelland, ed., London, Architectural Design, 1982.

Horgan, Dorothy, Letter to Randolph Langenbach, Feb. 11, 1979.

Interpretive Prospectus, Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, National Park Service, January, 1984.