|
Mental
Health and the
Environment
EDITED
BY
Hugh
Freeman MS,
AA BM BCh
FRCPsych DPM
Senior
Consultant
Psychiatrist,
Safford Health
Authority;
Lecturer,
Department of
Psychiatry,
University of
Manchester;
Editor of the
British journal
of Psychiatry
Contributors
Christopher
Bagley PhD;
Burns
Professor of
Child Welfare,
University of
Calgary,
Alberta, Canada
Paul
F
Brain
PhD;
Reader,
Department of
Zoology,
University
College of
Swansea, South
Wales, UK
G.
M. Carstairs
MD FRCPE
FRCPsych;
(Formerly
Professor of
Psychiatry,
University of
Edinburgh and
Vice Chancellor,
University of
York),
UK
Charles
Clark BSc
PhD;
Senior
Psychologist, HM
Prison, Wormwood
Scrubs, London,
UK (formerly
Research;
Worker,
Institute of
Psychiatry,
London)
Kenneth
Dean PhD;
Lecturer in
Geography,
College of St
Mark and St
John, Plymouth,
UK
Hugh
L.
Freeman
MSc MA BM BCh
FRCPsych DPM;
Senior
Consultant
Psychiatrist,
Safford Health
Authority;
Lecturer,
Department of
Psychiatry,
University of
Manchester, UK
John
A
Giggs
PHD; Lecturer,
Department of
Geography,
University of
Nottingham, UK
D.
R. Hannay
MD PhD FFCM
MRCGP DCH;
Senior Lecturer,
Department of
General
Practice,
University of
Glasgow, UK
P.
M. Higgins
FRCP FRCGP;
Professor
of General
Practice, Guy's
Hospital Medical
School, London,
UK
Howard
James MRCP
MRCPsych DPM;
Consultant
Psychiatrist,
Moorhaven
Hospital,
Ivybridge, Devon
UK
J.
M. Kellett
MA
MRCPsych MRCP
DPM; Senior
Lecturer, St
George's
Hospital,
Blackshaw Road,
London, UK
Randolph
Langenbach MArch;
Assistant
Professor,
Department of
Architecture,
University Of
California
Berkeley, USA
A.
C.
P. Sims MD
FRCPsych; Professor
of Psychiatry,
University of
Leeds, St James
University
Hospital Leeds,
UK
Christopher
J
Smith
PhD;
Associate
Professor,
Department of
Geography, State
University of
New York at
Albany, New
York,
USA
Alex
Tarnopolsky MD
MRCPsych;
Consultant
Psychotherapist,
The Maudsley
Hospital,
London, UK
S.
D. Webb
PhD; Professor,
Department of
Sociology,
University of
Victoria,
British
Columbia, Canada
Keith
Wedmore MA LLE;
Barrister‑at‑Law
(formerly
Research Fellow.
State University
of San
Francisco) 5
Cornelia,
Avenue, Still
Valley
California, USA
Contents
1.
Introduction
H.
L. Freeman
SECTION
A: Scientific
background
2. The
scientific
background
23
H.
L. Freeman
3. Crowding
and
territoriality:
a psychiatric
view
1. M.
Kellett
4. Human
aggression and
the physical
environment
P. F. Brain
5. Geographical
approaches to
mental health
C.
1. Smith
6.
Urban
delinquency:
ecological and
educational
perspectives
C.
Bagley
SECTION
B: Specific
issues
7.
Housing
11. L. Freeman
8.
Rural‑urban
differences in
mental health
226
S. D.
Webb
9.
Environmental
noise and mental
health
A. Tarnopolsky
and C.
Clark
10.
Mental
illness and
urban disaster
A. C. 1'.
Sims
11.
Social
pathology and
urban overgrowth
Keith
Wedmore
and L.
Freeman
12.
Residential
mobility and
mental health
A. Giggs
SECTION
C:
Case
studies
13.
Stress
at Thamesmead
P.
Al. Higgins
14.
Depression
and
schizophrenia in
an English City
K. Dean
and H.
James
15.
Mental
health and
symptom referral
in a city
D.
R.
Hannay
16.
Mental
health and the
environment in
developing
countries
G.
M. Carstairs
EPILOGUE
17.
Continuity
and sense of
place:
the importance of
a
symbolic image 455
Randolph
Langenbach
CHURCHILL
LIVINGSTONE
LONDON
EDINBURGH
MELBOURNE AND
NEW YORK 1984
|
EPILOGUE
Continuity
and sense of
place:
the importance
of the symbolic
image
The
continuity of
our lives is
preserved by
being surrounded
by the
solidified
substance of
time which has
lasted for a
given period.
Take, for
example, a small
drawer, which
the carpenter
has made for the
convenience of
some household.
With the passage
of time, the
actual form of
this drawer is
surpassed by
time itself and,
after the
decades as
centuries have
elapsed, it is
as though time
had become
solidified and
has assumed that
form. A given
small space,
which was at
first occupied
by the object,
is now occupied
by solidified
time. It has, in
fact, become the
incarnation of a
certain kind of
spirit. (Mishima
1959)
The action of
time makes man's
works into
natural objects
. . . In making
them natural
objects also
time gives to
man's lifeless
productions the
brief quality of
everything
belonging to
nature - life.
(Lee 1902)
In this
fictionalised
account of a
true story,
Mishima gave the
story of a mad
monk who burned
down the 500
year-old Golden
Temple because
it represented
the beauty he
himself lacked.
In doing so,
Mishima
identified one
of the most
important, yet
intangible
attributes of an
historic object
- time.
Discussing the
intangible
'spirit' caused
by time on an
artifact, I
recall that in
1967, 1 had the
opportunity to
see and
photograph the
machine shop of
the Crown and
Eagle Mills in
North Uxbridge,
Massachusetts.
This cotton
mill, built in
1825-1850, had
survived for
almost half a
century empty
and unused,
having been
closed well
before the Great
Depression. It
had been
carefully
preserved on the
estate of its
wealthy owner
until his widow
died in about
1969. It was one
of the oldest
factory
buildings in the
US, and also one
of the most
beautiful ever
built. It stood
like a Loire
Valley chateau,
spanning the
Mumford River on
a graceful arch
with two
parallel canals
on either side -
a majestic and
breathtaking
combination of
architecture and
landscaping
(Fig. 17.1). Yet
until about
1970, this
seminal historic
building was
almost
completely
unknown outside
its region.
On entering
the machine
shop, behind the
main mill, I was
confronted by a
scene which
veritably took
my breath away.
In front of me
was a room
filled with
tools and
machines, left
as if' nothing
had been changed
since the
workmen had
departed 50
years before
(Fig. 17.2). To
see this was an
awesome
experience,
enhanced
particularly by
the fact that
the building was
not 'preserved'
as a museum, but
was simply
existing, having
survived the
ravages of time
to deliver its
historical
visual message
to me. That
room, without
question, had a
kind of spirit.
The profound
meaning of the
Industrial
Revolution, the
early history
of' the rise of'
American
capitalism, and
the origins of
modern
technology and
labour seemed to
converge and
focus upon that
one place at
that moment. The
scene was so
charged with
feeling,
information, and
emotion from the
past that to
touch each item
in the room was
to touch an
icon. One could
almost feel the
workmen rise
from the faded
photographs to
be present In
that space.
The
experience of
discovering an
historic
man-made
environmental
artifact like
that called to
mind a comment
that Samuel
Johnson is
reported to have
made: 'Depend
upon it, Sir.
when a man knows
he is to be
hanged in a
fortnight, it
concentrates his
mind
wonderfully'
Johnson 1776).
Sadly, this
beautiful
building proved
to be a fragile
linage. First
the machine shop
was stripped of
its machinery by
Old Sturbridge
Village Museum
ironically
destroying the
real thing in
order to create
a museum exhibit
commemorating
it. Then, in
1977, vandals
entered the mill
and, when the
fire that they
had started was
out, this
remarkable
building had
been reduced to
a broken shell
(Fig. 17.3). To
find such a
building and
room, caught as
this was between
the historic
past and an
uncertain
future,
heightened my
sense of
communication
with the past,
and embedded the
image on my
memory, just as
it did on the
film in my
camera, in a way
which I will
never forget.
It is clear
that for almost
every person,
the man-made
environment is
important in
some way, and
that the
historic
environment is
significant for
a large section
of the
population.
Hearst Castle,
in San Simeon,
California, for
example, a
remarkable
palace created
from the
fragments of
European
monuments,
attracts over
940 000 visitors
a year, bringing
a $1.3 million
annual profit to
the State of
California which
owns it. It is
difficult,
however, to
isolate exactly.
what the
ingredients are
which give
certain old
buildings their
value. Is it
their history,
their adherence
to certain
aesthetic pi
inciples, their
particular place
in certain
peoples' lives,
or changing
styles and
taste- One thing
is evident:
certain
buildings, when
threatened, can
be the subject
of an enormous
outpouring of
emotional energy
by those who
feel in some way
attached to
them.
Throughout my
work as a
documentary
photographer and
preservation
advocate, 1 have
found myself
constantly
confronted with
the issue of how
to assess
objectively the
value of a
building or
group of
buildings when
so many
intangible
qualities such
as taste,
aesthetics,
history, and
time are
involved. It is
often possible
to assess
rationally the
historical or
architectural
significance of
something, but
what is more
elusive, and
ultimately more
significant to
people, is an
historic
building's
ability to
become the focus
of human emotion
- to become the
incarnation or
symbol of
something much
larger and
closer to our
own lives. It is
at this level
that the forlorn
and ramshackle
former slave
cottage can seem
as potentially
more moving, and
in many ways
more important,
than a carefully
restored palace.
We must never
lose sight of
the need to
understand the
elusive quality
of spirit in the
objects which
make up the
man-made
environment. If
we do, then even
when we are
successful in
preserving
something, we
may find that we
end up only
preserving the
hollow shells of
what once
existed.
This
observation goes
beyond the issue
of simple
preservation of
an artifact to
an assessment of
how it is to be
preserved. It
may be clear
what the
history, of a
building is, and
also its
architectural
value, but what
is its emotional
content? What
ingredient gives
it the power to
move people to
make them think
about the
mysteries of the
place's history
and to engender
love for it?
Preservation can
at times be
superficially
successful. A
building or
district may be
'preserved', but
made over into
something so new
that all the
visual time
depth has been
excised.
An example of
this is The
Faneuil Hall
Markets in
Boston. Until
the wholesale
produce market
was moved out,
this complex was
Boston's Covent
Garden. It was
then restored as
an elegant
shopping area,
and has even
been the model
for the similar
restoration of
Covent Garden in
London. As a
shopping centre,
it has been
fabulously
successful, and
is reported to
attract more
people than
Disneyworld.
However, like
Disneyworld, it
is history
reduced to a
storybook. Only
the stone
facades and
timber floors of
the old
buildings were
preserved; all
effects of age
were removed,
and all of the
residue of its
former uses
sanitised or
cleared away.
The complex no
longer seems
like an historic
part of the
city, but is a
carnival
precinct,
separate from
the real city
around it.
Despite this
limitation, the
commercial
success of the
project is such
that in
Baltimore, where
no old buildings
existed, a new
Marketplace was
constructed for
a similar
development,
showing that the
old buildings,
which started as
a genesis of the
urban renewal
idea, end up
being so
extraneous that
they are not
even a necessary
ingredient of
the next
project. Has
preservation
been achieved
then?
Superficially,
it has. The
Boston project
is a financial
success, the
shells of the
historic
buildings still
there. But as
one walks
through the
complex, one has
a feeling that
the buildings
have been in a
sense 'lobotomised'
- their genuine
history excised.
Time has been
flattened, and
the effects of
age have not
been left for
people to see.
We are still
left with the
challenge of how
to preserve an
historic area
and make it
vital, without
destroying the
intangible
quality which
gives it the
power to move
people - the
power to
engender
attachment and
love.
Human
attachment to
the man-made
environment is
not a simple
concept, and its
nature and
importance to
people varies
according to
individual
needs.
Preservation
advocates often
speak of the
need to preserve
something for
the public good,
and ironically,
most of the
public may be
totally unaware
of this effort
unless, should
it be
unsuccessful,
they notice the
ensuing
demolition. The
geographer Tuan
(19 ) calls the
concept of
environmental
attachment 'topophilia'
which:
can be
defined broadly
to include all
of the human
being's
affective ties
with the
material
environment.
These differ
greatly in
intensity,
subtlety, and
mode of
expression. The
response to
environment may
be primarily
aesthetic . . .
(or be) tactile,
a delight in the
feel of air,
water, and
earth. More
permanent and
less easy to
express are
feelings that
one has towards
a place because
it is home, the
locus of
memories, and
the means of
gaining a
livelihood.
He goes on to
say that
topophilia is
not the
strongest of
human emotions,
though when it
is compelling,
we can be sure
that the place
or environment
has become the
carrier of
emotionally
charged events,
or is perceived
as a symbol.
This observation
is important
because it is
exactly these
ingredients
which can help
define an
historical
environment as
important enough
to people to be
preserved. Tuan
also suggests
that for people
to be conscious
of the
importance of an
historic
environment,
whether a
building or a
whole city
district, they
must be aware of
a connection to
important
historical
events, or
informed enough
to be able to
make the
connection
between the
environment and
the symbol: 'the
appreciation of
the landscape is
more personal
and longer
lasting when it
is mixed with
the memory of
human incidents
. . . Homely and
even drab scenes
can reveal
aspects of
themselves that
went unnoticed
before, and this
new insight into
the real is
sometimes
experienced as
beauty.'
In my work, I
have focused
upon the early
industrial areas
of both England
and New England,
documenting
landscapes and
buildings which
to many are the
epitome of the
'homely and
drab'. However,
I was inspired
by what I found
to be a certain
kind of beauty
in these scenes,
and my
experience has
given me insight
into how the
historic
environment
becomes
meaningful to
people. For me,
there were two
stages to this
experience:
firstly, the
personal
transformation
that came from
discovering
specific
historic
buildings and
environments,
which in my view
had profound
value; secondly,
witnessing the
public respond
when confronted
with the
photographic
images of these
places, giving
me the chance to
become aware of
the kind of
attachments
which people
have to even the
harshest of
landscapes.
In his
discussion of
'Rootedness
versus Sense of
Place', Tuan
makes the point
that sense of
place is built
upon knowledge
of history, and
can apply to
anyone,
newcomers and
old-timers
alike.
Rootedness,
however, depends
less on thinking
and knowing
about history
than upon living
it as it has
been lived for
generations.
Preserving
something is to
become conscious
of it in a new
way and thus to
lift it out of
the daily
context of' life
and transform it
in peoples'
minds into
something of
special
importance.
Thus, in
discovering
historic sites
and bringing
them before the
public as a
preservation
issue, I was
both
experiencing,
and focusing
people's
attention on,
'sense of
place'.
Furthermore, in
the act of
photographing
these sites and
then confronting
the public with
the images, I
was
participating in
an historic
transformation
of their
perception; this
documentation
and display was
helping to
convert
rootedness to
sense of place,
which is the
essential basis
for active
preservation.
Rootedness
relates to
passive
preservation,
which results
from continued
use through
custom and lack
of need for
change, but
active
preservation
movements have
occurred when
people have
found their
environment
changing too
rapidly. It is
at this point
that an
awareness of the
environment as
something
distinctive and
unique can
emerge - an
awareness which
is the sense of
place.
In studying
and documenting
the industrial
landscapes of
Lancashire and
West Yorkshire,
I was confronted
by exactly this
kind of
transformation
of attitude. For
generations, the
landscape was
complete - a
seemingly
limitless world
of factories,
chimneys, rows
of terraced
houses, canals,
railways, and
coal pits. It
was not a
landscape which
anyone
considered
attractive, nor,
with its dirt,
darkness and
smoke, was it
even
particularly
healthy. So with
zeal, urban
planners and
politicians
worked for
change, and
during recent
decades, this
has been
sweeping (Figs.
17.4, 17.5).
The air
became much
cleaner with the
effects of the
Clean Air Act,
but as the pall
receded, it
revealed a
rapidly changing
and eroding
built
environment. The
rows of terraced
housing have
been the hardest
hit. What had
once seemed
ubiquitous has
been wiped out
so quickly that
it is now
difficult to
find any but
fragmentary
clusters of
workers'
terraces. Mills
and their
chimneys have
also disappeared
at a rapid rate,
helped by
government
subsidies whose
goal, until
recently, was
the almost total
removal of them
and their
associated
housing At
first, these
efforts were
applauded, and
it would have
been
unreasonable to
expect that this
vast environment
could or should
remain unchanged
But what
occurred is
massive change
almost
everywhere at
once, so that
the historic
industrial
environment
which was once
universal lot in
these regions,
is now rarely
found intact
anywhere.
One may say, 'What
does it matter?
This was not an
important or
beautiful
environment.'
But an
interesting
phenomenon
indicates that
the human
connection to
this historic
scene is deeper
and more
positive than
many will admit.
L. S. Lowry, a
now well known
English painter
who had lived
his life in
almost complete
obscurity until
his late 60s -
all the while
painting a
unique series of
images of this
industrial
landscape -
suddenly found
himself
catapulted to
extraordinary
fame. He had
captured the
image of this
landscape and
interpreted it
in his work for
the preceding
half century,
but is was not
until the real
landscape had
noticeably
disappeared that
he became
popular. Now the
extent of his
popularity
provides a
strong evidence
of the
collective sense
of loss which
people finally
felt when a once
familiar world
had all but
disappeared.
This example
is not unique.
When the
organisation
Save Britain's
Heritage
produced an
exhibition of
photographs
which 1 had
taken of the
mills and
industrial
landscapes of
Lancashire and
West Yorkshire
at the Royal
Institute of
British
Architects in
1979, one
visitor kept
returning day
after day. He
visited it
during his lunch
hour, and for a
period of over a
month, did not
miss a single
day. 1 met him
on the final day
of the
exhibition, and
he said he had
grown up outside
Manchester, but
had moved to
London and
become a
magazine writer.
When he saw the
exhibition, he
was profoundly
moved; for
years, he had
been aware of
his roots in
this industrial
area, but the
photographs
served to
provide that
sense of
attachment with
a visual image,
and it is
significant that
he chose to come
repeatedly to
see the
photographs,
rather than
simply return to
look at the
area. They
served to
isolate and
focus the view,
making the
landscape itself
into a kind of
icon. Until this
exhibition, most
of what he had
seen and heard
about the
industrial North
criticised and
condemned it as
an environmental
disaster, but
the exhibition
gave it
legitimacy as an
historic
landscape, and
in so doing,
helped to
convert his
rootedness into
an awareness of
his own sense of
place.
Other
examples of this
process occurred
during the
exhibition;
there were
visitors who
wrote letters or
poems, and some
long-time
residents of the
areas concerned
sent their own
works of art,
which portrayed
the mills. One
woman's long
letter almost
poetically
described the
social context
of this historic
environment:
'I
thought 1 was
the only person
in the world who
loved old mills.
We would see
twenty five or
so factory
chimneys from
the school
window. One mill
was particularly
beautiful ...
equal (in my
opinion) to the
Chateaux of the
Loire, complete
with tower and
wrought iron
ornamentation .
. . 1 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.
There was a
crèche at Aston
Bros. a long
time ago to
cater for women
who worked the
machinery ... my
mother-in-law
started work in
(lie 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'.
The number of
people who came
to the
exhibition was
far greater than
had been
expected, even
though it took
place far away
from the
industrial areas
portrayed.
This
exhibition
followed a
similar one
which I produced
in Manchester,
New Hampshire,
in 1975, focused
upon a single
corporation, the
Amoskeag
Manufacturing
Company, which
had established
and planned the
city, beginning
in 1838. The
pictures
emphasised the
architectural
and urban design
quality and
legacy of the
huge Amoskeag
plant, which at
the turn of the
century, was
acclaimed as the
world's largest
textile mill
(Figs 17.6,
17.7). In
preparing it, I
had no reason to
expect that it
would be seen by
many people
beyond the usual
attendance of
the museum -
members of the
design
professions,
those interested
and informed
about the arts,
etc. However,
the exhibition
deliberately
incorporated
social history
material,
including
photographs and
taped oral
history of
former workers
in the mills
(Fig. 17.8).
After it opened,
the museum
reported
gradually
increasing
attendance,
until the
gallery was
crowded on
almost every
day; when it
closed, it had
set a museum
record. On the
final Sunday,
over 1000 people
came through in
less than 4
hours, but what
was most
remarkable was
that they were
mostly those who
had worked or
were presently
working in the
mill. Whole
busloads came
from old
people's homes,
and many people
returned
repeatedly,
bringing their
friends. One one
occasion, I
witnessed the
reunion of two
men who had
worked together
in the mill, but
had not seen
each other for
30 years.
It may be
asked whether
this response to
the exhibition
showed any
attachment to
the millyard
itself, or
whether it was
simply a reunion
with the past,
without any
expression of
concern for the
Physical
remains. Also,
do these former
workers agree
with or
appreciate the
aesthetics of
the architecture
and planning of
the mill, or
care whether it
survives? Most
of the former
workers clearly
responded mostly
in personal
ways; one was
surprised and
delighted to
find the front
door to her
former house
displayed, and
another
remarked, when
she looked at a
photograph of
the loomfixers,
'I never thought
I would ever
live to see a
photograph of my
husband in a
museum.' More
revealing is the
comment that:
'When I walk
through the
millyard, I feel
like a young man
again.' Few of
the former
workers
verbalised any
directly
aesthetic
response, but a
certain number
did express
regret to see
the ensuing
demolition of
many of the mill
buildings.
Aesthetics in
everyday life is
rarely isolated
from other
issues, and
expressions of
attachment to
place can rarely
exclude an
implied feeling
that a certain
beauty exists as
well; the very
tact that so
many former
workers embraced
the exhibition
in such a
positive way
seems to show
that they
accepted the
notion that the
millyard had
aesthetic
quality. For
them, the
conscious
recognition that
it was important
to the outside
world because
of' its
architecture was
probably a
revelation but
the knowledge
that it was
served to
reinforce and
expand their own
sense of' place
just as happened
during the
exhibition in
England.
It was during
this first
exhibition that
I became aware,
not only of the
former workers'
emotional ties
to their
environment, but
also of a
disagreement
between their
own point of
view and that
expressed as
being their
point of view by
the planners,
city officials,
and leaders of
the business
community.
Countless times
I had been told
that 'it might
be nice to save
the mills, but
people see them
as symbols of
their own
exploitation,
and wish to see
them destroyed.'
The response to
the exhibition
and the
subsequent oral
history project
has proved this
to be generally
untrue, raising
the question of
why these civic
leaders had a
distorted
impression of'
the situation
While
documenting the
mill districts
of England, I
found a similar
conflict in
points of view.
Again, civic
leaders often
claimed that
working people
hated the old
industrial
environment, but
the workers
themselves more
frequently spoke
with affection
towards it, as
shown in tile
letter quoted
above.
The reason
for these
apparently
conflicting
attitudes is
that the local
leaders
attributed such
views to the
workers in order
to support their
own strongly
held beliefs
that the old
mills and houses
should be
cleared, to make
way for a new
civic image.
Some of these
elite people had
come into the
communities from
outside, and saw
the old and
deteriorating
mills as symbols
of economic
stagnation. For
them, salvation
lay not only in
renewing the
physical fabric,
but also in
changing the
image; and
ironically,
these people
often do
understand the
historic meaning
of the buildings
they wish to
destroy. The
problem is that
they are
motivated to
destroy them
precisely
because it is
the cultural and
historical
messages
inherent in
these buildings
which they wish
to erase.
In
Huddersfield,
ICI, a major
multinational
company which
has grown out of
the historic
dyestuffs
industry, is one
of several
modern
industries
attracting new
people to the
area, and for
many of these
new people,
change and
modernity is the
symbol of their
own success. As
one long-time
resident said in
1977:
"The
people that have
come into
Huddersfield,
and have tried
to reshape it in
the last 20 or
30 years,
they're the
people that
worry me because
all they want to
do is to march
with the tide of
'progress'
that's flooding
over the country
. . . They seem
to want to knock
Huddersfield
down and replace
it with major
ring roads and
faceless
buildings that
are 'armoured'
with concrete,
and black
panels, and
things like that
. . . I don't
think they've
got any root
depths in
Huddersfield. To
them it's merely
a removal of
certain
so-called
'eyesores', that
are eyesores to
them.
Taped
interview with
Trevor Burgin,
May 1977
This
difference in
attitude has had
a very important
impact on the
historic
landscape in
both England and
America. In this
respect, there
are two
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