Studio Libeskind, working in close partnership with the Memorialization Working Group, has unveiled the preliminary design for the memorial for the 11 killed on 27 October 2018 at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, United States. The design was developed in a process led by the victims’ families, communal leaders, and concretional representatives. The building’s official groundbreaking is expected in 2024.
The city of Los Angeles has selected six finalists for the competition to design a new memorial dedicated to the victims of the 1871 Chinese Massacre. In one of the darkest chapters in the city’s history, on 21 October 24, roughly ten percent of the city’s Chinese population at the time, at least 18 residents, were murdered by a mob of rioters. The memorial seeks to raise public awareness of the 1871 racially motivated mass killing while simultaneously addressing contemporary concerns regarding race, intolerance, and violence. The memorial was first announced in April 2021, and it is set to be built near the site of the massacre and the Chinese American Museum.
What is the story that your city's public space tells? Who are the people honored in monuments scattered throughout it? Issues like these have led to a series of insurgencies in recent years in several cities. The notions of memory and representation have expanded the reflection on which narrative we build in our spaces, a fact that has triggered an urban question for the future: after all, what do we want to remember (or forget) through the symbols that we rise (or destroy) in cities?
While walking through the city, have you ever felt afraid to be yourself? As strange as the question may sound to some, it is a reality for most LGBTQIA+ people, who at some point have been victims of hostility when they were noticed performing outside the "heteronormative standards" of public spaces. If violence comes from social layers that go beyond the designed space, this does not exempt the importance of thinking about projects that can integrate the physical sphere and insert a symbolic or representational factor to include and educate its citizens. This is the case of Homomonument, which for more than three decades, has become a platform for queer celebration and protest in the heart of Amsterdam.
Canada’s Department of National Heritage, along with the Minister of Canadian Heritage Pablo Rodriguez, Minister for Women and Gender Equality and Youth Marci Ien, as well as the LGBT Purge Fund have unveiled “Thunderhead” as the winning concept of Ottowa's LGBTQ2+ National Monument competition. The winning design symbolizes a thunderhead cloud, which embodies the "strength, activism and hope of LGBTQ2+ communities, and will be a lasting testimony to the courage and humanity of those who were harmed by the LGBT Purge, homophobic, and transphobic laws and norms".
Babyn Yar, a ravine in the Ukrainian capital Kyiv, witnessed the killing of more than 33,000 Jewish men, women, and children, on September 29 and 30, 1941. The site of one of the largest single massacres perpetrated by occupying German troops against Jews during World War II, Babyn Yar became a symbol of the Holocaust by Bullets.
While the main tragic event took place in 1941, throughout the occupation, the site was used as a killing location by the German forces. In fact, it is reported that 70 to 100 000 people lost their lives in Babyn Yar. With no architecture to the tragedy and only a remaining “broken” landscape, people struggled with achieving memorialization and public recognition.
Adjaye Associates has recently designed a project in Niamey, Niger to honor all those that lost their lives in the fight against terrorism on the country’s southern and western borders. The Martyrs Memorial is in fact “tangible documentation of the continuous fight against extremist entities and the soldiers who have fallen in the process”.
Over two decades in the making, Frank Gehry's design for the Dwight D. Eisenhower Memorial in Washington, D.C. will finally open to the public this Friday. A tribute to the 34th President of the United States, the memorial was commissioned by Congress in 1999 to honor the legacy of the World War II Supreme Allied Commander. Eisenhower is well known for leading the invasion of Normandy, a turning point in the war, and for serving two terms as President of United States.
With a complex debate underway about monuments and the way we engage history, we should start thinking about a COVID-19 Memorial. Yes, I know we are in the middle (or is it still the start?) of this pandemic, but the intensity of the moment might actually help us envision what such a memorial could be. Instead of waiting for a time when we have more distance from our current catastrophe, we should capture the passions coursing through society right now.
Architecture firm Gómez Platero has designed a new memorial to honor those affected by COVID-19. Sited in Uruguay, the monument is made to be an expression of hope in an uncertain time. As the first large-scale monument to the worldwide victims of the COVID-19 pandemic, the project is called the "World Memorial to the Pandemic." It aims to be a space for mourning and reflection that's environmentally conscious and emotionally impactful.
This article is part of "Eastern Bloc Architecture: 50 Buildings that Defined an Era", a collaborative series by The Calvert Journal and ArchDaily highlighting iconic architecture that had shaped the Eastern world. Every week both publications will be releasing a listing rounding up five Eastern Bloc projects of certain typology. Read on for your weekly dose: Monumental Museums and Memorials.
This article was originally published on Common Edge.
Monuments, as Alois Riegl pointed out a century ago, are aids to memory. “In memoriam,” the carvings cry out. Though they are almost always tainted with political ideologies and social values, they can stand on their own as works of art, absorbing meanings over millennia. Many that we continue to treasure were once associated with events and practices antithetical to modern mores and taboos: Greek temples were founded on the altars of animal—and, earlier, human—sacrifice; the pyramids were made by slaves; market crosses may have served as flogging posts. There really are no innocent human artifacts dedicated to remembering human acts, as fact or fiction.
Graveyards full of names that have long been forgotten, plaques etched with portraits that you ignore on your morning jog, monuments with friezes that depict the triumphs of war—all these are examples of memorial architecture, which once held intense emotional meaning for certain individuals or groups of people, but have now gradually become tourist attractions or anachronistic sites within a changed landscape.
Since the horrors of World War II memorial architecture has changed drastically, from monuments focusing on names, heroes, and patriotism to abstract symbols of mourning and loss. How will this shift in the design of memorials change the way we experience them in the present and, more importantly, in the future? When generations pass away and the memorialized event becomes almost forgotten, how will we experience and remember?
This article was originally published by Common Edge as "Letter From Mexico City: An Insidious Memorial to a Still-Unfolding Tragedy."
You wouldn’t think it looking at Mexico City today—a densely populated metropolis, where empty space is hard to come by—but decades earlier, following a devastating earthquake on September 19, 1985, more than 400 buildings collapsed, leaving a collection of open wounds spread over the cityscape.
Exactly thirty-two years later, the anniversary of that disaster was ominously commemorated with an emergency evacuation drill. Then, in one of those odd occurrences in which reality proves to be stranger than fiction, a sudden jolt scarcely two hours after the drill led to what would be yet another of the deadliest earthquakes in the city’s history. Buildings once again collapsed, leaving a rising-by-the-hour death toll that eventually reached 361, as well as swarms of bewildered citizens wandering the streets, frantically attempting to reach their loved ones through the weakened cell phone reception. “We’d just evacuated for the drill,” people said, like a collective mantra. “How could this happen again?”
The "National Memorial for Peace and Justice," designed in collaboration with MASS Design Group, has opened in Montogomery Alabama. Commissioned by the Equal Justice Initiative, the scheme is America’s first memorial dedicated to “the legacy of enslaved black people, people terrorized by lynching, African Americans humiliated by racial segregation and Jim Crow, and people of color burdened with contemporary presumptions of guilt and police violence.”
The memorial's April 23rd opening coincided with the opening of the Equal Justice Initiative's Legacy Museum, addressing similar injustices.
This article was originally published by Common Edge as "Why the Best Response to the Grenfell Tower Fire Isn’t a Memorial."
Memorials play an integral role in marking significant people, moments, or events. In recent years, they have become glorifications of tragedy by attempting to express unimaginable horrors in poetic and beautiful ways. The issue with the many forms that memorials take is that they seek to placate the immediate reaction and hurt of an event, an understandable societal reaction, but one that often feels rote and hallow.
But what if memorials sought to preserve the memory of those affected by offering a solution that addressed how the tragedy occurred? The international response to tragedy has, by default, become to install a statue, build a wall, create a healing water feature, erect an aspirational sculptural object, or simply rename a park. None of these responses are inherently bad—they’re usually well-meaning and on occasion quite moving—but there is another approach available to us: changing the public perception of memorials by looking at them through the lens of solutions, encouraging people to think of them as a testament or proper response to tragedy, not just a plaque that over time goes unnoticed. While this approach might be difficult in some instances, the case of Grenfell Tower fire in London presents a rather obvious solution.
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The Arch for Arch, an intertwined wooden archway honoring Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu, has debuted in downtown Cape Town, South Africa on a site near Parliament where Tutu held many of his anti-Apartheid protests.
Designed by Snøhetta and Johannesburg-based Local Studio, in collaboration with Design Indaba and Hatch engineers, the Arch for Arch consists of 14 woven strands of Larch wood, representing the 14 chapters of South Africa’s constitution. Reaching nearly 30 feet tall (9 meters), the structure invite visitors to pass through and be reminded of the location’s prominent role in their country’s history on their way to the Company’s Garden, one of the most popular public spaces in the city since its establishment in 1652.
.jpg?1599848656 "Courtesy of Dwight D. Eisenhower Memorial Commission")
.jpg?1599849450 "Courtesy of Dwight D. Eisenhower Memorial Commission")
.jpg?1599848766 "Courtesy of Dwight D. Eisenhower Memorial Commission")
.jpg?1525797611 "Kwame Akoto Bamfo Exhibit at the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. Image © Equal Justice Initiative / Human Pictures")
.jpg?1520526846 "© David Southwood")
.jpg?1520526821 "© David Southwood")
.jpg?1520526730 "Pictured at far right: Archbishop Desmond Tutu at the 2017 Design Indaba Conference, where the design was first unveiled. Image Courtesy of Design Indaba")
.jpg?1520526894 "The Arch is formed of 14 strands of Siberian Larch wood, a highly durable and resistant material that will weather gracefully over time, taking on the elements of its surroundings. The warmth of wood was intentionally selected to lend the Arch an intimate, tactile quality, that invites people to interact with the structure in a way that differs from the conventional materials people might expect for a memorial structure, such as concrete, steel, or stone. Image © David Southwood")
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