London Bridge: A Becoming Non-Place

 

"Everything proceeds as if space had been trapped by time, as if there were no history other than the last forty-eight hours of news, as if each individual history were drawing its motives, its words and images, from the inexhaustible stock of an unending history in the present".

Marc Augé - Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity (1995)

How to describe the becoming non-place of my place of birth? How to put into words the feeling of homelessness on finding oneself inescapably funnelled into the habits of a tourist in places you have frequented for over four decades?

Southwark is my home borough. It holds my family home, my first years of schooling, and many of the places I most associate with my childhood and youth. At its Southern tip it grazes the edge of Crystal Palace park, home to the ruins of that legendary 19th century edifice, which more than any other symbolised the coming age of transparency and globalisation. A glass house, originally conceived to hold a trade fair; a house with transparent walls, so that the divisions between inside and outside were dissolved, giving the illusion of total visibility, illuminated by the burning sun of commerce and the industrial spirit of the age.

Southwark's midriff comprises the less storied neighbourhoods of Peckham and Camberwell; the one known for being the home of fictional "dodgy-dealer" Del Boy Trotter, the other containing what was formerly London's murder mile (I believe it lost this crown in the mid-2000s to Clapton-Hackney). At one time I had a dentist based on the crossroads at Loughborough Junction; the dark heart of Camberwell on the frontline of a turf war between various competing drugs gangs servicing the local markets in Peckham and Brixton.

I was sixteen or thereabouts and had to go for a filling. For the first time I was given a local anaesthetic in the gums before the drill went in. Now, this wasn't the first filling I'd had and with hindsight I might have inquired why previous tooth doctors felt able to grind away at my pearly whites without a second thought to my state of suffering. In any case when I emerged into the April afternoon the left side of my face was still totally numb. This didn't however stop me from trying to rid my mouth of the taste of dental detritus by pouring a bottle of warm fizzy drink into it. Cue moment of pure physical comedy as I made a futile attempt to keep the liquid from falling out the side of my flaccid mouth onto my new trainers.

Futile as I say, however, my efforts had not gone unnoticed by two gentlemen conducting a no doubt entirely innocent transaction under the cover of a partially derelict railway arch (these were the days when London railways arches were used to store railway equipment or drug dealers, rather than artisan tequila producers ). In the face of their chortling I tried with my unfeeling-flappy-face to explain my temporary palsy, to no effect but to appear even more sub-normal than before. I gave up and had the ignominious experience of being offered a pity rate on whatever happy pills these two noble souls were about to unleash on the borough. I passed, and scampered back up towards Red Post Hill and the safety of East Dulwich.    

Southwark's Northern region extends from Elephant and Castle in the West out as far as Rotherhithe and Surrey quays in the East. At the centre of this near five mile stretch of riverside real estate lies London Bridge and the area encompassing Borough market and Southwark cathedral. This is the original Olde Southwark, of the bishops prison, the clink, the black friars and the Winchester Geese; of dozens of coaching inns lining the high street, and of course the famous bridge itself, its Medieval predecessor the site of spiked heads of executed criminals and several multi-storey houses along its length. The present bridge dates from the 1970s and replaced the one that was bought by Missourian entrepreneur Robert P. McCulloch in 1968. The area has seen more change over the last two decades than it probably has in the preceding two centuries, and is for me paradigmatic of the becoming non-place of London, a city of transients, where no-one really lives and for even born and bred locals like me the experience of being there seems to have lost all intelligibility.

If the transformation of London bridge into a non-place has particular emotional resonance for me that may be because I have so much personal history bound up there. I have worked and played, lived, loved and lost within that small enclave. But this history and its sudden impossibility is perhaps the signal experience of a becoming non-place, since now I find I can no longer memorialise, nor take stock of the passing time. The places and the faces are no longer recognisable and do not seem to recognise each other. Ironically this transition coincides with London Bridge having become a "destination" and place to have "experiences"; which is to say it has entered fully into the network of consumer and tourist and thus no longer caters for those who linger, let alone those who dwell.

 

"The general de-temporalization leads to the disappearance of temporal sections and caesurae, the thresholds and transitions which create meaning. The feeling that time passes more quickly now than before is also due to the absence of a pronounced articulation of time. This feeling is intensified by the fact that events follow each other in quick succession without leaving lasting traces, without becoming experiences. Because of the missing gravitation, things are encountered only fleetingly. Nothing carries weight".

- Byung-Chul Han - The Scent of Time

Borough market is one of the great old markets of London alongside Smithfields and Spitalfields, and was once a place where people actually came routinely to buy produce - mostly wholesale - though in the late 90s the market was rebranded for retail, selling high-end meat, fish, cheese and speciality produce. It was expensive but it still felt like a place you might go to buy quality fresh food, perhaps for a special occasion - my mother and I still maintain this tradition buying our cold meat and cheese there before every Christmas. Until recently the surrounding area, however, still had a somewhat grimy, vaguely Dickensian edge to it. The backstreets running West of Borough High street were a mixture of Georgian terraces, derelict warehouses and the crisscrossing of overhead railway lines that ran out in three directions from the station.

The rhythmic thumping of trains passing across the viaducts above the market are on my playlist for classic London soundscape. The old London Bridge mainline station was on a huge raised platform of arches with road tunnels running beneath, in-between which were a number of longstanding shops and attractions, not least the London Dungeon. Whatever they used to pump into that place to give it that musty old smell would leak out into those tunnels, making them a less than salubrious place to be after dark. On a sweltering night in the summer of 2001 two men died beneath the railway arches there after consuming a lethal combination of drugs and alcohol at the SE1 Nightclub.

The London Dungeon, part of a chain of cheap thrills, historically inaccurate horror based attractions, was based beneath the station from the mid-1970s to 2013. Most of it was rather lame waxworks exhibits themed around things like water torture, garrotting and the black death. The Jack the Ripper section - where you were led from crime-scene to crime-scene as if investigating the murders yourself - used a lot more historical documents, including photographs of the victims. In the darkness, surrounded by the Victorian brickwork of the railway arches, the mocked up Whitechapel streets seemed pretty convincing, as was the piped voiceover reading police reports of the discovery of Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman as a spotlight picked out a partially clothed female form slumped in the doorway.

I remember finding that stuff really quite disturbing, much more so than the depictions of Sweeney Todd or ridiculous looking fake medieval torture instruments. I was 14 when I first went there and remember jokingly asking for a Whisky from the fast food kiosk at the end. I've never liked drama shows that made extreme violence and murder of women into their standard plot device, and I think my experience of the London Dungeon might have played a part in that. My mum always refused to take me there - in the end I went with my Godfather - she would say that they made into entertainment things which were still happening in parts of the world. As I got older I came to agree with her and wouldn't recommend a visit at its current location in County Hall. I still associate Tooley street with that smell, with dark alcoves and grim discoveries.

Now it's all gone, even the roads that ran beneath the station which I would frequently traverse on my way between my student halls and the Absolutely Starving cafe to pick up a bacon baguette. The new incarnation of London bridge station has smashed through most of the old railway arches and replaced them with modern supports which has allowed this huge airy space to appear where before there was a network of occluded passages, walkways and covered streets. Now, it's all bright and shiny and smells of disinfectant and fast food. A transparent space, just like the Crystal Palace. I was once slapped by a girl in the bowels of London Bridge Station. Now that place is gone too, and with it the reminder of the lesson the slap taught me.  

 

"Without the monumental illusion before the eyes of the living, history would be a mere abstraction. The social space bristles with monuments - imposing stone buildings, discreet mud shrines - which may not be directly functional but give every individual the justified feeling that, for the most part, they pre-existed him and will survive him. Strangely, it is a set of breaks and discontinuities in space that expresses continuity in time". 

Marc Augé - Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity (1995)

Let us unto the stews! And what stews did Southwark once have! Not quite as legendary as the houses of ill repute that Shakespeare's prince Hal would visit on Cheapside, but the sex workers of Olde Southwark have left their mark in the poignant space of Crossbones Graveyard and garden of remembrance on Redcross Way, a dank unprepossessing street that also features the wonderful Boot and Flogger wine bar and, ironically, the Most Precious Blood Catholic Church. The graveyard is a paupers graveyard, and during the Medieval period was unconsecrated ground. The women who worked in the area were known as the Winchester Geese as they were granted a licence by the Bishop of Winchester, who held jurisdiction over what was then something of a lawless area, known as much for its bear baiting and theatres as its brothels. Today the patch of land holds a number of memorials created by the Friends of Crossbones to the "outcast dead" buried there, and is also the site of monthly ceremonies of remembrance and an annual Halloween festival presided over by the poet and playwright John Constable, whose Southwark Mysteries cycle of poems did much to publicise the existence and importance of the site. It is one of the few places of ritual and remembrance to remain in the area. A place where the deep history of London still lives through the people who come together to remember and memorialise.

I described the Shard of Glass in an essay on this site in 2019 as equal parts corporate and military architecture, like a watchtower standing in the Green Zone of an occupied territory. The anomic corporate space and identikit retail experience, the sense of being at the intersection of any number of anonymous capital flows; the tower's smooth glass exterior perfectly allegorizes the faceless world of price signals and an international class who are at home everywhere and no-where on the upper levels of the Crystal Palace, far above the captured city and its bewildered population, staring into the screens of their phones.

I mistakenly compared the giant spire-like construction to a Cathedral consecrated to global finance. Now, this might be true from the perspective of the power of the Qatari royal family who effectively own the thing, but as a metaphor it falls down precisely on the point made by Marc Augé in that the Shard, despite its vast size is no monument, nor does it introduce a discontinuity into space that allows the marking of historical time. It is, just as I said in 2019 just the most recent iteration of that model of total transparency and fluid modernity that characterises the paradigm of the Crystal Palace. It doesn't so much dominate the area as thoroughly consume it, undermining the distinction between inside and outside, drawing everything into its orbit. It's also a giant spectacle that invites professional narcissists to visit and snap a pouting selfie on one of the upper levels. This touristic ephemerality can be seen all over the market and the riverside as businesses and the local council turn every possible corner into an opportunity for spectacle and consumption, not least consumption of the self.  As a result of the swarms of tourists dumping food waste the lovely garden surrounding the market side of Southward Cathedral has been closed to the public.

 Since the Shard's construction and the completion of the newly transparent station, the collapse of the 'anthropological place' that was London Bridge has only continued at pace. The emptiness and non-relational quality of that building has seeped into the general experience of the area as a whole. The addition of pop-up street food and tent bar shanty villages like Flat Iron Square, Vinegar Yard, and a little further inland Mercato Metropolitano, have only added to the feeling of a superficial pan-international sludge of spectacle and non-place entertainment clogging up the area. This is what it means when a place becomes a "destination" where people anticipate viewing themselves having experiences which are only marked by the selfie or the video taken on the ever present camera eye of mobile phones.

There are still some little havens of genuine life such as the living community at Crossbones Graveyard, and there is also the Old Operating Theatre housed at the top of the tower of the 18th century church of old St Thomas' hospital where my mum now volunteers. Some still hidden gems like the Boot and Flogger or the Horseshoe Inn remain, but for how long? The latest venture to open is Borough Yards, which opens up yet more of the copious railway arches near the market to yet more chain food outlets and designer clothes stores. Walking through there a few weeks ago I found myself lost and unable to navigate my way through. The artifice of the construction job had, like the Shard and the station, rendered transparent and continuous an area that was formerly full of light and shade, that contained old monumental architecture, some in decay, some not, but it was a place that existed in time. Now it is little more than a hellscape of cleaned up brickwork that leads nowhere and turns everyone who enters into a tourist observing themselves in the endless walls of sheet glass.

The story of London Bridge over the last twenty years is the story of London, of its Disneyfication, its selling off and succumbing to plague tourism, the wilful destruction of its liveable environment and heritage, and its conversion into a vast space of permanent transience that is always busy but no-one seems to stick around. A non-anthropological space as Augé would put it; a non-place, where it is no longer possible to create a form-of-life.

The Other Side of Hauntology: Land and the Impotentiality of the Origin

1).

In a recent BBC radio documentary, Jonathan Freedland described the experience of the decade immediately after the fall of the Berlin Wall as like a “holiday from history”. That is, of course, for us in the West. The 90s undoubtedly have a far darker significance for the peoples of the former Yugoslavia and Ruanda, where two separate instances of genocide during the decade confirms with Hegel - contra the West’s sabbatical from temporality - that post-Soviet history was to remain a slaughter bench. It was particularly interesting to recall how much of the news media which dominated the period displayed a marked shift from stories about external threats to those of a parochial, even frivolous nature. Clinton’s affairs, the sagas of princess Diana, the OJ Simpson trial; all became emblematic for a time when fears of impending catastrophe seemed to have faded from public consciousness. It was also the era of Brit-pop, which cultural critic Mark Fisher characterised (quite rightly I think) as the last hurrah for a form of white male braggadocio harking back to the most asinine rock of the 1970s. As we know, the spell was violently broken by the jets crashing into the World Trade Center on September 11^th 2001.

The End of History has itself long since come to an end. What I’m going to call the ‘hauntological thesis’ – itself originally germinated in the aftermath of the fall of Soviet Communism – came to prominence as a way of looking at popular culture just at the moment when its core assumptions were beginning to collapse; after 9/11 but before the financial crash of the late 2000s. Two recent additions to the hauntological cannon have got me thinking again about this subject and in particular a recent branch of the field which takes the British countryside and our relationship to the land as its point of departure.

Hauntology - to recap -  is generally understood to involve the present being “haunted” by the ghosts of the past; more specifically the unrealised or erased potential of certain cultural and political movements. The idea of “lost futures” is frequently cited in this context and has had special resonance in the era of neoliberalism, when until recently the idea of an alternative to global capitalist hegemony seemed unthinkable. And it’s on account of this political aspect that hauntology has found an audience among the Left, especially so as it was Jacques Derrida’s mid 90s text Spectres of Marx (1993) which coined the term. It is not without significance, I think, that the original source of this idea was birthed in an atmosphere of defeat for the Left and against the backdrop of all that End of History rhetoric that accompanied the fall of the Berlin Wall. It's perhaps worth bearing in mind Nietzsche's remarks on ressentiment, especially considering the standard formulation of hauntology as to do with lost "progressive" futures. Every lost future is, after all, an Eden from the perspective of the vanquished.

Mark Fisher

The late Mark Fisher did more than most to popularise the idea of hauntology as a way of interrogating late capitalist culture. In Ghosts of My Life (2014) he offers up a general working definition which construes hauntology as “the agency of the virtual, with the spectre understood not as anything supernatural, but as that which acts without (physically) existing". I find this a particularly useful starting point since it makes no claim as to the political character of the spectres we are meant to be haunted by. After all, why must the lost futures haunting the present necessarily be progressive? Was not the Europe of the 1920s and 30s haunted more by the spectre of fascism than any other political possibility? And could one not argue that today, as the global political consensus continues to collapse, that it is spectres from both the Right and Left which are stalking us?

Paul Wright’s recent “archival remix” Arcadia (2018) uses old film footage and contemporary music to weave a complex narrative about the history of the British countryside and the communities that have worked and made their lives on the land. It's a quintessentially hauntological work in the way it dramatises time itself as shot through with a strange kind of folk enchantment and spectral possibility. Mixing clips from Cecil Hepworth's 1903 short film adaptation of Alice in Wonderland with footage of unexplained and often bizarre local British festivities amplifies this sense of time being “out of joint” (to appropriate the famous line from Hamlet which Derrida dwelt upon so assiduously in Spectres of Marx). The prologue, which shows a dark static silhouette of a person passing across a field, functions as the opening and interpretive key. A voice tells us "the truth is in the soil".  Similarly, Stephen Prince’s A Year in the Country: Wandering Through Spectral Fields (2018) - which brings together several dozen articles from the blog of that name – deals in what the author calls “otherly pastoralism” and like Arcadia, draws on the tradition of folk horror to bring to light the more arcane and weird side of the British countryside and its traditions. Continuing Mark Fisher's cultural explorations, the book also functions as a fine resource on a host of out-there, underground and avant-garde music, TV and films.

2).

Both these projects take the land as an originary and near primordial source for their encounters with British culture. Characteristically, for hauntological works, they instantiate a feeling of melancholia towards elements of the past; a sense of what Fisher describes as a "failed mourning", an inability to rid oneself of the lost objects of Britain's history. For Stephen Prince this takes the form of an antiquarian and mildly scientific exploration of the fringes of esoteric folk culture and its latter-day revivalists. The cultural objects he draws in upon are imbued with that hint of queasiness and dread that sometimes accompanied old children's TV programs or public information broadcasts. Small boys falling into tanks of farm slurry to the sound of grim electronic effects; the psychedelic messages hidden in episodes of the Magic Roundabout; that sort of thing.

The unifying trait drawing together much of the writing featured in the book is the short lived and liminal iteration of modernism that flourished in the UK from the end of the war up to the early 1970s. It's an era which, for better or worse, has come to be associated with the tenure of Tony Ben as the Minister for Technology and later Secretary of State for industry. Jonathan Meades once dedicated an episode of his Even Further Abroad (1997) to this period which saw him travelling the country measuring various brutalist industrial edifices with a mock-up instrument he called a Benometer. Much of the music covered by Prince could be described as being haunted by the spectres of that era, and in particular the form of electronic music that came to be associated with the BBC Radiophonic Workshop.

Modern acts like those on the Ghost Box or Polytechnic Youth labels hark back to the aesthetics of that time, to its sense of educational paternalism and possibility, to its wilful embrace of the avant-garde and rejection of mediocrity. All a far cry from the commercialism and dead-end monotony that characterises much of the BBC’s output and a good deal of electronic music today.  A Year in the Country have themselves put out a series of themed compilations of hauntologically inclined electronic music, featuring the likes of Howlround and Listening Center. The titles include: The Forest / The Wald, The Restless Field, and The Corn Mother. 

The esotericism hinted at by these titles is echoed throughout Paul Wright's superb Arcadia which is broken up into several chapters with titles like Into the Wild, Winter Solstice and Blood in the Soil. As you would expect with a film made up of collaged archive footage, the narrative is imposed and at times quite resolutely didactic; as when images of an Edenic nudist colony are juxtaposed with early footage of what could be the London rush hour circa 1920. The message from the outset - emphasised by the opening chapter title Amnesia - is that something has been lost, forgotten, and we are still living with the consequences. One of the things which makes Arcadia such a treat is the way it weaves together a loose historical narrative about the Industrialisation (and later financialisation) of Britain while at the same time hinting at stranger and more occult goings on beneath the surface; something reaching back into the deep history of the British Isles.

Scenes of local festivities which fill the chapter titled Folk are beguiling equally for their uncanny quality and for the way they depict a world now almost entirely lost. The clip of an "ancient Cornish custom" in St Ives from 1921 could be an outtake from The Wicker Man. And the scenes in Lerwick (Shetlands) of locals dressed as walruses creeping up the beach is remarkably surreal, belying the stereotype of dull, humourless islanders. The pace quickens as we enter the 20th century and the chapter titled The Turning. It's a time of enclosures (ancient and new), of industrialisation, intensive farming and pesticides. In a clip we see 17th century True Leveller Gerard Winstanley's commune routed off the land they have tilled by soldiers of Cromwell's New Model Army. The consequences are made clear in the subsequent chapter, Blood in the Soil. We're on the ground with fox hunters thundering across fields, the land quaking as hooves and dogs tear through hedges and woods. We see accidents on huge industrial farms and we see the country poor, no longer able to support themselves and considered a blight by those seeking to maintain an idyllic image of the countryside.

But we also see the rise of the worker's movement in Britain and the sense of solidarity between workers across town and country. The film's depiction of deindustrialisation and the neoliberal take-over strikes a grim note; "the end of everything", as one unseen voice whispers near the film's conclusion. But it's not all gloom. Wright repeatedly returns to a lovely visual metaphor in the growth of rhizomes and fungi, shown here in old footage, sped up under high magnification; always growing beneath the surface; finding new pathways and forging new networks; awaiting the moment when green shoots will rise up to meet the new dawn. The film ends with scenes of fresh green growth, hard shoots breaking through concrete, the dead rising again (no seriously) and a female voice:  "The past is gone. The future is unwritten". It's an ending full of messianic and salvific promise. The truth is in the land.

3).

While Wright's film stages a constant dialogue between town and country, highlighting the evolving nature of that distinction, Stephen Prince’s A Year in the Country deploys a more straight forward separation. In one of the early chapters the author evokes an important orientating distinction between popular and folk music. The latter, he claims, citing the music journalist Rob Young, is to do with the Volk in the Germanic sense of being to do with the wood, the wild, and resolutely opposed to the settled urban environment in which we find both the populous - the mass of people - and pop music. Pop music in contrast to folk (or volkish music) is entertainment for the masses and concomitant with mass socialisation, cultural homogenisation, consensus and levelling. Furthermore, the importance of the relationship of the volk to the land sets up a normative criterion which valorises organically rooted, historically authentic forms of life and traditions. Prince is at pains however to note that this does not constitute setting up an absolute dichotomy between an evil urban/mass/pop culture and a good country/local/folk culture. In my estimation, reading through the many short essays and reviews in the collection, this distinction is the basic orientation in a way not mirrored in Arcadia. In the film, the dialectic between town and country is depicted almost as a pact of mutual ruin. The alienation of people from the land is echoed by their alienation from each other in atomised urban conurbations.

A comparison might be made between these projects and the work of film maker Patrick Keiller or the writer Iain Sinclair. Both take the lived environment (and by association the land itself) as an object of historically mediated intensities. Both of them deal in what Sinclair has termed "occluded histories", using ideas from psychogeography to unearth lost pathways and forgotten stories in the countryside and urban environment. The difference for me between their work and hauntology is in the genuine sense of loss that pervades many of their reflections on the past. Their work of cultural memory does not admit the sort of potentially redemptive quality that the hauntological thesis maintains. It's not for nothing that Iain Sinclair's recent book is titled The Last London (2017) and laments the city's transformation, wrought under the twin banners of the 2012 Olympics and totalised gentrification, which have left it unnavigable and unwilling to yield up its stories of the past; history teetering on the edge of erasure.

Taking the land itself as a possible redemptive source of “lost futures”, as it seems both Paul Wright and Stephen Prince do in their projects, is a rather different approach compared to Mark Fisher’s pop cultural sifting or the psychogeography of Sinclair and Keiller. And since contemplation of the historical sense of the land is inextricable from that land’s relationship with historical peoples, we must acknowledge that along with restitution of the memory of lost traditions and communities, come more problematic ideas such as nativity, authenticity, and the modern obsession with culture and identity.

The problem of the land - to use an insight of Martin Heidegger's - is the problem of what constitutes a proper dwelling for humanity in the technological age. There is something of the 'Fourfold' in all these hauntological reflections on the land; that obscure Heideggerian notion consisting of the relation between earth, sky, gods and mortals. And just as Heidegger saw that the threat held over our relation to the land consists in our forgetting to preserve the essential relation between things as they appear in the fourfold, so too does Paul Wright's film begin with that shadow of a slumbering figure passing across a field; an image of originary forgetfulness. Nevertheless, Arcadia ends with images of rebirth, literally rising out of the ground. The land as an "origin", as a site of inexhaustible primordial potentiality, is never used up, never truly lost; though it can be forgotten. The origin is not something in the past but something that is always carried with us, as a wellspring of renewal.

 

Image from Kevin Brownlow and Andrew Mollo's Winstanley (1975)

The last article in Stephen Prince's collection draws a pertinent comparison between Ben Wheatley's film A Field in England (2013) and Kevin Brownlow and Andrew Mollo's biopic of Gerrard Winstanley (1975), clips of which appear in Arcadia. Beyond the visual similarities of these two films - both set during the period of the English Civil war and bearing that era's distinctive apparel; both shot in black and white - Prince notes the thematic congruence which locates both in the English countryside. Winstanley, with his short-lived commune of True Levellers up on St George's hill at Weybridge (now the site of exclusive estates and a golf club) and the characters in Wheatley's film, who do battle with powerful cosmic forces within the confines of an ordinary English field. Prince takes the comparison further and draws inferences from the signal event of the Miner Strike in the mid-1980s - the battle of Orgreave - dubbed the English Civil War Pt2 by artist Jeremy Deller. Here again, in a field in England, the forces of a progressive, socially minded and communal nation came up against their opposite in the privileged classes of the emerging economy, of financialisation, of Thatcher and Reaganomics. In each case the land plays the role of a site of struggle; whether as the True Levellers "common treasury for all, both rich and poor" or as the locus of eschatological powers in Ben Wheatley's film (a messianic timbre which Arcadia shares). Finally, the land is both the source of the miner’s labour and the site of their defining battle. In each case the ultimate meaning of the land as origin is struggle.

4).

“To be free is not simply to have the power to do this or that thing, nor is it simply to have the power to refuse to do this or that thing. To be free is (...) to be capable of one's own impotentiality, to be in relation to one's own privation. This is why freedom is freedom for both good and evil”. (Giorgio Agamben (1999) – Potentialities: Collected Essays in Philosophy, Stanford University Press, Stanford California, pg183)

By taking the land as an ontic category, as a thing that might be contested, or owned, or carved up, we unavoidably run into the problems of nativity and historical peoples; unavoidably evoke parochialism, borders and territories. In doing so we are thrown back onto the plain of the subject of rights and claims for recognition. This has understandably been the strategy of post-colonialism in its approach to the experiences of first-peoples around the world and the defence of their traditions and historical land rights, which were often trampled upon during Europe’s colonial period. However, in non-colonised countries like Britain, that approach risks leading to a racialised discourse of so-called "white culture", and British indigenous identities. It’s difficult to argue that rallying round arcane customs and experiences of country life, in opposition to urban cosmopolitanism, is a good starting point for so-called “progressive futures”; at least insofar as those futures are meant to aim at a degree of political universalism fit for 21^st century Britain. It’s noticeable how so much of the past recalled by writers on hauntology (with some notable exceptions) is of a pale monocultural type, pre mass immigration and exemplifying the kind of exclusory strategies that only during the last few decades (indeed during the neoliberal period) have been eroded.

There are perhaps other ways we might conceive of the idea of the land as an Origin. Withdrawal to the land, to the Origin, is an archetypal form of renewal, not only in a geographical sense, but also through the utilisation of memory. Machiavelli wrote of the historical memory of the founding of every state - its origin in that first breaking of the soil - as an eternal point of renewal that periodically needs to be evoked to shake up institutions and breathe new life into the citizenry. He had in mind Livy's political mythology of the founding of Rome, when Romulus carved out the sacred boundary of his new city (the pomerium) using a plough. Re-founding has forever had connotations of renewal linked to a return to the grounding principles upon which things stand. This idea is more political ontology than history. 

The land is also a site of refuge which gives us the time to remember. Montag's flight out of the city in Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 leads to an encounter with memory in a forest, by the light of a camp fire. Former academics, turned into living books after the destruction of their libraries, are ready to re-found civilisation after the coming nuclear apocalypse. "We're going to meet a lot of lonely people in the next week and the next month and the next year. And when they ask us what we're doing, you can say, We're remembering. That's where we'll win out in the long run". The retreat to the land is a retreat to memory.

The parable-like ending to Bradbury's book brings together elements of radical eschatological renewal and a concern with technology; with humanity’s fate in the face of the annihilating power of that technology. From this perspective the return in-land, this anabasis, is a reversal of the historical movement which opened human existence into new spaces and new global political constellations over the last half millennium; from the turn to maritime existence during the early modern period, through the nuclear age of aeronautics and space exploration, up to the contemporary colonisation of the digital, virtual realm. "Run to the hills" is in fact a statement of metaphysics. And as metaphysics, it is potentially open to far less “progressive” readings, as it is contested across the political spectrum.

The German jurist Carl Schmitt wrote extensively and attributed great weight to the distinction between terrestrial and maritime cultures, viewing it as politically decisive to the march of technology and key to understanding conflicts such as those between Britain and the European powers in the 19th and 20th centuries and the Cold War. Interestingly in his war-time text Land and Sea: A World Historical meditation (1942), he attributes special significance to the transformation he identifies in England during the 16th and 17th centuries when "the children of the Lion" opted to become "children of the sea". England - Schmitt claims - was unique in achieving a "planetary spatial revolution", in displacing itself away from the land and deciding for a maritime existence. In doing so it opened the way not only for Britain’s global empire, but for the Industrial Revolution itself. In a fashion analogous to Heidegger's critique of technology, Schmitt links together in a fundamental way, the technological fate of a people with the "space" it occupies. "The human receives a particular historical consciousness from his "space" [lebensraum], which is subjected to great historical transformations. The variegated forms of life correspond to equally differentiated spaces".

Battle Of Trafalgar by Louis Philippe Crepin

By the time of Schmitt's post-war Dialogue on New Space (1958) the conflict between the two nuclear powers of Russia and the United States - each standing on one side of the Land/Sea distinction - had grown due to "unencumbered technology" to enclose the fate of the whole planet. And yet despite humanity penetrating the cosmos and harnessing the power of the atom, Schmitt sees only a repetition and intensification of the elementary separation which occurred when England abandoned the land and decided for the sea. He has Mr. Altmann (a character meant to ventriloquise Schmitt's historical sense) state: "For me, the human is a son of the earth, and so he shall remain as long as he remains human". Today's challenge - according to the same character is "The binding of unencumbered technology ... It is from that direction that I hear the call, the challenge of the present".

5).

The global historical movement sketched here by Schmitt is a dark one, pregnant with the revolutionary conservatism that characterises his work. The land is where we find "house and property, marriage, family and hereditary right, all that is built upon the foundations of a terrestrial mode of being...". For the people of a maritime culture we instead find the ship, drifting from place to place upon the shifting and uncertain surface of the sea. Against the repose of the house, the restlessness of an uprooted technological existence, constantly alienating itself from its origin. These are classical conservative statements of a type which radicalise a volkish perspective on terrestrial existence and the signal importance of land for specific historical peoples. What is important for us in all this is how - like the hauntological sources we've been considering - Schmitt frames the land as a primordial Origin out of which and in which resides the fate of humanity as a whole. 

Schmitt's reflections on "the challenge of technology" and the question of taming it within the horizons of a "terrestrial existence" are pertinent for us in the 21st century, when new communications technologies are threatening to collapse human relationships altogether into the virtual world, and rampant capitalism continues to drive the environment toward catastrophe. But we should stop short of endorsing his conservative metaphysical reading of the originary quality of the land, which in Schmitt’s account is shot through with barely veiled Germanic chauvinism and a kulturkritik which pre-figures today’s far-right attacks on both Muslims and non-Europeans as culturally incompatible with Western society.

In Arcadia, clips from the Winstanley film offer up a different notion of the relationship between humans and the land, one that does not tie it to either a historical people or a specific tradition. This is in stark contrast to nationalist (or worse, National Socialist) ideas which connect the land (or soil, boden) to the historical consciousness of particular peoples, construed in either cultural or racial terms. Even after the holocaust, at the time Schmitt was writing his dialogue on New Space, he retained his anti-Semitism and like Heidegger never successfully disentangled his gloomy political ontology from the fate of particular nations and peoples, namely the Germans. His grand theories remained parochial and chauvinistic even when addressing “world historical movements”.

In concluding this brief analysis, we should recognise that the originary quality of the land is not politically specific, not open solely to ideas of progressive political and social renewal. As a metaphysical operator rooted in the deepest experience of our species with its environment, it is open to all, and its ultimate meaning remains contested and perhaps ultimately undecidable.

The antidote to much of the rightwing interpretation (and the risk of nostalgia, parochialism, anachronism) is to recognise the Origin not as locatable to any particular time or place, but as that eternal wellspring of human potentiality which is always carried with us. The Origin is not an ontic but an ontological category and hauntology is the study of that spectre which haunts humanity in its form of Being-Historical. If so, what hauntology calls the spectre is in fact the other side of that original potentiality, the side that doesn’t fall into non-being but remains active beneath the surface, like the rhizomes in Arcadia. Borrowing a term from Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben, we might call this other side the “impotential” of the origin. The impotential is the revenant, the left over that remains after the potency of the origin has passed into historical actuality and been extinguished. It’s that part of every potentiality that withholds itself and never fully passes into the actual, maintaining its being within the realm of the virtual.

Is not every possible future a spectre from the side of its impotentiality; its capacity not-to-be? If so, then the term “lost futures” must be a misnomer. Rather than falling into non-being, the potentiality implicit in any political moment at its point of defeat goes underground, withdrawing into the impotential; into its capacity not-to-be. This capacity is itself a positive value which resides in all political life, awaiting its moment to return. It is from out of this positive quality of the virtual, from the other side of the possible, that the spectre calls to us, haunting the present with its never exhausted, but endlessly deferred promise of other possible worlds and forms-of-life.