Nothing Beside Remains

A version of this paper was read aboard a coach, while returning from a municipal landfill site in Dunbar. Global Shadow, Local Mist was organized by Laura Yiule and funded by Collective Gallery, Edinburgh. Thanks to them, to the other speakers, and to all those that made the journey.

I have been asked to say a few words on the idea of waste to pose some questions rather than provide some neat answers. Which is just as well, since I’d like to suggest to you that one of the peculiar characteristics of things that we call ‘waste’ is their strange suggestibility, their enigmatic power to pose questions whose attending answers, in the end, feel rather excessive, superfluous, or insufficient. Before I say how and why I think waste has that power, a poem:

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said – ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert … near them on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away’.– [1]

Starting a talk by reading Shelley’s ‘Ozymandias’ while returning from a municipal landfill might seem to you perversely and retroactively Romantic, a bit like your Uncle Fred bellowing out an operatic aria at a warehouse party; cranky, maybe a bit deluded, certainly out of touch with the expectations of these ‘modern’ times. Isn’t the imagined antique land described in Shelley’s poem and the ruinous fragments that emerge from its textual sands, just so far removed from the putridly modern reality of Dunbar’s wastes, that we can learn nothing from their comparison? Since, isn’t this literary romanticism exactly the opposite to the engaged, responsible, and sober critique that is inculcated by enlightened travellers in more contemporary lands, who urge us to face the wastes that usher in The Anthropocene and spell the immanence of our curious End Times? These rhetorical questions lead to and imply other injunctions –forget the waste of the past because we need to speak more urgently about the waste of the present – forget Ozymandias and his mighty works, what about the creative destruction of neoliberal capitalism and its ‘ruins of modernity’? Forget literary art and its ‘traditions’, we need to speak about the current wastes of melting polar ice caps, nuclear fall out, the Great Pacific garbage patch, and the many other toxic vortices of waste production and environmental depletion.

This obligation and desire to think about the ‘now’ of waste fascinates me. It fascinates me because it imagines that humans – and lets be specific, especially the kind of humans who ride about on buses on a Sunday afternoon, thinking about the meaning of waste – can gift time and, with it, meaning to the things that are abandoned, cast out, redundant, or without use, making waste the evidence of a much wider social, environmental, and historical ‘moment’. By this circular logic, it’s up to us – whoever we take ourselves to be – to decide how waste matters, what it signifies, and what it means for us. This, I think, is an ethics that habours an anthropocentric, overdetermined, and therefore deeply problematic understanding of how objects are felt and described – where ‘we’ must decide how ‘they’, non-human things, come to ‘mean’, and how ‘they’ relate to pasts, presents, and futures.

So, even as objects of waste suggest temporal end times and thus the immanent intractability of our interests and designs, the urgency to attend to waste as being especially present, modern, or contemporary, begs the question – present, modern, and contemporary to what and for whom? I want to probe how waste comes to be resonant with significance, where a cigarette end on the street can conjure thoughts of lips and lungs and the precarious employment contracts of road-sweepers, the fabled powers of the PR industry, your schoolyard smoking spot and the late-night pleasures of other events, fantasies, memories, in ways that a yet-to-be smoked cigarette cannot.

I take this resonant potential to appear not in what ‘exists’ – in the here and now of my encounters with the cigarette end – but in what is conspicuously absent. This, I believe, is not something I necessarily create or construct, but is an emergent property of the time made and taken from waste things. The way this thing that gets called ‘waste’ gains a rather magic, telling and evidential status, this power to both denote and connote a multitude of interpretations about the world, is not simply gained because it has entered into a municipal waste-management system, but because it has entered a peculiar form of time, one that emerges out of its status as a ‘has-been’, taken as a remainder or trace of action whose relation to the past is suspended in its presence, making its presence, its actual being or ‘reality’, shot through with an absence that animates it as a thing that has come to be by having been. Asking what waste is for me is, therefore, to ask how its relation to ‘someone’ has been done and undone over time.

If this sounds like nothing more than an entertaining riddle it may be because I want to wrestle the experience of making and encountering waste away from those who would make facts through things as if our relations with the material world was a mere matter of accurate description or methodological technique. And I want to come to terms with the unstable vitality of things which work upon, with and against our bodies, a universe of matter that swirls in and through us – composed as we are of molecular things and influenced by the microbial communities in our guts; co-dependent as we are on the wheels of this bus going round and round upon the road’s asphalt surface, the automatic traffic lights turning from red to green… ; hence, the many different objects collected and stored in a landfill site are, in my view, a fantastic assemblage of things where the projective time of human action has been placed in weird abeyance.

This is why it seems slightly ridiculous to me to speak of ‘modern’ or ‘contemporary’ wastes as a privileged place to think about ‘who we are’, since this seems to me to follow a logic that is somehow cut adrift not only from the material constitution of how that ‘we’ is composed, but also cut adrift from the combined and convolved tenses that constitute how an experience with waste necessarily implies what a thing did and was and is and does. This rather more complicated conception of waste skews and queers how we experience the world of things. Robert Smithson expressed this well when he wrote that “buildings don’t fall into ruin after they are built but rather rise into ruin before they are built. This anti-romantic mise-en-scene suggests the discredited idea of time and many other ‘out of date’ things”[2] Of course, Smithson is right that this is an anti-romantic mise-en-scene, it sees the temporal end of a relationship with the building before the first kiss of construction; but he is wrong in the suggestion that his concept of ruins-in-reverse is anti-Romantic, since the notion of waste acting across times and places and tenses is precisely how it reaches us as such, as waste, and especially in works typically associated with literary Romanticism like… ‘Ozymandias’.

And so we return to Shelley’s transcript and to ‘Ozymandias’ as a poem of distinct utility. It describes how objects of ruin and waste make strange monuments. Does the ruinous state of the Ozymandias statue remain a testimony to the king’s “Works” or a refutation of them? Do these ‘Works’ contain their destruction as ruins in reverse? Answers to these questions are not hard to come by. So much depends upon how we read the word “remains”. As both substantive and verb we can understand “remains” to describe the “lone and level sands” and the statue itself. Such duplicity is not really ‘understanding’ in the fixed and eternal sense of the term, but a speculation that produces other questions; what remains beside the remains? Does nothing, sheer absence, ‘exist’ next to the shattered, material remainders of Ozymandias? Does what remains of the statue represent an outpost of last resistance against the corrosive demands of time, or do the sands show the eroded future of those stones? This indicates to me some of the temporal enigmas of waste – a time of false endings that renders waste both a monument to consummation and transience, a utopic trace that demonstrates the transference of information across centuries, and the dystopic dissolution of all things into the condition of dust, sand, and other inchoate particles that tell of nothing, an absolute void.

If we find things in the landfill that ‘speak’ or ‘tell’ of the work of others, whether the sculpture’s art or the despot’s rule, then I’d only like to encourage you to use the opportunity to answer back to things with a set of questions: what kind of time is made and taken from things that are discarded? Do you feel novel or new? Does this thing emerge from the black hole of the past into the luminous clarity of the contemporary? Or are we witnessing something neither present nor absent, original nor ancient, but something that hovers in-between a set of questions and the many answers that can be made through things.

Further Reading

Chapman, John. “‘Rubbish Dumps’ or ‘Places of Deposition’? Neolithic and Copper Age Settlements in Central and Eastern Europe.” In Neolithic Orkney in its European Context. Edited by Anna Richie, 347–362. Cambridge: McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, 2000.

Hell, Julia., and Andreas Schönle, ed. Ruins of Modernity. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2010.

Latour, Bruno. We Have Never Been Modern. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1993.

Rathje, William. “The Archaeology of Us.” In Encyclopaedia Britannica’s Yearbook of Science and the Future: 1997. Edited by Charles Ciegelski, 158–177. New York: Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1996.

—., and Cullen Murphy. Rubbish! The Archaeology of Garbage. New York: HarperCollins, 1992.

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Poems of Shelley Volume 2: 1817–19, ed. Kelvin Everest and Geoffrey Matthews. Harlow: Pearson, 2000.

Smithson, Robert. Complete Writings of Robert Smithson. Edited by Jack Flam. Berkeley: California UP, 1996.


[1] Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ozymandias,” in The Poems of Shelley Volume 2: 1817–19, ed. Kelvin Everest and Geoffrey Matthews (Harlow: Pearson, 2000), 2:310–311.

[2] Robert Smithson, ‘A Tour of the Monuments of Passaic, New Jersey’, in Robert Smithson: The Collected Writings, p. 72

The ‘Introduction’ of *Waste: A Philosophy of Things* Available Here

WasteWith the official UK release of Waste: A Philosophy of Things on 22nd May 2014, Bloomsbury have supplied a preview to give you an idea of the book’s ambitions. You can read the Introduction here.


About Why are people so interested in what they and others throw away? This book shows how this interest in what we discard is far from new — it is integral to how we make, build and describe our lived environment. As this wide-ranging new study reveals, waste has been a polarizing topic for millennia and has been treated as a rich resource by artists, writers, philosophers and architects. Drawing on the works of Giorgio Agamben, T.S. Eliot, Jacques Derrida, Martin Heidegger, James Joyce, Bruno Latour and many others, Waste: A Philosophy of Things investigates the complexities of waste in sculpture, literature and architecture. It traces a new philosophy of things from the ancient to the modern and will be of interest to those working in cultural and literary studies, archaeology, architecture and continental philosophy.


“This book will convince you that our most complex contemporary ideas about time are at work in the concept of waste. It draws its temporal concepts from many places, from art and literature, philosophy and cultural theory, narrative and the theory of narrative to think about the time of things – things we discard, things we used to use, things we collect, things that fall into ruin, and things that hold the future within them. It animates the theory of things and makes something beautiful out of waste.” –  Mark Currie, Professor of Contemporary Literature, School of English and Drama, Queen Mary, University of London, UK

“If the primary achievement of recent civilization is to produce unprecedented heaps of garbage, what does this tell us about that civilization? In his pleasantly lucid prose style, Will Viney answers this question by providing an ontology, a sociology, and even an art criticism of waste, with special attention to the writings of T.S. Eliot and James Joyce and the visual art of Cornelia Parker and Mark Dion.” –  Graham Harman, Distinguished University Professor, American University in Cairo

– See more at:“This book will convince you that our most complex contemporary ideas about time are at work in the concept of waste. It draws its temporal concepts from many places, from art and literature, philosophy and cultural theory, narrative and the theory of narrative to think about the time of things – things we discard, things we used to use, things we collect, things that fall into ruin, and things that hold the future within them. It animates the theory of things and makes something beautiful out of waste.” –  Mark Currie, Professor of Contemporary Literature, School of English and Drama, Queen Mary, University of London, UK

Reviews “This book will convince you that our most complex contemporary ideas about time are at work in the concept of waste. It draws its temporal concepts from many places, from art and literature, philosophy and cultural theory, narrative and the theory of narrative to think about the time of things – things we discard, things we used to use, things we collect, things that fall into ruin, and things that hold the future within them. It animates the theory of things and makes something beautiful out of waste.” –  Mark Currie, Professor of Contemporary Literature, School of English and Drama, Queen Mary, University of London, UK

“If the primary achievement of recent civilization is to produce unprecedented heaps of garbage, what does this tell us about that civilization? In his pleasantly lucid prose style, Will Viney answers this question by providing an ontology, a sociology, and even an art criticism of waste, with special attention to the writings of T.S. Eliot and James Joyce and the visual art of Cornelia Parker and Mark Dion.” –  Graham Harman, Distinguished University Professor, American University in Cairo

Why are people so interested in what they and others throw away? This book shows how this interest in what we discard is far from new — it is integral to how we make, build and describe our lived environment. As this wide-ranging new study reveals, waste has been a polarizing topic for millennia and has been treated as a rich resource by artists, writers, philosophers and architects. Drawing on the works of Giorgio Agamben, T.S. Eliot, Jacques Derrida, Martin Heidegger, James Joyce, Bruno Latour and many others, Waste: A Philosophy of Things investigates the complexities of waste in sculpture, literature and architecture. It traces a new philosophy of things from the ancient to the modern and will be of interest to those working in cultural and literary studies, archaeology, architecture and continental philosophy.

Table Of Contents

List of Illustrations
1. Introduction
Part I: Collecting Waste
2. Narrating the Event of Waste
3. Archaeologies of Waste
Part II: Reading Waste
4. The Poetic Economies of T. S. Eliot
5. Reading Joycean Disjecta
Part III: Building Ruins
6. Ruins Past
7. Ruins of the Future
8. Conclusion


“This book will convince you that our most complex contemporary ideas about time are at work in the concept of waste. It draws its temporal concepts from many places, from art and literature, philosophy and cultural theory, narrative and the theory of narrative to think about the time of things – things we discard, things we used to use, things we collect, things that fall into ruin, and things that hold the future within them. It animates the theory of things and makes something beautiful out of waste.” –  Mark Currie, Professor of Contemporary Literature, School of English and Drama, Queen Mary, University of London, UK“If the primary achievement of recent civilization is to produce unprecedented heaps of garbage, what does this tell us about that civilization? In his pleasantly lucid prose style, Will Viney answers this question by providing an ontology, a sociology, and even an art criticism of waste, with special attention to the writings of T.S. Eliot and James Joyce and the visual art of Cornelia Parker and Mark Dion.” –  Graham Harman, Distinguished University Professor, American University in Cairo

– See more at:

Waste: A Philosophy of Things, Now Available on Amazon

Though it won’t be available for some months – provisionally scheduled for release in May 2014 – my first book, Waste: A Philosophy of Things, is now listed on Amazon for pre-order. The book will be published by Bloomsbury Academic at a price that will put it beyond the reach of most individuals but with the Waste-A Philosophy of Thingshope that institutions may buy enough copies for a paperback edition to be financially viable. Having worked in academic publishing, helping others to get their work published, I am delighted that I’ll be putting out something of my own. And, though my attention is now directed to other projects, my work on waste is still a source of interest to me and, I hope, not yet redundant by all that has been written and published on the subject since I concluded my research.

Things are changing in publishing and, though I am interested in open culture and, to an extent, the open source publishing models pioneered online, I am still convinced that traditional, hardcopy formats (alongside digital formats), established on flexible but globally structured editorial, publicity and marketing relations, along with the modest kinds of innovation that Bloomsbury are strong on, is a better option for me, at this stage, and for this particular project. If that sounds like I have ethical issues with the academic publishing industry as a whole, well, I do, but this is a book that requires all the support of an established and well-run press of which Bloomsbury is certainly an example.

The cover image is taken sometime in 1888, I think, during the Tower’s construction. I am particularly interested in monuments as waste or as immanent objects of waste, and the temporality of this is explored in the book’s final chapters. It is not the case that all monuments ruin in the same way nor do they always resemble ruins in their construction, but the sight and site of a building being made makes use as well as future ruin possible. It is the relationship between use and waste, use as waste, use making waste, that has captivated me and made this book project so unexpectedly relevant to my current research into the use of twins in contemporary science. More on that elsewhere, for now, I’m looking to topping off the almost-not-quite-yetness of Waste, with the index and final proofs not yet ready.

Waste Effects – Table of Contents

As a quick way of navigating this site I thought it might be helpful to upload my table contents and provide links. These are not verbatim extracts but versions or papers that have a close correspondence to the final text. And there are lots of other incidental posts on this site, which closely relate to the subject of waste, that have not made it into the final draft. Now that this project is almost complete, the work in progress found here will be left up as a record of the various iterations it went through before being handed in, together, as my PhD thesis.


Chapter 1. Introduction
– Use-time and the End of Ends
– Waste-time and the End of the End
– Epic Wastes: “Nothing will come of nothing”
Sovereign Wastes: Unproductive and Uninhabited
– For a Temporal Poetics of Waste
– The Beginning of the End


Chapter 2. Narrating the Event of Waste
Interrupting Waste
Continuities of Waste
Narrating The Event of Waste in the Work of Cornelia Parker

Chapter 3. Archaeologies of Waste
Gathering Waste
– The Contingencies of Narrating Waste
– Anthropologies of Waste: Collecting Culture, Collecting Time
– Archives and the Afterlife of Collections
– Waste Remains, Dust Dissolves


Chapter 4. The Poetic Economies of T. S. Eliot
Make it Waste
– Bringing the Waste Land to Order
– Allusion, Intertexuality and Manuscript Drafts

Chapter 5. Reading Joycean Disjecta
Waste Words and Throwaways
– A Language of Flotsam and Jetsam
– Narrating the Place of Textual Waste
– Waste in Progress
– Eliot and Joyce: Writing into Disappearance


Chapter 6. Ruins Past
– The Temporality of Use
The Temporality of Ruins
– Ruins and the Past

Chapter 7. Ruins of the Future
Apocalypse, Then
– The Ozymandias Complex
– Encountering Last Things
– Concluding with Ruins

‘Unproductive and Uninhabited’: Wastes of Place and Time

A version of this paper was given at the Rubbish Symposium, held on 30th July 2011 at Birkbeck College, University of London.

Part of my aim with this paper is to suggest that the topic of waste and the things we call waste should be treated expansively. The logically excessive, the semantically superfluous should, I think, assist our exploration of what waste is, rather than be treated as obstacles to overcome. I’m keen to avoid the denigrated and trashy sense of ‘mere’ waste and I want, instead, to tune into the fundamental and formative importance of waste in giving measure to our lives.

I must admit that this paper is born out a frustration with how the topic of waste seems to me to have become rather limited, closed down by a kind of discursive echolalia; I’d like to criticise a set of concepts or ways of thinking about discarded things that to me just don’t seem quite adequate. Chief among these, and most recurrent in recent writings on the subject of rubbish, is the regurgitated mantra that waste is “matter is out place”, a definition first given by Lord Palmerston in the mid-nineteenth century and incubated by the British anthropologist Mary Douglas, in her book Purity and Danger.

Douglas’ book is about purity, hygiene and notions of the dirty, and these important concepts have since migrated into more general understandings of rubbish in the social sciences and humanities. I prefer to use the word waste to describe the things that have, for whatever reason, been leftover from use or for which use has been precluded. My preference serves certain rhyming and rhythmic purposes but ‘waste’ also seems the only word capable of resounding beyond the echo chamber that I think academic understandings of rubbish have entered into.

For Douglas dirt is a spatial problem, a question of not what stuff is but where it is. It is a definition that is an outcome of spatial constructivism, of how we organise our environment. “Dirt”, writes Douglas, “is the by-product of a systematic ordering and classification of matter, in so far as ordering involves rejecting inappropriate elements.”[1]  Rejecting things brings order. Displacing things is a sign of order taking place. Dirt is only dirty in certain places, when it is out of its correct position. Just as faeces, for example, is considered dirty when it is in our kitchens but not when it is in our bodies, so it is that our classification of waste depends on the location of objects. Originally published in 1966 and in print ever since, Douglas’ intuition about finding order by rejecting stuff has led to a large body of work that has defined waste in similar terms. Waste forms a denigrated, subordinate position within a spatial taxonomy dominated by binaries – clean and dirty, wanted and rejected, inside and outside. Waste is always to be found on side of the subordinate pole of these binaries; founded on a spatial distribution of things, it is our necessary negative in the attempt to order our surroundings.[2] The subtext to all this is that waste is a bad thing, a thing to be avoided.

Here are just a few examples, all taken from recent publications, that show Douglas’ theory seeping into more general discussions and definitions of waste.

John Scanlan, having cited Douglas, concludes that,

“daily acts of cleaning, scrubbing and concealing that we routinely indulge in conspire to remove the dirt, to hold the garbaging of the self at bay, and to put some order over our affairs, our bodies (and so on), we must recognize the symbolism of garbage is perversely found in its opposite of order and cleanliness, in the objects and arrangements that temporarily conceal it […]”[3]

Gillian Whiteley:

“All dirt is relative. Clearly, ‘matter out of place’ is ‘trash’ in one diverse modality of living – and treasure – or matter in place ­– in a different interlinked, coeval one.”[4]

Sophie Gee:

“Waste, even if it does not putrefy, is abject because it is characterized by misplaced, animating excess […] Waste is a form of pollution, marked as such by having participated in a process; that process is one wherein substance stops being acceptable or even valuable and becomes unwanted or taboo. This is important, because as Mary Douglas pointed out in Purity and Danger, pollution exists when a substance has crossed a border and become threatening to the system to which it now, improperly, belongs.”[5]

I’d like to summarise this confluence between dirt and a more general definition of waste in this way: the will-to-order, to which waste plays a malleable and objective antagonist, makes explicit the connection between the legibility of refuse and our acts of refusal. These are, I admit, definitions of waste that makes a lot of sense for those preoccupied with mobile, urban or bodily wastes and their method of disposal. But I have one or two conjectures that should caution against this too friendly elision between Douglas’ theory of dirt and its application to the concept of waste.

Not all waste is dirty, it not always dangerous, contagious or abject. A sense of contagion might be just one among many reasons for disposing something, but in my view it is not a necessary condition of waste. When I finish reading a newspaper I might throw it out, not because it is filthy nor because I consider it a threat to my sense of propriety, but because I do not, will not or cannot read it any longer. Indeed, this newspaper might well hang about my flat for months prior to me throwing it in the bin. I can think of it as rubbish long before I put it ‘in’ or ‘out’ of one place or another.

Secondly, and related to my first point, it should be noted that we recognise waste everywhere and not just in the places where we think it ‘should not’ be. We can find rubbish in the gutter, in the bin, on the living room floor, anywhere, everywhere; it is not territorially discrete, indeed, it is often felt to exceed any one place. Within the idea that waste is “matter out of place” lies the problematic suggestion that place is always bounded, discrete or delimited, and that place and matter are somehow separable. It is, I think, this separation of matter from place that makes the ‘matter-out-of-place-paradigm’ particularly unhelpful.

The idea that objects of waste are relatively small things contained within relatively large places can be challenged from a variety of angles – not least the way in which we use the word ‘waste’ to describe places. The earliest recorded uses of the word ‘waste’ invariably accounted for an enormous and empty sense of territorial separation, a depopulated landscape. As the OED describes, waste can mean an “uninhabited […] and uncultivated country; a wild and desolate region, a desert, [a] wilderness”.[6] The early uses of the word reflects its Latinate etymology: we take ‘waste’ from vastus, giving waste the same Latin root as the word ‘vast’ and meaning spaces that are void, immense or enormous – waste, in this light, is already a matter of place, overwhelming the spatial borders or boundaries we hope to set for it. Wastelands, wild and desolate regions – places are and become waste. In these situations, the presence of waste is not defined by its location as such, but a capacity to give co-ordinates, to be that place rather than be passive thing to be moved from one position to another.

As you might have guessed, the idea that waste is “matter out of place” strikes me as a little too tactile, hand-held, conservative; it loses sight, I think, of the vast and epic nature of rubbish that I have just hinted at. Douglas’ terms might be useful for describing moments when waste represents a resistance to my drive to cleanse and purify my environment, but deficient when considering the broader philosophical, temporal and theological dimensions of obsolete things.

What we might call the spatial bias of contemporary theories of waste confuses the crucial influence that time has in manufacturing and organising things. If I discard something it is not simply because I feel compelled to order my environment into hygienic allotments of clean space – I can think of quite a few situations where this is neither practical nor desirable. Waste occurs as I encounter the time of things, their propensity to coincide with my actions and projects, their capacity to be superfluous to those same actions and projects; in short, I think waste makes and gives a measure of time. I hope to expand the notion of waste, then, by considering its temporal effects and, by doing so, consider a few examples when waste is mobilised to mean something quite different to the disgusting, the abject or the dirty.

I think we’re all familiar with how ruination is a popular feature of the apocalyptic imaginary; visions of waste can mark the end of a time, a place or a civilisation. There are so many literary, scriptural, political or cinematic examples of this, I’ve chosen just two of my favourites. I rather like the moment when the two “discarded fathers” of Shakespeare’s King Lear – Lear and the Earl of Gloucester – meet one another on a waste land, the moor that dominates Act 4. During this intense conglomeration of differing wastes, Gloucester hears the now mad King Lear and exclaims, “O ruined nature, this great world / Shall so wear out to naught.”[7] Gloucester sees in Lear’s ruin the end of the natural world, now cursed to decay and dissolve, waste marks an end. Alternatively, consider this extraordinary painting by Joseph Gandy, showing Sir John Soane’s Bank of England in an apocalyptic state of ruination. It was a painting commissioned the same year that work on Soane’s building was completed; this wasted condition provides a means to articulate the building’s finitude, its projected end.

Joseph Gandy, Soane’s Bank of England as a Ruin (1830), John Soane Museum, London

But this end-orientated temporality of waste is actually a little more flexible; it does not simply mark an end to people, places or things. The vast etymology of waste I outlined earlier suggests places felt to be so large, empty or lacking in utility that they bring to bear an immobile, territorial waste out of joint with the time of human activity and proportion. This is matter that has never got going, a waste that stands in advance of our activities, a waste with which to begin.

Consider the Judeo-Christian belief, described in the Book of Genesis, of how the creation and distribution of the earth’s resources was founded upon a formless void. Genesis 1:2 can and often is translated as, “And the earth was waste and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep: and the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.”[8] Variants in translation suggest that the earth was “without form or void”[9] or was “formless and empty”[10] but, semantically and etymologically, all conclude the original state of the earth prior to God’s intervention was one dominated by a vast and uninhabitable conception of waste that medieval uses of the word then tended to uphold: “a wild and desolate region, a desert, [a] wilderness.”

Some of the variation we find in English-language translations of this biblical waste are due to the peculiar and rather idiomatic Hebrew expression, ּובהוּ תהו tohû wābohû, which Judaic scripture employs to describe the condition of the earth in this ambiguous and desolate condition. There remains considerable debate about how to interpret and translate tohû wābohû but, following the work of David Tsumura, we may make the following distinction: tohû means a “desert” or “waste land” and bohû means “empty” or “uninhabited place”. Tsumura concludes that tohû wābohû should be understood as “unproductive and uninhabited”.[11] At the beginning we find an environment separate and distinct from all that is human, at the beginning we find a time that does not produce.

I think we can take something from this rather emphatic, Judeo-Christian view, and find a definition of waste that is not reducible to a particular spatial or physical quality, though these can often be important, and, instead, stress the sense of temporal separation structured by that which is unproductive or uninhabited. Whether it be marking ends or beginnings, the time of waste is a time that separates and divides, it is not the time of our plans, our lives, our ambitions, it is a time beyond our control, it exceeds. For instance, far from being a lowly and despised object, we can reassess the formative role that temporalities of waste play in religious activity. Giorgio Agamben has defined the religious, not as something that binds entities together but as that which maintains a separation between things sacred and profane: “Religion can be defined as that which removes things, places, animals, or people from common use and transfers them to a separate sphere.”[12] Put beyond common use, the reversible condition of waste might be said to fall on the side of the sacred. As Paul tells God’s elect in Corinth, “we are the scum of the earth, the refuse of the world” (1Co 4:13). Before this paper becomes a sermon on the religious significance of waste, I want to stress that not every encounter with waste is a religious one but that waste does have this sense of separation from the time of human use or what I like to call use-time. The tohû wābohû of Genesis, among other things, reflects a vision of matter at a point of absolute separation from the human, a world that falls beyond every possible human project, plan or ambition, unencumbered by the teleological imperatives of human use and command.

Yet, when considered waste, cigarette ends on the street, the oil that gathers on the beach, the stubble left after the harvest, all these things are marked not by their displacement from place or time – I seem to locate these things quite easily –, but they are marked by a separation from the purposive and teleological temporality of human activity. This is the temporal condition of waste, it might be temporary and it is, indeed, reversible. But as waste, having ended or never having fully begun, these are things or places that lack the anticipation of utile and temporal ends, they linger, they remain, they are time’s leftovers.

I’m going to end here – with the suggestion that waste might be quite useful in making time and in keeping time. It’s not just a thing to be shuffled about, in the Punch and Judy show of modern commerce and sociology.

[1] Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concept of Pollution and Taboo (1966; Abingdon: Routledge, 2002), 44. My Italics.

[2] See, for example, Dominique Laporte, History of Shit, trans. Nadia Benabid and Rodolphe el–Khoury (1978; Cambridge, MA: MIT, 2002); Ellen Lupton and J. Abbott Miller, Bathroom, the Kitchen, and the Aesthetics of Waste (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997); William A. Cohen and Ryan Johnson, Filth: Dirt, Disgust, and Modern Life (Minneapolis: Minnesota UP, 2005); Ben Campkin and Rosie Cox (eds.) Dirt: New Geographies of Cleanliness and Contamination (London: I. B. Tauris, 2008)

[3] John Scanlan On Garbage (London: Reaktion, 2005), 43.

[4] Gillian Whiteley, Junk: Art and the Politics of Trash (London: I. B. Tauris, 2011), 24.

[5] Sophie Gee, Making Waste: Leftovers and the Eighteenth-Century Imagination (Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 2010), 9, 10.

[6] The Oxford English Dictionary: Second Edition. 1989.

[7] William Shakespeare, “The Tragedy of King Lear,” in The Norton Shakespeare: Based on the Oxford Edition, eds. Stephen Greenblatt, Walter Cohen, Jean E. Howard and Katherine Eisaman Maus (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1997), F.4.6.130–131.

[8] S. R. Driver, The Book of Genesis (1904; London: Methuen, 1948). Others have “a formless waste”, see E. A. Speiser, The Anchor Bible: Genesis (New York: Doubleday, 1983), 3.

[9] Revised Standard Version

[10] New International Version

[11] David Toshio Tsumura, The Earth and the Waters in Genesis 1 and 2: A Linguistic Investigation (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), 31, 42.

[12] Agamben, Profanations, 74.

The Event of Waste

Waste has often been associated with change of some sort, a change through which things seem to take on different meanings, values or relations over time. This change has been understood physically, relationally or even in the contingent terms of ‘value’. An important consequence of this association between waste and these various forms of change is the tendency to imagine waste as offering a special event through which to understand how objects achieve a change in meaning. In this regard, the change offers a plateau by which to assess not just the subject of waste itself but the ontological status of material things more generally. The transition between different times, between times of use and non-use, value and diminished value, functionality and non-functionality, makes waste a clear example of how things “constitute a key device in helping us recognize historical changes.”[1] Moreover, the event of waste gives witness to how discarded things are temporally and spatially dispersed, that attempts to narrate these events are simultaneously attempts to order, gather and collect things that end and remain.

By lingering beyond an end, by being both a material continuity and a temporal discontinuity, waste invites a quality of retrospection felt to be a function of waste and its cause. Waste becomes a bit like those tyre marks one sees on the surface of a road that tell us of an event that has past, a trace or residue of time to be forensically assessed. And, whether it is ‘commodities’, ‘texts’, ‘things’, ‘architectures’ or ‘environments’ that are under discussion, theorists and philosophers of these entities have frequently understood the advent of waste to provide some kind of event by which to contemplate the stuff these entities are and were. The opportunity to consider what an object does (or can no longer do) and how people use it to make sense of the world, transforms waste objects into polyvalent intermediaries of all manner of ideas, beliefs, stories, and accounts. This study makes the case that all the indices of ‘change’ one might wish to deploy through waste, as well as the narratives that attempt to describe and translate these deployments, must, at some point, be expressed in and through time. To be meaningful these indices must relate to, and therefore inhabit, a temporality of waste replete with affective ends. So, whilst architectural ruins are frequently described in aesthetic, environmental, financial, political or even molecular terms (depending on who or what is doing the describing), the importance of waste-time in announcing these developments remains a common denominator. In order for waste to mean all the things it can mean, a time is produced and the event of this temporal production can be described.

I. Interrupting Waste

There exists a tendency to situate an object of waste somewhere between two extremes: as ‘just a modest thing’ by which to measure some process or change, or more spectacularly, as a site from which to experience a full-blown revelation. The former sees waste as a mere outcome or product of time (its time has ‘run out’, it has ‘had its day’, ‘past it’). The latter elevates waste as the necessary condition for spiritual, artistic and political change – i.e. it helps to form and articulate time itself. The discarded shoes discussed in the last chapter had a denotative and connotative potential that comes to rely on the production of varying temporalities, characterised by an orientation or disorientation to a functioning future. Whenever we assess ideas about waste we should always try and understand how its relationship with time is being represented – is waste passive or active, the product or producer of time? These positions are rarely given such clear expression since they are regularly mixed and muddled, compounding the feeling that waste objects are untimely or without a proper time of their own. But somewhere between the ‘wastes of time’ (time producing waste) and the ‘times of waste’ (waste producing time) lies the notion that the advent of waste is rich with revelation, a thing of pedagogical potential that allows the everyday, the hidden or the unexpected to be suddenly unveiled. Recognising waste is to recognise the events and actions in which things are embroiled; the temporal separation felt between a discarded thing and the activity in which it no longer participates gives a position to assess, discern and narrate how the order of things always depends upon the order of time.

In his introduction to ‘Thing Theory’, Bill Brown suggests how waste objects might participate in a secular revelation of everyday things. The following quotation explains how an interruption to utility might provoke a reconsideration of an object’s meaning:

We begin to confront the thingness of objects when they stop working for us: when the drill breaks, when the car stalls, when the windows get filthy, when their flow within the circuits of production and distribution, consumption and exhibition, has been arrested, however momentarily. The story of objects asserting themselves as things, then, is the story of a changed relation to the human subject and thus the story of how the thing really names less an object than a particular subject-object relation.[2]

Although Brown does not address the condition of waste as such, he does describe how things can suddenly cease to relate to the designs of “the human subject”. In a way that correlates with a movement out of use-time and into a time that no longer concerns our projects and aspirations, Brown suggests that we come to know an object in a new way when we can no longer put it to use. When an object ceases to feel complicit in our tasks, plans or futures, when we are shaken from one collective arrangement with that object and thrust into another, our relation with the thing moves beyond mere use to confront the subject-object relation that has passed. For Brown this permits a confrontation with what he calls “the thingness” of the object, disclosing our compulsion to master and manipulate things, asserting a material presence that is somehow outside our control. By paying attention to Brown’s language, which is replete with ‘flows’ and ‘arrested moments’, one understands that, for him, the advent of waste provokes an odd sort of event, a hesitancy or interruption before the temporal continuum of material things. Through this interruption the agency of objects is contingently revealed; waste exposes a certain state of affairs by casting a “subject-object” relation into the past, into the realm of the no longer. Time, of course, is inscribed within this movement; the object marks the passing of a projective time that has been structured by our use of an object. It shows time to have been within the employment of a project that evolved through an assembly of material actors, actors no longer caught up in that particular collective arrangement. Should we respect the temporality already at work in Brown’s text we might add a slight amendment to his observation, “the thing really names less an object than a particular subject-object relation”, noting how this subject-object relation remains implicit without such interruptions; the event of waste creates retrospection and helps to expose our momentary relations with things, precluding a determined future and enclosing a past.

With a slightly different emphasis on the idea of the commodity, Julian Stallabrass’s discussion of trash leads us into similar territory. Having highlighted how, by manipulating desire, the commodity fetish motivates and intensifies our production of waste, Stallabrass describes how the obsolescence of the commodity endows waste with a peculiar power to disclose reality:

In becoming rubbish the object, stripped of this mystification, gains a doleful truthfulness, as though confessing: it becomes a reminder that commodities, despite all their tricks, are just stuff; little combinations of plastics or metal or paper […] We see them[, the objects,] for the first time with clarity, which is the same as that clearsighted ridicule with which we greet old adverts and the peculiarities and idiosyncrasies of design in old commodities: their arbitrariness and alien nature are suddenly revealed.[3]

Although Brown and Stallabrass argue different points within different critical traditions, they provide the opposing sides of a common coin. For Brown, the snapping tool snaps us out of our phenomenological inattention, where the use of an object blinds us to how things ‘really are/were’. We are rocked out of our habitual relations with objects at the moment when they appear able to impose themselves as independent entities, when they no longer function according to our designs or expectations. For Stallabrass, on the other hand, when objects cease to function they shed their arbitrary, pantomime act as commodities. By becoming waste these objects are released from the straitjacket of the commodity fetish, driven by the predominance of exchange-value, in order to reveal how things ‘really are/were’. In both instances, waste is said to put an end to a time that is ordered by use and replaces it with a convolved, communicative inertia; objects no longer seem to do what they did and yet enjoy an increased propensity to convey this inactivity. No longer active in one kind of future waste seems to animate the time that has passed, punctuating continuity with a material, thingly shape. Yet, by doing so, the event of waste seems to reveal how our experience of time is underwritten by the things that we use, time materialises and is made material through our projects, plans and ambitions. Brown and Stallabrass show that when objects become waste they come to act in unusual ways. However, the meaning of things is not achieved within a temporal vacuum, if the event of waste reveals the peculiarity of objects, then time might be made peculiar too.

Although John Scanlan’s On Garbage provides a somewhat different perspective on the temporality of waste, it ultimately rehearses the conclusions that were drawn by Brown and Stallabrass. Scanlan argues that when something is considered waste it loses all value, it even loses the power to signify: “stripping it of any descriptive characteristics that allows us to individuate it”.[4] It is Scanlan’s emphatic belief that, in becoming a thing of waste, an object loses all distinction other than the distinction that makes it a waste object, “objects of refuse ha[ve] no meaning apart from the negative undifferentiated one that declare[s] their lack of worth ­– the total absence of distinction in the damaged or soiled object”.[5] The waste category behaves as if it were a monolithic eraser of signification or difference. A paradoxical category, Scanlan’s notion of waste makes it at once absolutely undifferentiated and yet profoundly different to everything found extrinsic to it. Regardless of whether we believe that such a notion is even possible, Scanlan’s emphasis on the process of becoming waste is as pronounced as it was in Brown and Stallabrass. Again, much of this is born out of how waste is considered a product of time. “Time”, writes Scanlan, “fundamentally conditions the creation of garbage in that it provides the framework within which things become corruptible and useless.”[6] Time, as a provider of ‘frameworks’, secures distinction for indistinct objects. Regrettably, Scanlan does not supply more in terms what this temporal framework might look like, how well it is constructed or how it might correspond to the objects he describes. Suffice to say, time offers Scanlan some kind of static and unchanging backdrop by which things become articulate.

Whilst waste can be taken to mark a change played out on a temporal stage, it cannot do so passively or without affecting the way this stage is experienced and reproduced. Although time creates waste by tracing and articulating a change in things, should we not ask how waste informs what is meant by time? Since the advent of waste occurs in and through time, it provides us with an event that marks, measures and transforms duration. So, just as it is hard to imagine the decline of Communism without the destruction of the Berlin Wall, the fall of the Roman Empire without the sack of Rome, or even the nuclear disaster at Chernobyl without the ecological and architectural ruination and abandonment that followed, so it is hard to imagine how our experience of time went unchanged by these events. Whilst triumph and catastrophe frequently carry a waste content, it would be wrong to think that the catastrophe begins with an ‘idea’ of an event as an abstract presence or logical mystery. Instead, the catastrophe begins and is maintained by the motion of things through time.

My conception of ‘the event’ is rather different to the radical indeterminacy attributed to events in the writings of Jean-François Lyotard and Alain Badiou. For them, an event is that which lies beyond our comprehension. Lyotard claims that “to encounter an event is like bordering on nothingness” and Badiou similarly argues that the event has no objective existence but only by an “interpretative intervention”.[7] In its unfounded nature as neither reducible to an element nor comprehensible as a sum of its parts, the Badiouian event “departs from the laws of being.”[8] These versions of events have no material form; unrepresentable, ineffable, they cannot be made legible in a story. I maintain that the event requires description to be telling and intelligible, and, whilst Badiou is right to suggest that each event is a fragment of a story with respect to the infinite occurrences that can be associated with that event, processes of concurrent material fragmentation mean that the experience of waste, ruin and other expressions of material exhaust are not just the product of interpretative invention or intervention but are visible, physical traces. It is our intimate use, our knowledge, expectation and skill in dealing with things that makes the temporal separation of waste an event supported by material which persists and lingers, an evident and tangible remainder of past action. This makes what I have loosely called ‘the event of waste’ the observed or assumed transition where a thing falls into the mixed and disorientated time of waste. The articulation and fashioning of time occurs in occasions both routine and utterly unanticipated, things give us the mark and measure of time. If we could simply anesthetise an object in order to study the time it is said to inhabit (or vice versa) it would certainly help us come up with a general theory of waste objects. But to do so would reinforce a Cartesian division between ‘mind’ and ‘matter’ that tends to neglect how the creation of waste does not merely happen in time but is time’s co-creative element. It is clear at this stage that the relay between an object, its status as waste, and the event it is said to represent produces a complex web associations. In this respect, each actor in this triumvirate (object, event, time) should not be made to be a passive intermediary or homogenous substitute for another; each associates and transforms the other. Waste, among other things, transforms time to make the event knowable and available for narration.

Brown in particular, and Stallabrass and Scanlan to a lesser extent, share in a particular philosophical tradition, a philosophy which revels in how time is exposed through things. Martin Heidegger’s analysis of the broken tool – which, according to Graham Harman, provides us with “the greatest moment of twentieth-century philosophy”[9] – serves as an exemplary and influential example of how waste might reinforce an ontology of objects in time. The Heideggerian thesis on the failure of equipment is of great relevance to the idea of waste as an event of conspicuousness, an instant when something previously hidden comes to our attention.

For Heidegger, equipment (Zeug, stuff or paraphernalia[10]) is composed by its “equipmentality”, the contextual references to other things. A single piece of equipment always relates and belongs to a totality of useful things. Equipment, whilst contextually given within the totality of the world, is orientated to and by the workings of outcomes. It should be stressed that Heidegger’s understanding of ‘equipment’ can designate mountains, roller-skates and wild bears, not just the hammers, jugs, or other technologically ‘simple’ entities that he addresses directly. This is important because it takes us beyond Stallabrass’ interest in the ‘commodity’, which appears to limit the concept of waste to things that have entered a particular economic arrangement, and it also takes us beyond the somewhat domestic and familiar objects – which need to produced, distributed, consumed and exhibited ­– that Brown uses as his points of reference. Moreover, Heidegger’s conception of objects amount to a networked totality of equipment or things, and each equipmental entity is related to the world of equipment and applied to particular assignments at certain times. Objects take their definition not from what they are, in some static or ideal condition, but from the “various ways of the ‘in-order-to’, such as serviceability, conduciveness, usability, manipulability.”[11] The ontological status of a particular object depends upon how it is put into the service of our dealings, our concern and the broader totality that Heidegger calls equipment. This projective interaction with things, with its structure of the ‘towards-which’ and the ‘for-which’, enacts the peculiar condition Heidegger terms “readiness-to-hand [Zuhandenheit]”.[12] For Heidegger, this readiness-to-hand is a symptom of a kinetic, assigned and future-orientated manipulation of physical objects. By being caught up in the structure of unfolding work, the presence of the object is cast into the background. We are absorbed in the world of the thing and not the thing itself. As Harman explains, “the more efficiently the tool performs its function, the more it tends to recede from view.”[13] Importantly, objects as equipment are not permanent fixtures but frequently break or go missing. An object can become unusable and, by becoming so, makes conspicuous the contextual relations suspended:

We discover its unusability, however, not by looking at it and establishing its properties, but rather by circumspection of the dealings in which we use it. When its unusability is thus discovered, equipment becomes conspicuous. This conspicuousness presents the ready-to-hand equipment as in a certain un-readiness-to-hand. But this implies that what cannot be used just lies there; it shows itself as an equipmental Thing which looks so and so, and which, in its readiness-to-hand as looking that way, has constantly been present-at-hand too. Pure presence-at-hand announces itself in such equipment, but only to withdraw to the readiness-to-hand of something with which one concerns oneself—that is to say, of the sort of thing we find when we put it back into repair.[14]  

Heidegger is keen to stress that the loss of readiness-to-hand does not become replaced by a pure presence. Instead, presence is announced but restrained by our concern for the thing, through its repair and reassignment. But what if we do not concern ourselves with the broken equipment, what if we do not repair the object or return it into active service? In this regard Heidegger has little to say on the matter of waste, other than that discarded objects cease to become equipment and become ‘equipment’, and, despite this change, remain ready-to-hand. ‘Equipment’ becomes a kind of waste for Heidegger, “in the sense of something which one would like to shove out of the way. But in such a Tendency to shove things aside, the ready-to-hand shows itself as still ready-to-hand”.[15] Contrary to Scanlan, Heidegger believes that objects that no longer relate to our projects and plans maintain some association with their former role as useful things. They become ‘equipment’, conspicuous things thrown into inverted commas, momentarily wrenched from the referential structures that have hitherto secreted them within the service of a particular project. The advent of waste provides an opportunity to reassess these assignments, the event of waste enacts a specific kind of reversal where what was once retiring or implicit has suddenly become explicit. The presence of the object appears between the disappearance of one expression of readiness-to-hand and the appearance of another, and between each expression of readiness-to-hand a break occurs that lights up the thing in question.  This is not to say that the structure of reference had never been comprehended until this moment, but the disruption of the ready-to-hand serves to locate the object in a particular time and space. It caus

a break in those referential contexts which circumspection discovers. Our circumspection comes up against emptiness, and now sees for the first time what it was ready-to-hand for. The environment announces itself afresh. What is thus lit up is not itself just one thing ready-to-hand among others; still less is it something present-at-hand upon which equipment ready-to-hand is somehow founded: it is in the ‘there’ before anyone has observed or ascertained it.[16]

The event of waste is a time-creating phenomenon, announcing a present that was otherwise overwhelmed by the future. The seizure and subsequent revelation of a disrupted contexture denotes the ‘there’ of the object, its particular location in space and time. Bill Brown would have us believe that the failure of equipment merely discloses a particular subject-object relation. Heidegger’s thesis is far more ambitious. The failure of equipment discloses our relation with space, time, or our being-in-the-world. It does not simply reveal how we perceive things in the world: it reveals the projective nature of Da-sein. If equipmentality is embedded within the referential web of the world, then it follows that any interruption to this equipmentality, or attempt to thrust this equipment into inverted commas, must reveal both from what and how this referential web is composed. The advent of waste puts objects at a threshold by which pre-existing structures of meaning are called forth to expose their fragility. For Scanlan on the other hand, the disruption of pre-existing codes means that waste objects somehow fall from referential structures altogether. But in Heidegger’s philosophy of things, the temporality of the broken tool and the event it produces keeps waste from negating meaning. As Heidegger is careful to point out, the interruption to the ready-to-hand is precisely that, an interruption; the object does not simply disappear but it becomes ready-to-hand in a new way.

An undeniable tension has persisted so far in our investigation. Whilst these theories might point to the sensational occurrence where an object of use, function or serviceability is ‘suddenly’ and ‘momentarily’ lit up, what happens when this failure is expected? It might be convenient to speak of ruptures, seizures and so on, especially since these temporal metaphors help us to conceive the dramatic or arresting encounters we might have with waste things and the durations they are said to represent. Indeed, catastrophes and the waste they produce are frequently expressed through this kind of seismic temporal event. And on the occasions where our circumspection does in fact wheel around and focus on the thing that has, until that time, gone unnoticed, it might be useful to think with the terms that Heidegger et al suggests to us. Yet, when I finish reading my newspaper, I probably do not enjoy an encounter with the referential contexture of ‘the world’, and, for the majority of our meetings with waste, we rarely have this momentous sense of event or revelation. We must now consider the occasions when we know full well that waste will be the outcome of our actions; the formative importance of waste, time and their narrative description will remain a pressing concern.

 II. Continuities of Waste 

Until now we have considered a specific kind of waste event, where things suddenly divulge the assignments by which they took their meaning. Time is made by a break, an interruption or conclusion of use; waste creates an event by disrupting the continuity of use-time. But many things take their meaning from being assigned to being broken; their readiness-to-hand is felt through the inevitable sense that this readiness-to-hand is achieved not through the unexpected discontinuity of use but by an anticipated consummation of use-time. Things go to waste; moving, drifting or driving towards an inevitable end. In Heidegger’s writings we saw how using and employing things might cause a form of inattention to the time of things, which provides the conditions of our surprise when they fail. This may well be the case for a great many objects, particularly those things we consider most durable, or for those who like to do their DIY in a wild frenzy. Yet this sense of inattention certainly does not tally with some foreseeable or desirable expressions of waste, to which we will now turn.

Things give, make and take time. An object’s material qualities play a fundamental role in lending duration to our activities, to the perception that some things are more durable than others or are intrinsically transient. Heidegger’s hammering thought experiment supposes that all hammers hammer in the same way over time, until they suddenly break and light up their referential context. But a hammer made of steel can be expected to hammer nails for longer and with different effects than a hammer made of jelly. Hammers will break in different ways according to the nature of their design, the materials and techniques of their manufacture and the sort of hammering they are put to. The circumstances, durations and, of course, the actual nature of the thing being used will alter the ways that waste is felt to occur.

We expect waste to be an outcome and frequently the necessary outcome of a process; things of waste often signify closure, resolution or a termination. Consider the leftovers produced when eating or creating energy. The disposal of a banana skin might be seen as the necessary consequence of eating a banana, carbon dioxide might be said to be one consequence of burning fossil fuels for energy. In this regard, economists speak of ‘externalities’ (often prefixed with the words ‘positive’ or ‘negative’) to describe the expected by-products of a process. Whether for good or for ill, the externality of waste is frequently found at the scene of numerous activities, often playing an integral role in the successful consummation of those processes. The waste products of the human body merely serve as particularly proximate examples of this temporal relation; bodily excretions serve as daily reminders of how our bodies are getting on with things. There are countless other examples of how waste can be anticipated, intended or engineered that rarely bring about the ecstatic character of temporality expressed through Heidegger’s broken tool. Nevertheless, the “towards which” and “for which” that Heidegger argued is the hallmark of readiness-to-hand does not disappear when we anticipate waste; it simply becomes apprehended through its finitude, through the imminent generation of an occasion, an event felt to stand in the future. If an object is said to be ‘towards’ and ‘for’ a particular project, then this object must also participate in shaping how its failure or non-participation is experienced. The deployment of material things and the expectation of waste this deployment anticipates suggests the image of time that is being deployed. When objects are used, and an event of waste is said to mark the cessation of this use, then waste announces itself as an object of time.

We constantly harness the temporal measure that functioning things give us. Use-time is, as we saw in the previous chapter, a time distributed by calculated ends. Whether we drift towards these ends slowly and gently, like the protracted wearing of a door against its hinges, or experience the kind of rapid and visible end when burning wood for fuel, we can narrate the changing potential for a thing to do work and fulfil the projects designated to it. Although advertising slogans might try and convince us otherwise, manufacturers rarely produce or are capable of producing objects that ‘last forever’, we use many objects with their functional and temporal ends mutually supporting each another. Planned obsolescence is the notion that one designs and manufacturers equipment that has a finite use-time, it provides a useful example of how we expect things to waste.[17] The clothing, consumer electronics and motor vehicle industries are often singled out as being those that thrive on so-called ‘death-dating’.[18] But this attitude towards objects, which we expect to break over indeterminate but no less finite durations, mimics a more general relationship we have with the manipulation of things through time. When we acquire a hammer or a mobile phone (by gift or some other means) we expect that its functional life is limited and that it will eventually, despite our best attempts to ensure its long service, cease to operate within our aims and activities. Crucially, waste is not always a leftover of time, a preterite thing of subtle retrospection, but a thing with which to think through the future. We find the tardiness of waste transformed into an object of future memory, employed in what Derrida called the “future anterior” mode.[19] Waste-time operates as a powerful but insubordinate supplement to the time of use; the useful thing will become the waste that is the condition of our using. In this temporal respect, waste does not stand ‘outside’ or ‘external’ to our use of things, as orthodox economics tends to stress. Our care, the attention that we direct towards the thing is equally finite – we are concerned so long as the object operates within our projects and yet we retain understanding of use that makes immanent the time of waste. The rites and rituals of waste disposal, as varied and complex as our treatment of human remains, testify to how we measure the time expected in things according to their relation to the labour of the living.

Since the unexpected, surprising or arresting moment when objects fail to meet our expectations enjoys the drama of the unforeseen, and offers a chance to observe the suspended relations once implicated in an activity, it might be tempting to set this revelatory event against a more pragmatic, predetermined or anticipatory understanding of waste. But to anticipate waste has its own promise of revelation. Finding that one’s hopes or expectations have come to pass, that what once was useful can be made wasteful, can seem to verify all sorts of procedures, beliefs and durations. As we noted at the beginning of this chapter, the advent of waste has the potential to provoke lofty thoughts of the universe, God or the state of human nature, and the anticipation of waste plays an equally significant role in this provocation. Waste can be produced, both entirely unexpectedly and by our most fervent machinations, but the consequences of these events of or encounters with waste meet in how we understand waste objects to communicate what an object is, was and yet might be; their narrative potential. As was elaborated in Chapter 1, discarded objects, those things that no longer relate to our plans and projects, enter a polyvalent and suspended time; deferred, postponed and yet anticipating something else, something more, something yet to come. So although the condition of being waste can taint an object with a tardy sense of ‘already and not yet’, it does so by being available to participate in the fulfilment of time.

So far, I have suggested two rather generic modes by which waste emerges. The first saw the occurrence of waste as something that took us by surprise, revealing the discontinuous time we invest in an object as well as how objects give time to those that it acts with and upon. Time became ecstatic in this case, marking and measuring the transition of things from use into waste, from one collective relation to another, from inattention to concern. The second expression of waste, to be extended and developed in Chapter 7, acknowledges how this passing from use into disuse can also be wholly expected, engineered or observed over a period of time. In the former, the image of time is retrospectively realised; in the latter, the image of time is proleptically maintained. In both cases, the moment that waste is felt to have occurred, its power to articulate a new time or era, can herald the most momentous occasions – such as the arrival of a divine entity, the fall of an empire or the entropic decline of the universe. Of course, the unexpected or discontinuous and the anticipated or continuous effects of waste frequently mix with one another; what is anticipated has surprising effects, what is surprising becomes understood to have been inevitable. Acts of narration play a crucial role in legislating these mixtures, in organising how we articulate, trace and reproduce our judgements about these waste events, their composition, repercussions, and so on. The narrative interpretation of waste reaches across an implicit threshold that divides the time of use and the time of waste, as well as speculating what the object might become. The event – be it in the form of a Heideggerian interruption or a messianic anticipation of a temporal end – renders articulate the delicate division between the time of use and the time of waste. The polyvalent nature of waste’s temporality, harbouring past and future events and which occurs without notice or under the tension of our expectations, will be a recurrent problem throughout the thesis that follows. In chapters 4 and 5 we will see how this temporality of dispersal can displace writing, generating problems of material and semantic closure. In chapters 6 and 7 we will give greater attention to the consequences that the retrospective and anticipatory employment of waste-time has in our experience of architecture. Chapter 7 in particular will explore the future of waste in much greater detail. Throughout these chapters narrative, and the various kinds of scripts that it issues, proves crucial in disseminating the events of waste, shaping and explaining how it is made and how it relates to other times and places. It is narrative that accounts for and legislates between the continuities and discontinuities that we can recognise in waste, its rich mix of interruption and persistence.

[1] Bjørnar Olsen, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects (Lanham, ML: Rowman & Littlefield, 2010), 162.

[2] Bill Brown, Critical Inquiry, 4.

[3] Julian Stallabrass, “Trash,” in The Object Reader, ed. Fiona Candlin and Raiford Guins (London: Routledge, 2009), 416.

[4] John Scanlan, On Garbage, 43.

[5] Scanlan, On Garbage, 107.

[6] Ibid, 37.

[7] Jean-François Lyotard, Peregrinations: Law, Form, Event (New York: Columbia UP, 1988), 18; Alain Badiou, Being and Event, trans. Oliver Feltham (London: Continuum, 2006), 181.

[8] Alain Badiou, Theoretical Writings, trans. Ray Brassier and Alberto Toscano (London: Continuum, 2004), 100

[9] Graham Harman, Heidegger Explained: From Phenomenon to Thing (Chicago: Open Court, 2007), 63.

[10] Martin Heidegger, Being in Time, 97. n.1.

[11] Heidegger, Being in Time, 97.

[12] Heidegger, Being in Time, 98. An implicit version of this readiness-to-hand appeared earlier in Brown’s description of the object that functions, it describes the condition of a functioning thing prior to the revelation of its ‘thingliness’.

[13] Graham Harman, Tool-being: Heidegger and the Metaphysics of Objects (Chicago: Open Court, 2002), 21.

[14] Being in Time, 102–103.

[15] Ibid, 104.

[16] Ibid, 105.

[17] The term ‘planned obsolescence’ has a colourful history; see Bernard London, Ending the Depression Through Planned Obsolescence (1932; Online, 2011), accessed 12th June 2011, Searching for a solution to the economic depression of the 1920s and 1930s, London was an early advocate of planned obsolescence as a policy for growth and economic recovery; Vance Packard, The Waste Makers (New York: Pocket Books, 1961), gives a staunch critique of London’s analysis and the phenomena of planned obsolescence more generally.

[18] See Giles Slade, Made to Break: Technology and Obsolescence in America (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2006).

[19] Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1976; Baltimore: John Hopkins UP, 1997), 5.

On the Etymologies of Waste

It is worth recalling the etymology of the word ‘waste’ and its relationship to ideas of the divine, the human and the land. We take the word ‘waste’ from vastus, giving it the same Latin root as the word ‘vast’ and meaning a space that is void, immense or enormous. The vast etymology of waste takes in its vacant neighbours, vanus and vaccus, and includes the verb vasto, “to make empty or vacant, to leave unattended or uninhibited, to desert”.[1] Waste is both an a priori emptiness and a thing that has become empty: it is both a pre-exiting desert and a space that was once but is no longer inhabited. It is important to stress the landed nature of this conception of waste as well as its temporal and causal flexibility. The earliest uses of the word invariably denote an enormous and empty sense of a depopulated landscape, “uninhabited (or sparsely inhabited) and uncultivated country; a wild and desolate region, a desert, wilderness.”[2] The Oxford English Dictionary notes that the first recorded use of the word ‘waste’ can be found in the Trinity College Homilies, written in the first half of the twelfth century: “Ac se[ò]en hie henen wendend atlai pai lond unwend and bicam waste, and was roted oueral and swo bicam wildernesse.”[3] It appears that the earliest uses of ‘waste’ describe any large or uninhabited space, spaces where humans had either left uninhabited, literarily land that had “bicam waste” or land where humans could not inhabit such as deserts, seascapes or mountain ranges. Through words like ‘devastation’ we see one concept of waste, as destroyed or depleted material, conjoin with its vast etymological root, a space in which humans cannot or can no longer subsist, a space where their relation to the environment overwhelms utilitarian exchange. What is important is the relationship struck between land and the human capacity to cultivate and make that land a productive place in which to dwell. This landed notion of waste exceeds more modern associations with the commodity form, environmental depletion, financial excess or bodily excreta, carrying with it broader intimations of stewardship, scale, shelter and time. Moreover, imbued in the concept of waste that originates from these Latin and Medieval roots is a problem of waste’s relationship to time, a time codified by how, if and when humans might use something and the apparent emptiness, the ‘nothing’ that characterises all that falls beyond human control. These are spaces that gain definition from the productive time that they cannot perform. Put another way, waste is a condition that which does not coincide with the time of human activity.

Our etymological excursions have led to a somewhat Biblical cause. Waste is not only something created by humans but is something primeval, a condition that occurs prior and in distinction to the human, a condition that separates the sacred and the profane. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, waste forms the condition by which humanity can come to be and take ownership of its environment, it is the condition that precedes a “heaven[ly] benediction”. This is something to which King Lear appears all too aware when, in response to Cordelia’s refusal to accept the gift of his land, he expounds the classical maxim ex nihilo nihil fit, “Nothing will come of nothing” (F.1.1.88). In doing so, he recalls how God’s creation and redistribution of the earth’s resources was founded upon a formless void that is described in the Book of Genesis. Lear’s act of division parallels God’s intervention, both are done in distinction to and against a sense of ‘nothingness’. From what kind of ‘something’ does God create? Many Biblical scholars continue to translate the formless, primeval vacuum that precedes God’s division of earth from sea as a state of waste. Genesis 1:2 can and has been translated, “And the earth was waste and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep: and the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.”[4] Variants suggest that the earth was “without form or void”[5] or was “formless and empty”[6] but, semantically and etymologically, all conclude the original state of the earth prior to God’s intervention was one dominated by the immense and uninhabitable conception of waste that medieval uses of the word upheld: “a wild and desolate region, a desert, wilderness.” This variation is born out of the peculiar and rather idiomatic Hebrew expression, ּובהוּ תהו tohû wābohû, which Judaic scripture describes the condition of the earth in this ambiguous and desolate condition. The expression tohû wābohû is of obscure providence, appearing at just two other occasions in Judaic scripture (the others are Jeremiah 4:23 and Isaiah 34:11, both of which effectively return the earth to Gen 1:2). There remains considerable debate about how to interpret and translate tohû wābohû but, following David Tsumura, we may make the following distinction: tohû means a “desert” or “waste land” and bohû meaning “empty” or “uninhabited place”. Comparing the twenty other occasions that tohû appears in the Old Testament, Tsumura concludes that tohû wābohû should be understood as “unproductive and uninhabited”.[7] For Albert Barnes this amounts to “an absence of all that can furnish or people the land” and Keil and Delitzsch gloss that, “The coming earth was at first waste and desolate, a formless, lifeless mass”.[8] The state of the earth prior to God’s intervention has been considered, therefore, to be one of mingled confusion, a noisy and desolate plane of water that can produce nothing.

[1] See Charles Lewis and Charles Short (eds.) A Latin Dictionary: Founded on Andrews’ Edition of Freund’s Latin Dictionary (1879; Oxford: Clarendon, 1945).

[2] The Oxford English Dictionary: Second Edition. 1989.

[3] Quoted in ibid.

[4] S. R. Driver, The Book of Genesis (1904; London: Methuen, 1948). Others have “a formless waste”, see E. A. Speiser, The Anchor Bible: Genesis (New York: Doubleday, 1983) 3.

[5] Revised Standard Version

[6] New International Version

[7] David Toshio Tsumura, The Earth and the Waters in Genesis 1 and 2: A Linguistic Investigation (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989) 31, 42.

[8] Albert Barnes, Notes on the Bible, Carl Friedrich Keil and Franz Delitzsch, Biblical Commentary on the Old Testament (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1866) vol. 1, 48.

Ruins of the Future – An Extract

An extended version of this post appears in Aesthetic Fatigue: Modernity and the Language of Waste, ed. John Scanlan & J. F. M. Clark (Cambridge Scholars, 2013) pp. 141-162.

If waste is taken to denote change, a coming to be by having been, then the anticipation of ruins mark out the present as the condition of the future. One of the narratological effects of imagining the present in a ruined condition is the strong emphasis that this places on ruins’ relation to the present and the dynamic vigour of ending. As a form of waste, the ruin is both an end and a continuity, both the end to use and the muted remainder of that activity. Whilst future ruins frequently suggest the termination of some time, people or structure, there is a lingering or remaining sense of time, a time that is particular to the condition of being ‘leftover’. This waste-time, which marks the termination of use and its cindering persistence, means that projected ruins represent a disrupted continuation of present events. Projecting ruins discloses the duration and shape of time and dramatises a conflict between material permanence and material transience. This conflict between continuity and cessation makes the ruin an end that remains, an end that is imperfect, unreliable. The ruin marks that sense of termination that has not quite come to its end. I call this temporal unreliability a narratological effect because imagining the ruins of the future gives a means to envision a story that both locates a possible landscape and relates that landscape to present surroundings. This is not only done in order to imagine what the future might look like but, as we shall see throughout this chapter, provides an opportunity to re-examine the present. As Ricoeur writes, “In reading the ending in the beginning and the beginning in the ending, we also learn to read time itself backwards, as the recapitulation of the initial conditions of a course of action in its terminal consequences.”  (1984: 67 – 68). In fiction, film and the painterly arts, the anticipation of a ruinous end is frequently a narratological means by which to return to and make sense of the present; by ‘traveling to the future’ we might make and give meaning to the present.

Still from The Planet of the Apes dir. Franklin J. Schaffner (1968)

When in The Planet of the Apes (1968) Charlton Heston’s character confronts the toppled remnant of The Statue of Liberty, he exclaims, “Oh my God! I’m back. I’m home.”  In the comparative exercise of managing the disrupted continuity of the future ruin, between imaginary times and familiar places, we encounter not only a future in itself but also a future in which the present has been abandoned, cut off, terminated or forsaken. This is the broken continuity, the interrupted endurance that the future ruin offers. The consummation that a ruin might represent does not necessarily become imminent to the present, but ruins are felt to become immanent in present events, thus, we come to see the ruinous potential of things that have not yet been discarded and identify the long held association between ruins and vanitas. It is precisely this uncanny distance, achieved through a sense of arriving at and travelling to the estranged familiar, that gives the future ruin the power to relay the present and the future as an object that persists by passing away.

Confronting the future in ruins is by no means a formulaic exercise. The interpretative gaps that energise the exigency of this form of waste are motivated by the irresolvable questions they raise. Particularly in their painterly and cinematic manifestations, the ruins of the future frequently leave out how or when or for what reason these structures have reached their terminal condition. For instance, in the paintings of Hubert Robert and Joseph Gandy we are given no explicit explanation for why the structures they depict have fallen into ruin; their visual impact plays upon the disjuncture felt between the building existent and the future ruin represented. Robert’s Design for the Grand Gallery in the Louvre and his An Imaginary View of the Ruins of the Grand Gallery in Ruins (see images below), manipulate a dual vision of the future: one image presents a new and ideal view of a Republican art institution, the other represents a more ruinous and terminal condition of this institution. As such, the work has often been read as an ambiguous commentary on France’s new and emerging attitude to the public control of artworks and, by implication, condemns the futility of the Revolution.  For Daniel Brewer, Robert seems to dramatise “the inevitable transience of precisely the institution whose current function is to preserve the artwork from physical [deterioration].” (2008: 192). Furthermore, viewing the images together – as they were at the 1796 salon – emphasises the transition between architectural shelter and exposure, museum and ruin. But the nature of this transition, the causal events by which one moves from one condition to another, is a transition rich in absence and enigma. Time has been accelerated in An Imaginary View, leaving the Louvre at both the end of time and at a place where time seems to have resumed. The inclusion of the Apollo Belvedere, seen in the foreground, is just one indication of the intervening years and the exigent potential of imagining ruins. The statue came to the Louvre with Napoleon a year after Robert pre-emptively included it in this painting.  In this small detail we see how Robert does not simply give an image of his present as ruin, but a particular, albeit elliptical, history by which the future ruin is contextualised. The presence of the Apollo Belvedere is one indication of this causal absence, which the ruins of the future envelop.

Hubert Robert, Design for the Grand Gallery in the Louvre (1796)
Hubert Robert, An Imaginary View of the Grand Gallery in Ruins (1796)

The English parallel to Robert’s work might be found in another double vision of future ruins. Joseph Gandy’s A Vision of Sir John Soane’s Design for the Rotunda of the Bank of England as a Ruin (1798) and Soane’s Bank of England as a Ruin (1830), constitute attempts to imagine ruin in construction, ruin which marks the conception and completion of Soane’s bank. In his painting of 1798 Gandy was commissioned by Soane to project the building into a future state of ruin. Gandy draws directly from the picturesque style of Robert to give the material foundation of the bank a corresponding ruin. The painting’s companion piece, which Brian Lukacher has described as a “Piranesian ruinscape” (2006: 162), was commissioned by Soane when the building of the bank was nearing its completion in 1830.

Joseph Gandy, A Vision of Sir John Soane’s Design for the Rotunda of the Bank of England as a Ruin (1789)
Joseph Gandy, Soane’s Bank of England as a Ruin (1830)

Just as Robert’s images of the Louvre were viewed together to emphasise their chronological yet antagonistic pairing – in which ruin is conceived as the beginning and the end of a creative process – so Gandy’s paintings of the Bank of England were displayed together at the Royal Academy in 1832.  The genesis of Soane’s bank, its design, construction, and eventual use, was surrounded by images of its dissolution; the imagination of its present was permeated by the state of ruin it would fall into. Again, the idea of the ruin is used to fashion the future and narrate the trajectory of built environments. But, to renovate a formulation exercised earlier in this thesis, whilst these images of future ruin invite us to consider the idea of ‘waste’, the events of waste and the particular sequence of events whereby the useful is transformed into the non-useful is a transition frequently left to our imaginations. In the paintings by Joseph Gandy, for instance, a subtle exchange occurs between image and viewer, where the temporal absence implied by the image is shaped by the perspective on and texture of the ruin represented. The abundant vegetation contained in A Vision and the rustic scene occurring within the sanctuary of the rotunda, means that we are led to assume that this future ruin has come about slowly or without catastrophe, left to collapse gently like the ruins of antiquity. In Soane’s Bank of England as a Ruin, on the other hand, with its elevated perspective, the bare and uninhabitable interior, and the confrontational figure in the lower right hand corner, suggests fire, earthquake or holocaust, in short a cataclysmic event that has brought the bank to ruin. In this respect, ruins of the future provide a means to visualise consequences before knowing precisely what their cause might be. They are images of the future that stand prior to our reconstructive acts of narration, yet their ruins shape and inform our interpretative responses. Robert’s and Gandy’s future ruins provide us with objects within incomplete narratives, narratives with absent middles. Whilst suggesting a material continuity between the contemporary and the futural, the future ruin can also appear as cast off from any neat or continuous reconstruction of events.

So far we have considered the narratological effects of the future ruins, but these compensatory acts of narration implicitly search for ends, to the temporal terminus that ruins promise and frustrate. Michel Serres argued that historical thought searches for an impossible zero point in time, “That point inaccessible– it is a point of accumulation; another point always interpolates itself, iteratively, in front of it” (1991: 29). This is because, for Serres, historical thought “seems linear, as if progressional, as if it followed the current of time” (1991: 42). Although Serres is describing the activity of working backwards through time, towards the zero point of an origin, we might take this characterisation of historicism and consider how the future ruin confirms the accumulative, progressional nature of future thinking; that is, the way in which ruins help us to think towards an end. In a way not dissimilar to the ever-receding vanishing point of Robert’s paintings, Serres describes the impossible and ever-receding point of the origin; just as we might think that, finally, we have determined the source we find another, a time yet more remote that frustrates our neat conclusions.  In their capacity to stand as a consummation and continuity of the present, future ruins form part of a visual repertoire of an incomplete or provisional end. This is, as we have noted in previous chapters, a key condition of waste-time. It must suggest both an end and the contingency of that end, a form of material and temporal punctuation; the already-and-not-yet of waste. This makes the ruin, particularly the future ruin, a very odd object for historical contemplation. Historiography, argues Serres, takes for granted a transition from the indeterminate to determinate, “indetermination precedes the determinate” (1991: 45).  That is to say that the historian’s explicatory task is to transform the indeterminate into the knowable, the scripted and the sequential. What, then, is the historical quality of the future ruin? The ruin of the future neither fulfils this trajectory from indeterminacy to determinacy, nor flatly contradicts this progression. As Robert’s works demonstrate, there is an implicit relation between the Louvre represented as a functioning space for the public display of objects, and its consequent condition as a ruin. In one sense the ruin is always that which comes afterwards, it is always the ruin of something. Ruins, then, are the outcome of a linear, progressional transition from use to waste; future ruins are an outcome of the present. On the other hand, they are frequently the outcome of events that we do not witness, the cast offs from a time that is yet to occur. In this respect, the fragile terminus of the future ruin is laid bare; the indeterminate does not necessarily precede the determinate when the future ruin frustrates the continuity of thought between the determinate present and indeterminate future.

The future ruin, then, is an incomplete end achieved by an incomplete transition between now and then. It might fill us with a “sense of ending”, to borrow a famous phrase from Frank Kermode, but it is not quite the end itself. The politically, theologically and philosophically rich gesture of projecting ruins, of prophesying the demise of a building, as well as the people and activities associated with it, depends upon an end that can be experienced, a sense of dénouement that is not absolutely terminal. This is not the apocalypse as such, but an end to be seen, to be retold and represented – it is a telling end. The didactic, moralising potential of the future ruin depends upon its evidential nature.  Kermode writes that, “We project ourselves–a small, humble elect, perhaps–past the End, so as to see the structure whole, a thing we cannot do from our spot of time in the middle” (1967: 8).  Whilst projecting ends might give us a sense of the whole and a position before this time, projecting oneself past the end proves that this is no end at all, but just one step further from the ever-receding zero of the end. Moreover, the future ruin frequently plays upon the fact that ‘the whole’ is not immediately apparent, meaning that the end it is held to represent becomes even more provisional. This is, in part, a consequence of the ‘empty middle’ mentioned earlier, which is the narrative structure of end-orientated things in which an emptiness stands between the now and the then. Kermode links peripeteia, the unexpected and penultimate twist in the plot that motivates a narrative’s finale, to this sense of ending. If peripeteia, by definition, is something we do not expect, then by assimilating the unexpected Kermode argues that we are “enacting that readjustment of expectations which is so notable a feature of naive apocalyptic.”  Imagined ruins, in contrast, do not show us the end of the world or an apocalypse as such, but the end of a temporally co-dependent relation between humans and their architecture. Looking upon images of ruin we might experience a readjustment of expectations – feelings of shock or surprise – and we might even assume the peripeteia whereby structures of use fall into objects of waste, but the relationship between ruinous futures and our narrative responses must traverse the mid-time between the use of the present and waste of the future. The periods of time that ruins seem to call to an end allow us to read ends and beginnings into time; the future ruin, then, performs an important periodising function and represents an ally and an antagonist in our attempts to bring the future to order.

Although these truncated narrative structures might not be the sole domain of the future ruin, the divergence felt between the projective times of use and the slack times of waste exaggerates the terminus that ruins are so frequently held to represent. The comparative relationship between human and architectural time means that the futural dissolution of architecture, far in advance of our own dissolution, confirms the relative endurance associated with buildings and the temporal distance their ruination creates. Indeed, the future ruin depends upon our expectation that the usefulness of a building should outlast the demands of an individual user, intensifying the disparity we feel between the time of buildings and the duration of human life, as well as increasing a building’s propensity to stand for collective use. The sense of the end that the future ruin generates plays upon the way in which buildings are felt to outlast these multiple relationships with individual users, reflecting an accumulation of uses and users.


Full references on request: willviney[at]