Introduction
Cities—which include ‘global cities’ since Saskia Sassen popularised the term in the 1990s: she meant New York, London, and Tokyo, largely on account of their place in international finance—begin to be actively theorised in the nineteenth century. Indeed, poetry, novels, and theoretical writings began to lose their difference and became part of each other with the sense of how much of a challenge the city in modernity was proving to be. Early writers on the city—the subject of Jason Finch’s chapter which follows—include Georg Simmel in Berlin and Patrick Geddes, who developed the word ‘conurbation’ to think how cities mass together to make a single space, and the Chicago School of urban sociologists, such as Louis Wirth. They respond to the different modes of city planning current after Haussmann’s redesigning of Paris: the City Beautiful, the Garden City, the Radiant City, for instance. They respond, too, to the new ways in which the city becomes the active topic of such writers as Parent-Duchatelet, Chadwick, Dickens, Baudelaire, and Zola, and, in the twentieth century, the surrealist writer Louis Aragon, in Paris Peasant (1926), thinking of the disappearance of the nineteenth-century Paris arcades, seeing them—and therefore the city—as ‘true sanctuaries of a cult of the ephemeral’. This indicates several areas of interest: first, the city as always renewing itself in terms of its fashion, so that it gives a new sense of beauty, as itself ephemeral and changing, the ‘marvellous suffusing everyday appearance’, as Aragon says, a phrase which anticipates Carpentier’s definition in his novel The Kingdom of this World of what is now called ‘magic realism’. That changefulness exists despite the sense of the city as the permanent, the unchanging.
The theme passes from Baudelaire to Aragon to Walter Benjamin, whose Arcades Project, given a chapter in Part I, considers nineteenth-century Paris as a heap of fragments which are still there to be read, and to be reclaimed, and concludes his analysis of ‘Paris—the Capital of the Nineteenth-Century’ by thinking of Balzac (1799–1850), the great writer of Paris before Haussmann, referring, just as the bourgeoisie are making their piles of wealth, to ‘the ruins of the bourgeoisie’, and saying that ‘we begin to recognise the monuments of the bourgeoisie as ruins even before they have crumbled’. The meaning of this can be glossed from Marvin Trachtenberg’s book on the Renaissance architect Alberti (1404–1472), Building in Time: From Giotto to Alberti and Modern Oblivion (Yale 2010). Alberti believed in the ideal city, intact, and humanist in inspiration, and observable from a single perspective. Before Alberti, Gothic architects had built slowly, so that no building was ever complete; always in process, different moments overlaid on each other: Trachtenberg calls this ‘building in time’; it corresponds to the idea that a building shows duration. Alberti was the first city planner to want a whole synchronic display of styles at one moment: building outside time, time excluded. The ideal city appears the work of a moment, absolute, commanded into existence, and excluding the idea of ruins. The postmodern building, Robert Venturi’s extension to the National Gallery in London (1991), presents itself as in an ‘ideal’, not real time, as is the case with pastiche. Benjamin’s argument is that the ruin appears despite such an attempt at evading time as an essential within architecture, and the city, whose commodity structure, exhibited in its downtown (display windows, as Benjamin points out in ‘Central Park’ no. 38 (1938), have become part of building facades). Benjamin says that ‘allegorical emblems return as commodities’, meaning that signs of ruin (like the allegorical skull in Renaissance/Baroque paintings) are now the gleaming icons of capitalist modernity, but which are equally, signs of ruin (‘Central Park’, 32a). The city is always incomplete, always in ruins, and that double perception requires, for Benjamin, a focus on ‘the dialectical image’. We remember that in Baudelaire’s ‘The Swan’, discussed in the previous chapter, everything becomes allegory.
In Britain, in the 1960s, an early theorist of the city was H.J. Dyos, whose compilation of chapters The Victorian City (1973), with Michael Wolff, set a standard for empirical readings of what cities are and have been. Here, the attention was both on suburbs, and on industrial cities, and on the new urban poor that had been created by the city and by capitalist industrialisation. Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell, Disraeli, Kingsley, Henry Mayhew, William Booth, founder of the Salvation Army—a vital theme for writers about the working class, including Shaw, and of course Brecht—and Charles Booth, with his surveys of urban poverty in the 1890s, have all given impetus to consideration of what the city means, and entails: much here arises out of Marxist analysis, and the work of Engels. The slums, a nineteenth-century concept, were early defined by the journalist John Hollingshead, writing Ragged London in 1861. Marxist theory about the city has moved from considering its industrial basis, and the concealed and unconcealed poverty which the realist novel opened up, towards thinking, as with Benjamin, of the city as the site of consumption, of commodity fetishism, and of the ‘phantasmagoria’; this makes the city so much an ideological product, preventing people from seeing things as they are, certainly providing a fantasy world, perception of which induces melancholia, or delirium: the city being indeed a delirious space, as with the postmodern architect Rem Koolhaas’s history of Manhattan, Delirious New York (1978). ‘Postmodern’ here exploits the sense that the city has no one entity, nor one history, and abolishes all thought of there being a stable origin to anything: the city is what is made of it, and its ‘bigness’, as Koolhaas describes this in SMLXL (1995), means the defeat of architecture and even town planning as a way of controlling or stabilising people’s lives. The work of Foucault, influential on Richard Sennett, and Henri Lefebvre and Michel de Certeau sees a contest between urban policing surveillance and policing and the construction of ‘space’, and the way that ‘the everyday’ may contest this, or else conform with it. The chapters in this part all look at cities in the light of these different ways of trying to conceptualise what may, after all, not be mapped, not be described nor fully encompassed.
All these, and more topics, are discussed in the chapters which follow: Jason Finch and J. A. Smith giving between them an account of 100 years of urban theory, Smith focussing on Venturi, architect of a kitsch Las Vegas (see also David Spurr’s chapter, later). Ben Moore writes on Benjamin, who is vital for many of the chapters of the book, and Alfie Bown following with an account of the city and everyday life. Both Moore and Bown take Paris as a primary focus, and Paris, as the Introduction has already noted, takes the prime place for defining the city—even if it is not quite a global city in Saskia Sassen’s original sense of that term. Yet it has, uniquely, continued to engender debates, which is one reason why the city, including its capital status in relation to so many French colonies, weaves in and out of many of the chapters ahead.