Preface to Reprint of Place and Placelessness
IT wrote Place and Placelessness at a time when the world presented to me a
simpler aspect than it does now. There was a reason for this. The impacts
of modernism, both architectural and intellectual, were at their height and
a standardised, objective approach was generally considered to be the best
one for the design of social housing, skyscrapers, research projects, and,
indeed, everything. From this lofty perspective, anything historical, local,
or ambiguous was either held to be in need of renewal or considered to be
of secondary importance. There were, however, still a lot of unreconstructed
premodern landscapes and a not inconsiderable number of academics
using well-tried methods to investigate them. The consequence was that
both the academic world and the world of places and landscapes were,
for a few years, marked by striking oppositions. The two cultures. Science
or the Arts. Modernists pitched against traditionalists. Scientific method or
phenomenology. Placelessness and place.
My interest in diverse places derives, | think, from a deep instinct. I have,
for as long as I can remember, taken pleasure in landscapes. It probably
helped to grow up on the Welsh side of the Wye Valley—a part of the world
with spectacular scenery, where views from the bus on the way to school
reached thirty miles to the Black Mountains, and neolithic monuments,
Roman settlements, and medieval castles and churches were part of everyday
life. So also were cottages that had neither plumbing nor electricity, little
farms with sides of bacon hanging in the kitchen, forestry plantations that
were cropped to make pit props for coal mines, and not too far away were
those coal mines in the Forest of Dean and the Welsh Valleys. I played soccer
next to Tintern Abbey and rugby next to the steelworks at Ebbw Vale. The
landscapes I experienced, and the places to which they formed a backdrop.
were worked and used as well as admired for their scenery. Perhaps as an
outcome of these early experiences my appreciation of places is catholic:
I have found few that haven't intrigued me, so when I am asked where my
favourite places are I find it difficult to answer. I have no favourite places, no
examples of best practices. The places that both informed and are illustrated
in Place and Placelessness were not chosen deliberately; they were simply
where I had happened to live or to visit.
The immediate impetus for writing about place arose, however, neither
from this deep instinct nor from my life experiences. It came from the
academic recognition that, while there were many definitions of the discipline of
Geography as the study of place or places, there were almost no discussions
about what ‘place’ means. This omission seemed to be worth exploring.
In the 1970s there were no electronic catalogues or search engines. and
library research began by working through a subject catalogue of file cards.
I immediately discovered that ‘place’ was not identified as a subject: it was
not a category, it had no cards. This made it even more interesting. In the
absence of any obvious alternative I resorted to a method that is more or less
exactly the sort of approach that guarantees rejection for research grants.Preface to Reprint of Place and Placelessness
First, I extracted from my general reading, which included novels, books of
essays, and readings that had been assigned for courses, any mentions of
place that I could find. Then I went to the Geography section of the library
and looked systematically in the index of every book on the shelf for key
words—place, sense of place, genius loci, roots, uprooting, and so on. The
pickings were slim but useful. And I did happen upon a little book by Eric
Dardel, L'Homme et la Terre, published in 1952, which is a phenomenological
account of geographical experience and which provided me with the key for
connecting the concept of place with my own experiences of places and with
phenomenology.
I already had a latent interest in phenomenology, partly because it is
associated with existentialism and the novels of Camus and Sartre had
been part of my general reading, and partly for the perverse academic reason
that it provided philosophical criticisms of the positivistic arguments being
used by those attempting to remake Geography into a science—an idea with
which I disagreed. Phenomenology, I had discovered, provides a rigorous
alternative to scientific method. In combination with Dardel’s arguments,
this reinforced my realisation that both geography and place are, at their core,
phenomena of experience that can best be explicated phenomenologically.
So Place and Placelessness, and the phenomenological approaches it
adopts, had mixed origins, though all of them seemed to stem from my
reaction against what I considered to be the arrogance of modernism and
rationalism. The rather neat binary interpretation of place and placelessness
that followed from this confrontational attitude seemed appropriate at a time
when clean-sweep urban renewal and other-directed commercialism were
actively revising the way landscapes looked. Now, however, this interpretation
appears to me to be too straightforward to provide an adequate account of
place experience. Rootedness in one place, which was still common in the
1960s, has almost everywhere been substituted by a celebration of mobility.
Modernism, with its ordered, futuristic, standardised, monochrome view of
the world, has largely given way to postmodernism, in which uncertainty is
acknowledged and diversity celebrated. The language of the former white,
male, urban renewal culture is obsolete and unacceptable in the multiracial,
gender-balanced, heritage-preservation cultures of the early 2Ist century.
In short, the distinction between place and placelessness is much less obvious
now than it was thirty years ago.
‘Changes in experience of place
In the 1950s and 1960s most of the people in those Welsh villages where I was
growing up had lived there all their lives. Outsiders were few and looked
upon with suspicion; travel was difficult and slow—it took most of a day
to get to London regardless of whether you went by car, bus, or train—so
people did not travel much. In those respects life was not very different from
how it must have been a century or two previously. Subsequently, however,
the local population has been mostly replaced by retirees and by peoplePreface to Reprint of Place and Placelessness
who work in Birmingham, Bristol, and London, cities that are now easily
accessible by motorways. Only a few remain of the local families who have
been here for generations. Little cottages have been reconstructed into houses
with five bedrooms and three bathrooms (one in Catbrook is owned by
Sporty Spice of the Spice Girls). The village schools and shops have closed,
but shopping weekends away in Rome or Barcelona are nothing exceptional.
What has happened, essentially within a single generation, is an almost
complete geographical inversion—there has been a change in preference
from staying put to traveling whenever possible that was coupled with the
replacement of a long-established population. I am part of this inversion
because I moved away, first to London, then to Toronto, and travel frequently
to others cities, countries, and continents. My experience is not unusual. The
combination of increased disposable income, car ownership, expressways,
cheap air travel, international migrations in the hope of earning more
money somewhere else, all reinforced by various forms of instant electronic
communication, has wrought enormous changes in how places are experienced
for almost everyone in almost every part of the world. Latin American
masons build the coastal paths of the Costa Brava, vegetables from Kenya
and Thailand are sold in Britain, South Asians play cricket on the Microsoft
campus in Seattle, electronic products made in China are sold in Wal-Marts
across North America, electronic garbage is exported from North America
to China, and the Internet allows us to arrange cheap holidays in exotic
destinations on the other side of the world at the last minute.
From an economic perspective these changes are said to have compressed
distance and flattened space. As a humanistic geographer I see this rather
differently. For me it is clear that experiences of place have been enormously
broadened and diversified by the compression of space. I understand this
as at least partly a positive change. As far I know, my grandparents spent
most of their lives within a radius of a few miles, presumably as a function of
necessity rather than choice because travel was difficult. This was how most
people had come to know places throughout human history, and it is a type
of experience that informs widely held ideas about home, about having roots
and somewhere fixed and familiar to come from and where you can return.
Such focused experience has many wonderful qualities, which is probably
why it is a powerful element in almost every culture. It also has problems,
which I mention in Place and Placelessness in terms of the drudgery of
seeing the same people and doing the same things day in and day out. I have
subsequently realised that the problems go much deeper than drudgery.
There is little that is wonderful about home for those who spend most days
wondering how to get enough money to buy food and pay the rent, or who
are victims of domestic violence. Nor is it wonderful when a deep association
with place mutates into exclusionary attitudes that reveal themselves in
segregation, or, at their extreme, in the violent practices of ethnic cleansing
(Relph, 1997). A strong sense of place based on narrow geographical expe-
rience is not all sweetness and light: it has a dark side.