by Michela Rosso
Deserti americani, Reyner Banham, Einaudi, Torino 2007 (pp. 212, € 19,00)
What is an architectural historian doing
in the middle of the Mojave Desert? Here,
on the border between California and
Nevada, the interstate highways
constitute the only urban fabric and
human presence is indicated by the odd
fuel pump and a couple of seedy motels,
plus a road sign giving drivers the useful
information: “Kelso 34 miles, no service
station. Next service station 68 miles.”
Driving a V8 and wearing a dirty old
crumpled Stetson, Reyner Banham was
travelling Interstate 15 between Los
Angeles and Las Vegas, heading for sin
city. It was February 1968, and like much
of his generation Banham was a fan of
pop culture, captivated by the flashing
neon lights and host of placards for
saloons and casinos in the world capital
of lapsed morals that originated as a
water hole on the Old Spanish Trail in the
early 19th century. On the outskirts of
Baker, a town with few attractions on the
Barstow-Las Vegas route, he was almost
forced to turn off when entranced by an
atmosphere of dusty exoticism. This
landscape was so different from his
previous experiences that it made a
lasting impression on him, and he soon
became a desert devotee. The valleys
crossed by Interstate 15 are on average
25 km wide, and the incommensurable
spaces could not be more different from
the universe filled with mildew and moors
of his childhood spent in Norfolk.
There, in the Mojave Desert, crossed by
the insignificant stream of the same
name, Banham received his baptism of
the desert, a cinematographic space
even before films were invented and a
favourite location of directors and writers.
Many science fiction images originated
there and it is where the first UFO
sightings occurred and the first atomic
bombs were detonated. The Kelso Depot
lies a few miles to the south. This water
supply station, built by the Union Pacific
Railway in Spanish colonial style, offered
an excellent opportunity to study the
relationship between man and the arid
environment.
This apparently untouched, almost lunar
environment also provides material for
scholars. Empty wells, abandoned
mines, railway architecture, service
stations, hotels and inns – like the
Furnace Creek Inn, a few miles west of
the famous Zabriskie Point, in Death
Valley, surrounded by a palm grove that
gives it the natural appearance of a
Beverly Hills garden. Built on the
terracing of the old borax mines (a soft
white crystal used to manufacture soap
and detergents), it is one of the many tiny
indications of man’s passage in this place
that is apparently so far from everything.
The inn is a sign of the recent tourism
made possible by cars, but also of the
decline of a once flourishing mining
industry. These tiny marks of civilisation
capture the traveller’s interest: a parked
trailer, tyre tracks in the sand and
electricity pylons. The words “The desert
is where God is and men are not,” mean
little to Banham, who is more intent on
understanding what man has to do with
the existence of the desert.
The desert has also been the imaginary
location of Utopia and some of its most
radical versions. It was in the Arizona
Desert that two architects, Frank Lloyd
Wright and Paolo Soleri, arrived at
virtually opposite results after finding
something very close to a blank sheet on
which to trace a new beginning and fully
express their fantasies of communities
that were devoid of prejudice and the
oppression of land ownership.
Banham was conscious of the cultural
baggage that he carried with him across
a totally foreign territory, but was always
shielded from clichés. Thanks to his very
lucid eye, Banham has managed in this
book to correct some assumptions on
the American desert and to explode
some of its most persistent myths. He is
clearly concerned about how excessive
processes to turn the habitat into a
museum might trigger a Disney-style
drift. Critical of those who seek to
“rediscover themselves” in it, he is
equally severe with regard to an affected
eco-friendliness that seeks to embalm
the desert.
The book was published in English in
1982. It was the product of familiarity with
the southwest American desert built up
over more than ten years’ experience in
the field, and has only now been
translated into Italian. The Mojave Desert,
the beginning and end of this fascinating
tale, has been a national reserve since
1994 and the Kelso Depot was turned
into a visitors’ centre in 1994.
Michela Rosso
Professor of the History of Architecture in Turin
The critic in the desert
Deserti americani, Reyner Banham, Einaudi, Torino 2007 (pp. 212, € 19,00) Thanks to his very lucid eye, Banham has managed in this book to correct some assumptions on the American desert and to explode some of its most persistent myths. Critical of those who seek to “rediscover themselves” in it, he is equally severe with regard to an affected eco-friendliness that seeks to embalm the desert.
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- 05 December 2007