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Journal - Viewpoints vol.7 nr.2 (2003)

• E. Ducom - Fringe belts and planning: a French example
• J. Nasr - Morphology of disaster
• J.M. Diefendorf - At ground level
• P.J. Larkham - Post-catastrophe reconstruction
• J. Gilliland - It's about time

Fringe belts and planning: a French example

Estelle Ducom,
Laboratoire RESO UMR CNRS 6590, Université Rennes, Rennes 2, Haute Bretagne, France. E-mail: estelle.ducom@uhb.fr

Urban morphology has been neglected by the French nouvelle géographie, having been adjudged too traditional and empirical. This reflects, in part at least, a lack of awareness amongst French researchers of the theoretical dimensions of urban morphology that have been developed in other countries. A notable instance of this is the fringe-belt concept, which has been unexplored in France save for its brief consider-ation in relation to Clermont Ferrand by an English-speaking geographer (Whitehand, 1974, pp. 44-5). This concept has theoretical - including deductive - dimensions that could help to revive urban morphology within francophone geography. The pertinence of the fringe-belt concept to French cities has become evident in my current research on the city of Rennes (Ducom, 2003), and aspects of this work, not least its relevance to urban planning (cf. Whitehand, 2001, pp. 107-8; Whitehand and Morton, 2003), merit sharing with an international readership.

Fringe belts are composed of a mixture of land-use units initially seeking a peripheral location, as was clearly demonstrated by M.R.G. Conzen (1960). The fringe-belt concept was linked to land-rent theory by J.W.R. Whitehand (1972a, pp. 52-3; 1972b) who associated the creation of fringe belts with slumps in residential building and periods of low land values. It has been shown that these dynamics, combined with geographical obstacles, generate an urban area in which compact residential growth zones alternate with more loosely-structured fringe belts.

An application of the fringe-belt concept to Rennes

The chronology of residential building in Rennes can be reconstructed from a number of sources: the various censuses, the number of houses and flats approved and actually constructed during the last 25 years as revealed by the Direction regionale de l'équipment, and statistics on the year of construction of houses and flats as specified by owners when paying the land tax. Analysis of fluctuations in the building of houses and flats in Rennes between 1800 and 2000 reveals two slumps in residential building, lasting from about 1855 to 1870 and from 1910 until the early 1920s. The second of these corresponds to the most formative period in the creation of Edwardian fringe belts in Great Britain. As in a number of other French cities (Darin, 2000, pp. 7-8), the belt in Rennes is associated with the town wall and boulevards encircling the old town. It is composed of military and health institutions, the jail and new railway station to the south, schools, industries and green spaces. This belt, formerly at the edge of the built-up area, but now embedded deeply within it, survived despite renewed residential growth, although parts of it have been alienated and, as a consequence, the belt is now discontinuous.

However, a similar phenomenon has more recently emerged at the current urban fringe. But, whereas the `Edwardian' fringe belt seems to have developed spontaneously, the fringe belt at the current urban fringe has been strongly influenced by the city's green belt policy since about 1960.

Fringe belts and planning

In broad terms, there was practically no urban planning policy in France until the Second World War. The `Le Cornudet' law (of March 1919) dealt with the `Plans d'aménagement, d'embellissement et d'extension', the first of which were vague and mostly limited to the city centre. Outward extensions of urban areas were largely unregulated.

However, after the Second World War, the first planning policies were established. The `plan Lefort' of 1946 was the first city-wide plan for Rennes. Planners tried to `densify' the inner urban area in order to reduce the need for the city's further outward extension, and favoured the development of the surrounding towns with a view to creating a polycentric city with an emphasis on efficient movement between places. Thus it is often said that until the 1960s Rennes was a city without suburbs.

A successful green-belt policy was associated with the presence of a ring road (built between 1968 and 1995) which strongly influenced the formation of a fringe belt at the current edge of the urban area. The green belt and the ring road play the role of a fixation line, as the boulevards did in the nineteenth century. This outer fringe belt is composed of large military zones, allotments, the eco-museum of La Bintinais to the south, green open spaces like Cleunay and the lakes of Apigné to the south-east. It forms a barrier to urban growth.

The future of this planned fringe belt has, however, been brought into question. Beyond it, urban sprawl has been encouraged in peripheral towns. It has favoured movement by car. The recent law on Urban Solidarity and Redevelop-ment, however, seeks to replace the former goal of mobility maximization by accessibility optimization. This change encourages compact cities, throwing into doubt the efficacy of the polycentric city. From this standpoint, the outer fringe belt constitutes an important reserve of building land - should it not be used for residential building? The first alienations are already planned: for instance, the residential extension project in la Courrouze, to the south, on 140 hectares of land mostly used for military purposes along the ring road.

References

Conzen, M.R.G. (1960) Alnwick, Northumberland: a study in town-plan analysis Institute of British Geographers Publication 27 (George Philip, London).

Darin, M. (2000) `French belt boulevards', Urban Morphology 4, 3-8.

Ducom, E. (2003) `La théorie des ceintures limitropphes (fringe belts) : discontinuités d'occupation de l'espace sur les franges des villes', L'information géographique 67, March, 35-45.

Whitehand, J.W.R. (1972a) `Building cycles and the spatial pattern of urban growth', Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 56, 39-55.

Whitehand, J.W.R. (1972b) `Urban-rent theory, time series and morphogenesis: an example of eclecticism in geographical research', Area 4, 215-22.

Whitehand, J.W.R. (1974) `The changing nature of the urban fringe: a time perspective', in Johnson, J.H. (ed.) Suburban growth: geographical processes at the edge of the Western city (Wiley, London), 31-52.

Whitehand, J.W.R. (2001) `British urban morphology: the Conzenian tradition', Urban Morphology 5, 103-9.

Whitehand, J.W.R. and Morton, N.J. (2003) `Fringe belts and the recycling of urban land: an academic concept and planning practice', Environment and Planning B, Planning and Design 30.

Morphology of disaster: challenges for research

Joe Nasr,
Faculty of the Built Environment, University of Central England, Perry Barr, Birmingham B42 2SU, UK. E-mail: joenasr@compuserve.com

Concepts of stability and change are central to a morphogenetic study of urban form, particularly after a catastrophic occurrence. But which outcomes of rebuilding should be considered stable, and which should be viewed as resulting in change - particularly profound change? How can post-disaster patterns be analysed to differentiate between those that appear continuous and those that are transformed? Taking one step further back, how can `stability' and `change' be defined in the morphology of catastrophe?

These questions bring up some fundamental conceptual as well as methodological issues that bear on any study of urban change. It is important to show here at least some of the methodological difficulties faced when undertaking any evaluation and comparison of change in a physical environment, and to outline how these can be treated within a study of post-disaster rebuilding.

The first problem is that change/stability is not a dichotomy, but rather a continuum. `Change' subsequent to a disaster could be considered simply as a transition between one condition or structure and another: a transition that can be placed somewhere along a continuum between, at one extreme, complete conservation of whatever features survived a disaster or replication of what did not survive and, at the other, complete eradication or replacement of these features.

Were change a dichotomy, any analysis of whether a pattern of any kind displayed a certain type of change or not would not be particularly difficult, particularly in the context of the break provided by a catastrophe - one that inherently can be described in terms of `before' and `after'. Since change is a continuum, however, no analyses can be of the `yes or no' kind, even in relation to catastrophe. Rather, degree of change has to complement type of change. The inherently arbitrary introduction of one or more cut-off points (such as the number of replanned streets that are greater than x meters in width) may be necessary. A range of answers to the question of degree of change along a gradient from one end of the continuum to the other may also be necessary. This automatically increases the difficulty of the task to be undertaken and weakens the robustness of whatever results are obtained.

Given this structural caveat, we can then attempt an identification of which variables would be relevant in a post-disaster morphological study, how they can be defined, what cut-off points would be appropriate for the analysis of the change that took place, and what range of changes is suitable for analysing these variables.

I have previously identified a long list of variables that would be worth examining to assess the morphological changes associated with a disaster.1 They include building use, building structure and predominant design. Analysing particular urban features would tell us about particular types of changes (and continuities) that can be discerned in devastated cities.

The second problem is establishing definitions for `change' and `stability' within a specific post-disaster context. Translating a definition into working criteria for analysing specific variables is not simple. For instance, assessing a change in the lot pattern would involve identifying those defining elements of the pattern that would need to be considered and compared longitudinally. In the narrowest sense, these would be defined as shifts of lot lines, consolidation of number of lots in a block, and the like. But more elaborate measures could be used, incorporating predominant shapes, their relation to location (for example, corner as distinct from mid-block), and so on.

A third problem that confronts a student of post-disaster rebuilding relates to the ability to describe environmental change, or morphography. In the case of a street, for example, one may easily state that `it was widened', but describing a change in the layout of a plaza would be more difficult. In fact, assessing even a street widening entails choices. What is the relative importance of, for example, width of pavement and width of right-of-way?

In order to flesh out the changes in the post-disaster city, a fourth problem needs to be dealt with; that of morphometry - measuring forms and changes in them. Without this it would not be possible to go far in evaluating the changes that took place. The accuracy of such measurements would depend on the nature and extent of the disaster and the reliability of pre-disaster mapping.

Even if all of these problems of definition, description and measurement are resolved, a major difficulty remains. The city is a complex composite of factors. Hence, it is appropriate to draw on a long list of distinct variables for analysis. However, `collinearity' is intrinsic to a city (and indeed is what makes it a city). The factors are not discrete variables. Infinite interactions take place among them. How to deal with several variables jointly becomes a fundamental challenge to any study of change, gradual or catastrophic, in urban patterns. And, needless to say, when a pattern is sought amongst a group of cities, the challenge is even greater.

The problems to which this brief essay points are not meant to stifle morphological research, but rather to show its complexity and to make it more robust. The aim here is to paint a fuller picture of what evaluating morphological change - or the lack thereof - should consider if it is meant to be a thorough assessment of the dimensions and causes of the formation of urban patterns. There may be many methodological issues that are taken for granted. By choosing to focus here on morphological questions that pertain to disasters, some of the challenges that are faced in morphological studies more generally are highlighted. Catastrophic change can thus be seen as one category - and, I suggest, a significant and under-examined one - within the larger body of emerging literature on urban form. Developing better conceptual and methodological tools, and making better use of these tools, would be appropriate for all morphological studies including those of disasters.

Note

1.Nasr, J.L. (1997) `Reconstructing or constructing cities? Stability and change in urban form in post-World War II France and Germany', unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia.

At ground level

Jeffry M. Diefendorf,
Department of History, Horton Social Science Center, University of New Hampshire, Durham, NH 03824, United States. E-mail: jeffryd@christa.unh.edu

In certain ways both urban planning and architecture as professions have historically leaned toward the authoritarian, and this is true whether the planners and architects worked as private citizens or government employees. Like other professionals, planners and architects believed that their training and experience uniquely prepared them to offer the best solutions to the kinds of problems presented by such urban disasters as wartime bombing. To be sure, they had to respond to the wishes of clients, employers, or politicians, but not always happily. They have usually taken current ideas about city and building forms and functions, applied those ideas to the space in question, and presto, new drawings and maps were at hand.

Rebuilt cities, however, never assumed the forms found on those initial drawings and maps, and this presents a challenge to urban historians. What happened between the conception of ideal forms and the reality of rebuilt cities? Just like those who have tried to shape rebuilding, historians must engage with the complex obstacles that obstruct the implementation of ideal plans and construction of grand buildings. Let me list just some of those obstacles that, in practice, helped determine how cities bombed in World War II were rebuilt.1

First, while planners and architects tended to view the bombed areas as a tabula rasa on which they could exercise their imaginations, existing property rights and laws protecting private property in non-Communist states created stubborn roadblocks to radical redesigns.

Secondly, the process of transforming property law, implementing new planning legislation, and imposing new design standards was enormously complicated in states occupied by foreign powers (Germany, Austria, Japan) and in states establishing new governments (most of Europe but especially Soviet-dominated Eastern Europe).

Thirdly, while planners and architects prepared their new designs, citizens engaged in `wild' or unregulated repairs and rebuilding on existing plots, thus creating temporary structures that became permanent and thereby frustrating the attempts to have a planned reconstruction.

Fourthly, cities and societies ravaged by war lacked financial resources, and there were frequent shortages of building materials and building labour. These shortages, combined with the time needed for the design process, suggested a gradual approach to reconstruction, but citizens wanting a `roof over their heads', shops and business, schools and public amenities had little patience.

Fifthly, in many cities much of the infrastructure sustained little damage. The value of the investment in roads and underground utilities was too great to be sacrificed to a complete new layout. Hence many pre-war street lines and squares gave shape to post-war cities.

Sixthly, strong opposition to change and support for rebuilding in traditional forms came from private citizens and custodians of `historic' structures, such as churches, even though the actual meaning of traditional, historic, and even national form was disputed.

At ground level, in other words, the circumstances surrounding urban rebuilding were messy and dynamic. Reconstruction was not simply the product of the vision of urban planners and architects but of the conflicts between the planned and unplanned, designed and ad hoc, controlled and uncontrolled, legal and illegal. There was always conflict between the ideal or desired forms, the realities of what was actually possible, and the conflicting, shifting desires of clients and the public. Planners and architects were often not well suited to coping with this messy reality. It is to the credit of these professions that they have become much better at it. Since the 1960s they have become involved in a more democratic process, whereby an active dialogue with the public, however well or ill informed, has come to be seen as a good thing, even if it slows the process of rebuilding.2

The complex forces that shaped reconstruction naturally resulted in rebuilt cities that took on quite varied forms. Key religious and secular monuments were usually rebuilt, the latter often with modern additions. Some rebuilt cities became relatively modern, like Frankfurt am Main, Düsseldorf, and central Rotterdam, with broader streets to accommodate automobile traffic and architecture featuring steel, glass, and concrete. Others, at least in core areas, aimed to replicate what had been destroyed: thus there is Warsaw with its rebuilt central square, or the small town of Freudenstadt, which sought to recreate both building and street forms. Another approach, as in Nuremberg, was adaptive, where the street layout and the size, rough shape, colours, and choice of building materials used in rebuilt structures were to convey the sense of the historic city form while allowing for buildings that were in other respects new in design. Depending on the quality of the effort, any of these approaches could be successful.

Finally, if urban historians are to understand what happened and happens when cities respond to disasters, they must be prepared to wade into this messy reality, learning, for example, about property law as well as principles of urban form. Moreover, if `city planners simply expect too much from `reconstruction'',3 perhaps urban historians read too much into that process, seeking to impose a greater order and clearer meaning on what was surely the result of a healthy measure of chaos, conflict, and unresolved contradictions.

Notes

1.For a sample of recent literature, see Durth, W. and Gutschow, N. (1988) Träume in Trümmern. Planungen zum Wiederaufbau zerstörter Städte im Westen Deutschlands, 1940-1950, 2 vols. (Vieweg, Braunschweig); Diefendorf, J.M. (1993) In the wake of war: the reconstruction of German cities after World War II (Oxford University Press, New York); Durth, W., Düwel, J. and Gutschow, N. (1999) Architektur und Städtebau der DDR, 2 vols. (Campus, Frankfurt). For France and England, see Voldman, D. (1997) La reconstruction des villes française de 1940 à 1954: histoire d'une politique (L'Harmattan, Paris); Hasegawa, J. (1992) Replanning the blitzed city centre: a comparative study of Bristol, Coventry and Southampton 1941-1950 (Open University Press, Buckingham). Work on Soviet rebuilding is still less common, but for a study of a formerly German city rebuilt by the Soviets, see Hoppe, B. (2000) Auf den Trümmern von Königsberg. Kaliningrad 1946-1970 Schriften-reihe der Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, vol. 80 (Oldenbourg, Munich). Essays on reconstruction in several countries are given in Diefendorf, J.M. (ed.) (1990) Rebuilding Europe's bombed cities (Macmillan, London). For Japan, see Diefendorf, J., Hein, C. and Yorifusa, I. (eds) (2003) Rebuilding urban Japan after 1945 (Palgrave, London), and, for comparisons between Britain and Japan, see Hasegawa, J., Mason, T., Takao, M. and Tiratsoo, N. (2002) Urban reconstruction in Britain and Japan, 1945-1955: dreams, plans and realities (Luton University Press, Luton).

2.A prime example is the effort to agree upon a design for rebuilding lower Manhattan after the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001. Politicians and developers expected to move quickly, but public criticisms have resulted in a multiple stage design process.

3.The phrase is from Costabile-Heming, C.A. (2002) `Peter Schneider's Eduards Heimkehr and the image of the `New Berlin'', German Studies Review 25, 506.

Post-catastrophe reconstruction: does catastrophe matter?

Peter J. Larkham,
School of Planning and Housing, University of Central England, Perry Barr, Birmingham B42 2SU, UK. E-mail: peter.larkham@uce.ac.uk

Studying post-catastrophe reconstruction allows us to explore a wide range of important factors in the form, design, construction and use of settlements, and stages in the process of their replanning. Indeed, Konvitz suggests that `in particular, war has highlighted the importance of adaptability in city building: how people change environments, and how environmental features interfere with or facilitate that process'.1 In recent years, this has been an increasing concern of planning historians, focusing particularly on the wide range of experiences following the Second World War.2 But there are other forms of catastrophe. There have also been explorations of concepts such as the morphological frame and its use in periods of large-scale, `catastrophic' planning (whether caused by natural or man-made catastrophe, or by some of the `normal' large-scale rapid transformations of city-building).3 To some extent, catastrophes are a normal part of the city-building process.

Many studies have shown that there is a considerable degree of inertia in reconstruction. Actual reconstruction is rarely on the lines of the reconstruction plan, and may take some consider-able time. Initial radical proposals are usually delayed and watered-down, with the built result being far more familiar in form, even if not using original surviving features.4 `Traditional' features may be replicated through individual choice or conscious policy, as in the retention in Nuremberg of the medieval appearance of high pitched roofs and small-scale plot patterns especially when viewed from the castle.5 But this may lead to concerns over originality and authenticity in the place-making process.6 Most common is the persistence of aspects of radical, technocentric plans through subsequent decades and phases of plan-making and implementation. In the UK these factors are true both for the plans of damaged towns and the more numerous contem-porary plans for little- or un-damaged towns. For similar reasons, Nasr concluded his PhD on reconstruction planning in Germany and France with the provocative question `how much does a disaster finally matter?'7

As British wartime and post-war reconstruction is being so thoroughly explored at present,8 it is useful to address this question through two very different disaster plans, but of the same period and produced through the same planning profession and apparatus as those for the UK's war-damaged towns. One is the plan for Lynmouth, Devon (UK), hit by a substantial flood involving the movement of 30,000 tons of debris in August 1952. Initial reconstruction proposals, suggested by Mills and Boyne, were published in the Architects' Journal. The second plan is for the reconstruction of Castries, capital of St Lucia in the West Indies, whose town centre was destroyed by fire in 1948. The colonial administration immediately commissioned local architects to prepare a plan, which was implemented by the Colonial Development Corporation.9

The Lynmouth plan, for a small settlement in a steep valley, astride two rivers prone to flooding, had to provide for flood periods, traffic and tourism, and consider the topography. Major new roads, bridges and flood defences (the latter referred to as `bastions') were suggested, with restrictions on the siting of new buildings, and one 3-storey hotel demolished and re-sited as it too easily dammed the rivers. The new hotel `would, however, be an improvement, visually, if [it] went up to six or even more storeys, so as to act as a focal point at this key position in the town'. A large new hard-landscaped open space was provided to contain floodwater. This was a wholly novel feature in the settlement's form, which could be occupied by temporary and expendable stalls. The concern of this plan is functional but its presentation and text are visual. The perspective drawing shows a striking cubist modernism far removed from the local traditional urban form and vernacular architecture. (However, the text says that the buildings `should be in sympathy with what is already there, but contemporary in design, without being in any way `modernistic''). Both of these issues demonstrate the architectural training and background of these younger architects, and the power of the `townscape' thinking being developed in British architectural journals of this period by Gordon Cullen.

Castries is located on the shore of an alluvial plain in an otherwise mountainous area. This is an earthquake- and hurricane-prone zone. The site itself is a reclaimed swamp. Foundations were therefore a problem, and reinforced concrete rafts were used. Hurricanes meant that roof structures had to be especially strongly bonded to walls. The surrounding `fire hazard of exceptional proportions' of traditional West Indian buildings led to extensive use of reinforced concrete. Yet materials and funding were very limited: items not available locally had to be imported from the UK or its colonies. These factors placed additional constraints upon the replanning. The new town centre plan was essentially rectilinear, with a linear zone of civic and government buildings separating the commercial area from new housing. Orthogonal to the civic area was an axis of a widened street with a central garden strip, terminating in a public garden. Streets are apparently wider than their predecessors.

How do these reconstruction plans, for settlements struck by different catastrophes and located in very different physical conditions, compare with the 200 or so UK post-war plans? In Lynmouth the technocentrism of flood bastions, roads and bridges has close parallels with other UK (and indeed mainland European) plans. Coping with high volume and high speed vehicle traffic took priority, even in this physically restricted and small settlement. In Castries there are traces of the formal axial and geometric layouts common in UK reconstruction plans. The grouping of civic administrative and cultural buildings into one identifiable area was also common. While some plans showed clear evidence of beaux arts ideas, the civic and housing areas of Castries do not: the irregular, informal positioning and inter-relationships of their buildings owes more to the modernist approaches of later reconstruction plans such as that by Max Lock for Middlesbrough.10 The architectural form of these largely concrete structures built in Castries, and of the proposed Lynmouth hotel, again has strong parallels with the reconstruction architecture of the UK as built slightly after Castries, in the 1950s and 1960s. Structures are plain and boxy, lacking archi-tectural detail save for slightly-emphasized concrete window frames.

These two plans were implemented in different ways. That for Castries was implemented as planned, and within four years. Lynmouth was rebuilt, but not along the lines proposed by Mills and Boyne. Theirs seems to have been a speculative venture, and its publication in the Architects' Journal something of a self-promotion (this could also be said for several of the post-war reconstruction plans). Both plans were immediate responses to their respective catastrophes, proposing detailed and technical solutions to the environmental problems and constraints of their sites. Both bear strong relationships in form and character to various of the UK's post-war reconstruction plans, most of which were in the public domain by the time of these two catastrophes, but most of which had hardly begun to be implemented. Neither plan made any reference to the views of residents; in this they did differ from many reconstruction plans which, even during the heat of war, involved local politicians and residents in a variety of ways.

These arguably minor plans nevertheless confirm many of the ideas about the reshaping of settlements that are emerging from other studies. Plans seem more sensitive to contemporary professional issues and pressures than to local topographical and morphological constraints. These are seen as problems to be solved through large-scale and/or technological works, as seen in both Lynmouth and Castries. Plan and road layout, and building forms, are also larger-scale, contemporary designs, rather than having clear roots in local form and vernacular. And rapidly-produced post-catastrophe plans may not involve the views of residents, and were often not implemented - at least in their original form.

The `paper cities' of post-catastrophe reconstruction seem to represent, in many cases, wasted effort because of their non-implementation. Yet the same is true of many plans produced in other periods, whether for whole urban areas or individual buildings: the majority are not built in the form proposed. Thus, to return to Nasr's question, `how much does a disaster finally matter' to the form, nature and process of the reconstruction? Apparently not much. Only the immediate response stage, for example rehousing people and businesses often in temporary structures, is a direct response to the destruction. The subsequent phase of replanning is much more a response to contemporary profess-ional issues and procedures - the zeitgeist of planning and design - and is likely to take the opportunity to replan more widely than the actual area of destruction. The nature, location and extent of damage seem to matter relatively little. The responses to these issues in Lynmouth and Castries are technological interventions rather than ones based on considerations of the vernacular and context. As Mills and Boyne wrote, `Lynmouth has received, through the bitter tragedy of flood, what other English towns have received through the tragedy of war - the opportunity to start again'.11

Notes

1.Konvitz, J.W. (1985) The urban millennium (Southern Illinois University Press, Carbondale) 167.

2.For example, see Diefendorf, J. (2003) `At ground level', Urban Morphology 7, 106-8, note 1.

3.Larkham, P.J. (1995) `Constraints of urban history and form upon redevelopment', Geography 80, 111-24.

4.Hasegawa, J. (1999) `The rise and fall of radical reconstruction in 1940s Britain', Twentieth Century British History 10, 137-61.

5.Soane, J.V. (1994) `The renaissance of cultural vernacularism in Germany', in Ashworth, G.J. and Larkham, P.J. (eds) Building a new heritage (Routledge, London) 159-77.

6.Jivén, G. and Larkham, P.J. (2003) `Sense of place, authenticity and character: a commentary', Journal of Urban Design 8, 67-81.

7.Nasr, J.L. (1997) `Reconstructing or constructing cities? Stability and change in urban form in post-World War II France and Germany', unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, 366.

8.See, for example, Gold, J.R. (2003) `The rebuilding of British cities after the Second World War', Urban Morphology 7, 102.

9.Mills, D.D. and Boyne, D.A.C.A. (1952) `Lynmouth', Architects' Journal 23 October, 493-500; Architects' Journal (1954) `Re-planning of Castries, St. Lucia', Architects' Journal 25 March, 371-4.

10.Lock, M. et al. (1946) The County Borough of Middlesbrough survey and plan (Middlesbrough Borough Council, Middlesbrough).

11.Mills and Boyne, 1952, op. cit. (note 9) 500.

It's about time: exploring the fourth dimension in the morphology of urban disasters

Jason Gilliland,
Department of Geography, University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario, N6A 5C2, Canada. E-mail: jgillila@uwo.ca

Although the built fabric of a city is naturally long-lasting and resistant to change, the intervention of a catastrophe, such as a conflagration, earthquake, or bombing, can greatly accelerate the process of urban morphogenesis. Together with the contributions by Nasr, Diefendorf and Larkham (this issue, pp. 105-10), this paper indicates how a major disaster offers an exceptional lens through which to view changes in urban form, and my specific aim here is to readjust the focus on the issue of time. According to Moudon, there are three fundamental components to every urban morphological study: form, resolution, and time.1 While methods for classifying elements of urban form (i.e. built/open spaces, lots, streets) were established early on by scholars such as Conzen and Muratori, and decades of case studies conducted at varying levels of resolution - from rooms to regions - have contributed much to our understanding of the hierarchical relations between micro and macro forms, I argue that the fundamental component of time has largely been neglected in previous studies of disasters. Let me elaborate on just three ways in which time can be considered in morphological studies of urban disasters by drawing upon a case study of fires and urban morphogenesis in nineteenth-century Montreal.2 In doing so, my goal is to build upon Nasr's foundational viewpoint towards a `morphology of disaster'.

The first, and most basic, way to explore the issue of time in morphological analysis is to consider the historical eras in which the built fabric was initially constructed and later destroyed. If the construction and destruction occur in the same era, we might not expect to observe radical morphological change; whereas, if a form is destroyed several decades or centuries after construction, the rebuilding process is more likely to incorporate major changes. Morph-ological change will occur because the prevailing building methods, materials, regulations, and styles will have changed dramatically between different eras. Another explanation for why we observe morphological change is that a major catastrophe offers an opportunity to adapt built forms inherited from the past to accommodate new demands. For example, when the outdated, commercial-era core of Montreal was devastated by conflagrations in the 1850s, the rebuilding process incorporated morphological changes which reflected the changing needs of a rapidly expanding industrial city: crowded streets were widened, spacious lots were redeveloped more completely, and larger buildings were erected with more durable materials.

Urban morphology is not only concerned with the description and classification of forms over different time periods, but also with how the rate of change varies: between different forms in the same city, for example, or among similar forms in different cities. A major catastrophe brings about premature destruction, however, thereby acceler-ating the `normal' rate of change among various elements of the urban fabric. Of special interest in a morphological study of urban disaster, therefore, is the destruction-reconstruction time lapse, or the amount of time taken to rebuild each element. In most cases, rebuilding is done quickly because people need shelter and business must go on. Of the properties destroyed by fire in Montreal between 1872 and 1889, for example, two-thirds were redeveloped within a year. Popular accounts of post-disaster rebuilding in nineteenth-century cities (e.g. Montreal, Chicago) often used the analogy of the `phoenix rising from the ashes' because of the rapid pace of recovery. Nevertheless, rebuilding after disaster is not always speedy. Evidence from nineteenth-century Montreal suggests that less-fortunate owners typically redeveloped the sites of their burnt buildings in two stages: first, by immediately erecting the most basic shelter in wood; and then, by encasing the structure in brick as soon as finances permitted (often several years later). Similarly, in the central area of any large North American city today one can always find sites of demolished buildings that remain empty (some as parking lots) for years until owners can raise funds, secure approval for re-zoning, or find profitable reasons to rebuild or sell. In the case of the World Trade Center, destroyed by terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, rebuilding has been stalled by public debates concerning the monumentality of design alternatives.

Widespread evidence indicates that cities grow in boom and bust fashion, and cycles of urban construction and redevelopment are synchronized with waves of immigration, transport innovation, and economic investment.3 A third way to incorporate time in a study of disaster and morphogenesis is to examine the building cycle, particularly whether the crucial events occurred during boom or bust phases. The incentives for a property owner to rebuild are typically stronger during an economic upswing rather than a depression. Due to increased competition for urban space during growth periods, vacancy rates typically decrease, and land values and rents increase, and therefore property owners are likely to rebuild quickly so that they may continue to collect inflated rents and possibly avoid having to pay high rents to accommodate themselves elsewhere. During boom periods, rebuilding is also more likely to involve morphological changes such as the intensification of land use, in order to deal with heightened competition and to take advantage of increased values. On the other hand, during an economic slump, property owners are not under as much pressure to rebuild quickly; they may even resist rebuilding until it becomes more profitable; and if they rebuild, they are more likely to duplicate the old forms. The evidence for nineteenth-century Montreal indicates that buildings destroyed during boom periods were replaced more swiftly, more completely, and with greater inputs of new capital, compared to those destroyed during depressions.

Without an adequate consideration of the fourth dimension, time, it is impossible to understand the process of urban morphogenesis. I suggest that the role of time has thus far been underdeveloped in most studies because researchers have traditionally relied on a limited tool box. A careful comparison of maps or plans of `disaster areas' before and after the event can give a picture of morphological change, but the cartographic record itself is too static and sporadic to elucidate the process. Alternative historical sources of information on the built environment are more regularly available (e.g. tax rolls, building permits, fire department records) to supplement the cartographic record, and all these sources can be effectively handled as relational databases and linked for simultaneous analysis in a historical geographic information system (H-GIS) to the electronic geodatabases which municipalities now use to register building footprints, lot lines, and infrastructure.4 It is about time that urban morphologists harnessed the power of H-GIS to generate a fuller understanding of the dynamic process of urban morphogenesis.

Notes

1.Moudon, A.V. (1997) `Urban morphology as an emerging interdisciplinary field', Urban Morphology 1, 3-10.

2.Gilliland, J. (2001) `Redimensioning Montreal: circulation and urban form, 1846-1918', unpublished PhD thesis, McGill University, Montreal.

3.Whitehand, J.W.R. (1987) The changing face of cities: a study of development cycles and urban form (Blackwell, New York); Gilliland, op. cit. (note 2).

4.Gilliland, J. and Olson, S. (2003) `Montréal: l'avenir du passé', GÉOinfo Jan-Feb, 5-7.