Building on Culture: The Extinction of "Us"
In a culture built on fears of its own loss, what exactly are we trying to preserve?
Today’s piece is an extension of Thursday’s prelude post, a stopgap made necessary by the delightful chaos of an internet outage. This piece would have been up yesterday, but sometimes I argue with myself during revisions, and that’s precisely what happened here. Hopefully the fruits of that self-argument will make themselves clear enough in the work below.
The photo above is of an unknown historical figure, from a series of nine statues spared destruction after the fall of the Soviet Union. Planted directly in the grasses of Seepark Lünen, a nature complex in the Ruhr region near Dortmund, the position of these preserved statues matters as much as their near-total anonymity. Lenin is recognizable, but the other eight revolutionary heroes are unknown, even if visitors sometimes presume that one among them might be Marx. To mark the end of a whole cult of personality, these icons are allowed to live on, but blended with local wildlife and set along a hidden path. All are kept far from pedestals.
The work of cultural decline represented in this installation happens in the real world all the time, but usually at a slower pace. Kingdoms rise under varying styles of leadership, pursuing diverse political mandates, and their might is measured in architectural achievements, territorial range, the blood of their enemies, and surges in economic activity. Then, one day, their urban spheres decline, or they’re toppled in war, or whole districts find themselves engulfed in something larger—something new.
In one era, you might find individuals deeply dedicated to the worship of competing religious figures, or driven mad by the state politics of their moment. In the next, you’ll be lucky to find even offhand references to all those ancient feuds and pantheons, let alone any record of the sacred traditions and beliefs that went with them. Whole languages might lose their speakers, and material canons, too.
Ethnic battles will always be fiercely, agonizingly fought in the moment—and maybe even persist for generations—but still, there’s no guarantee that the next generation won’t find itself with new borders and national movements to take their place.
And all the while, nature stands ready to grow over whatever we leave of ourselves: our bodies, yes, but also the material ruins of all our greatest triumphs and laments. This is why we can read Shelley and shiver to ourselves—
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.
Because we know it happens.
We know it’s happened to humanity many times before.
But like people who cannot believe in their own mortality, even though they’ve heard of others passing away (and maybe even seen death firsthand), so too are we convinced that whatever we are, and whatever cultural project we belong to, we surely belong to the form of humanity that will stand (or at least deserves to stand) the test of time.
And, oh, the things we do to ourselves, and to each other, out of that self-denial.
When faced with sweeping human disasters like climate change and war, do we even have a firm sense of what we’re trying to save?
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