from left: Maes Howe
Brumley tipi ring Ring of Brodgar
Farmstead mark mak- ing in Manitoba: if this scar is left to natural processes, it will outlast the legacy of the home in which I grew up. It is too worthless to fill in, has no materials to pillage and shall likely never function as any- thing but a some time container of water. It is the very insignificance of the thing that will shelter it from destruction.
p erhaps in the future some enquiring stu- dent will stumble upon these random mark- ings and see some order and realize human involvement. The particulars of the order he finds will have nothing to do with me. They will have everything to do with his imagina- tion and the contemporary understanding of the world of his day. In the same way, all that we see today is filtered through our col- lective experience and understanding. In no way is this little excavation significant, but it is its insignificance that I find valuable. It is quite likely that from this era our most impressive, ambiguous legacy will be the scars of our existence. Skyscrapers will eventually be dismantled or destroyed, just as were those of antiquity, through war and weathering. No longer built of stone, our architectural legacy is far from assured. Re- cords and data from this era are fragile: the information stored in databanks and librar- ies may suffer the same demise as the librar- ies of Alexander and Alfred. It will certainly be the large earthworks projects — water diversion projects around our cities, open pit mines, canals, foundations — those giant scars we make upon the earth, which will inspire, confuse, and mystify those who stumble upon them in a time beyond exact explanations. What remains will be left to creative speculation. g
peter hargraves
a hole
a s a twelve year old, I dreamed of making a river in my parents’ garden where we lived, in Winkler, Manitoba. In retrospect, it seems this dream was born out of the desperation for ample, flowing water. The memories of this period of my childhood are full of dust storms and news reports of farmers across the prairies desperate for water. For economic reasons more than anything, I used what materials and equipment I had — dirt and a shovel. For fear of my mother’s wrath, I began the project just on the paddock side of the fence, in the tall grass, digging a trench 12 inches deep in an 8 foot diameter loop. I spent a few futile days filling my trench with water using the hosepipe. When the rains returned to the prairies and spring melt water stood beside my trench, I took up my shovel once again. This time it would be a pond, deep enough for a swim!
By the time I had finished the hole, the dry heat of August made any hope of swimming evaporate. Over the years the project has edged nearer to the house. My parents, very patient, have allowed for the construction of two circular ponds inspired by the tipi rings. Trees were planted, and a thin drainage ditch car- ries runoff to the municipal ditch. In autumn the ponds become a scar. During winter a blanket of snow dips and lifts softly accord- ing to the scarred earth below. Each spring, water is pumped from the basement into the first pond. This pond empties into the second, and then into the third. It is a delight to see it functional. While I might have delusions about its relevance, I do believe if left to natural processes, the scar will outlast the legacy of the house in which I grew up.
Peter Hargraves, MArch (Oregon) works with box architectures in Montreal.
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architecture and land
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