Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Death Star.
Thirty years ago, American film audiences pressed low in their seats as a massive white wedge of machine parts passed overhead. With the release of George Lucas’s Star Wars, the smooth, silvery flying saucers that had dominated postwar sci-fi became embarrassing reminders of an obsolete vision of the future.1 Lucas envisioned a World of Tomorrow dominated by black, white, and gray;2 hard-edged, massive, and inorganic forms, covered with a salty acne of apparatus. The film’s visual program was a departure from the saucers and occasional capsules writ large that sci-fi audiences had grown accustomed to, but its colorless symmetrical ships should have been recognizable to at least a small portion of its audience—those familiar with contemporary art.3
In a 1967 essay on minimalism, Clement Greenberg, America’s most influential critic, could have been describing Star Wars: “Everything is rigorously rectilinear or spherical. Development within a given piece is usually repetition of the same modular shape, which may or may not be varied in size.” Greenberg rejected minimalism as pedestrian. “Minimal works are readable as art,” he wrote, “as almost anything is today, including a door, a table, or a blank sheet of paper.” Perhaps because of its fantastic nature, the Death Star has never been recognized as an essential work of minimalism—but it is one.4 Its destruction has never been acknowledged as a turning point for modernism—but it was one.5
1 “If the future is ‘out of date’ and ‘old fashioned,’ then I have been in the future.” Robert Smithson, “Tour of the Monuments of Passaic, New Jersey” (1967), The Collected Writings
2 “Quite arbitrarily, all the works selected are black, white, or grey, so chosen to keep the viewer from being distracted by the emotionalism of colour.... Among the sculptors, Tony Smith, also an architect, moves in a parallel path with Robert Morris, where human scale, proportion, symmetry, order, restraint, clarity and the flat surface, neutral black or indifferent grey, produce a similar effect of noble and hierarchic presence.” Samuel Wagstaff Jr., “Paintings to Think About,” Artnews (1964)
3 “Morphologically there are common elements: symmetry, lack of traces of process, abstractness, non-hierarchical distribution of parts, non-anthropomorphic orientations, general wholeness.” Robert Morris, “Notes on Sculpture, Part 3, Notes and Non Sequiturs” (1967), Continuous Project Altered Daily
4 “I view art as something vast. I think highway systems fall down because they are not art. Art today is an art of postage stamps. I love the Secretariat Building of the U.N., placed like a salute. In terms of scale, we have less art per square mile, per capita, than any society ever had. We are puny.... Later I discovered some abandoned airstrips in Europe-abandoned works, Surrealist landscapes, something that had nothing to do with any function, created worlds without tradition. Artificial landscape without cultural precedent began to dawn on me.” Tony Smith, quoted in Samuel Wagstaff Jr., “Talking with Tony Smith,” Artforum (1966)
5 “As in all Utopias, the right to have plans of any significance belong only to the planners in charge.... Le Corbusier was planning not only a physical environment. He was planning for a social Utopia too. Le Corbusier’s Utopia was a condition of what he called maximum individual liberty, by which he seems to have meant not liberty to do anything much, but liberty from ordinary responsibility.” Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities (1961)
Carl Andre, Glarus Steel Delta, 2006
Star Destroyer, Star Wars, 1977
Lucas unabashedly emulated the visuals of Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968),1 which incorporated the principles of modernist architecture (spare, utilitarian, evenly lit spaces) and the presence of a minimalist slab (colorless, drab, depersonalized, inscrutable non-art).2 The only ornamental flourishes in the film were borrowed from NASA (whitewashed modular construction pocked by latches, struts, and access panels) and corporate furniture design (steel, leather, powder-coat enamel, and blobby red Dijinn).
Lucas hired so many members of Kubrick’s team that their subset of the Star Wars crew was dubbed “The Class of 2001.”3 But he borrowed selectively.4 Kubrick’s 2001 environments were cohesive and balanced, informed by architectural theory and late-’60s aesthetics;5 they upheld the distinction between the astronaut modernists and the alien minimalists. By contrast, Lucas willfully mashed together minimalism, modernism, and NASA design. Two visual rhetorics are at war on-screen: The first is that of an industrial superpower; the second is that of a rogue fringe of misfits and mismatches.6
1 “Spacecraft in science-fiction films prior to 2001 were generally smooth and shiny and very sleek looking. The ships in 2001 represented more of what you would see at NASA at the time. That was a new vision for spacecraft, and of course that vision affected Star Wars.” Ben Burt, Standing on the Shoulders of Kubrick: The Legacy of 2001 (2007)
2 “Surfaces under tension are anthropomorphic; they are under the stresses of work much as the body is in standing. Objects that do not project tensions state most clearly their separateness from the human.” Robert Morris, “Notes on Sculpture, Part 3, Notes and Non Sequiturs”
3 “George wanted it to look like a spaceship from 2001 that had aged two hundred years.” John Barry, quoted in J. W. Rinzler, The Making of Star Wars (2007)
4 “There are no Negroes in this vision of America’s space program; conversation with Russian scientists is brittle with mannerly terror, and the Chinese can still be dealt with only by pretending they’re not there. But technological man has advanced no end.” Penelope Gilliatt, “After Man,” the New Yorker (1968)
5 “From the very outset of work on the film we all discussed means of photographically depicting an extraterrestrial creature in a manner that would be as mind-boggling as the being itself.... You cannot imagine the unimaginable. All you can do is try to represent it in an artistic manner that will convey something of its quality. That’s why we settled on the black monolith—which is, of course, in itself something of a Jungian archetype, and also a pretty fair example of ‘minimal art.’” Joseph Gelmis, An Interview with Stanley Kubrick (1969)
6 “I was working very hard to keep everything nonsymmetrical. Nothing looks like it belongs with anything else.... It’s a very common thing in science fiction to see a set that has one influence. Everything matches. The chairs match the table, match the rug, match the design of the doors, match the door handle, match the lamps. I wanted it to look like one thing came from one part of the galaxy and another from another part of the galaxy.” George Lucas, quoted in The Making of Star Wars
Dave Bowman, 2001: A Space Odyssey, 1968
Luke Skywalker, The Empire Strikes Back, 1980
Like minimalism, 2001’s monolith is at once an apogee of and a break with earlier artistic visions.1 With this film, Kubrick sought to make cinema abstract. Echoing early modernist painters like Wassily Kandinsky and Piet Mondrian, Kubrick said that 2001 “avoids intellectual verbalization and reaches the viewer’s subconscious...just as music does, or painting.” He also took his cues from contemporary American artists, asserting, “Once you’re dealing on a nonverbal level, ambiguity is unavoidable.”2
This was the chilled silence of cold-war-era abstract art—what Adorno called “expressionless expression, a kind of crying without tears.” Kubrick staged this abstract, ambiguous cinema within spaces meticulously designed with the help of leading scientists and aerospace engineers.3 Minimalism made its cinematic premiere as an alien intrusion into progressive modernism’s finest hour. (What could be more modernist than a moon base and PanAm space flights?) Minimalism defamiliarized modernism. For Greenberg, minimalist art didn’t look new or even much like art.4 The minimalists refused formal innovation and any progressive program.5 And yet, Kubrick cast minimalism as a pedagogical device that violently split the Old World from the New.6
1 “Minimalism is an apogee of modernism, but it is no less a break with it.” Hal Foster, The Return of the Real (1996)
2 “[Piet] Mondrian went so far as to claim: ‘Sensations are not transmissible, or rather their purely qualitative properties are not transmissible. The same, however does not apply to relations between sensations. Consequently only relations between can have an objective value.’ This may be ambiguous in terms of perceptual facts, but in terms of looking at art it is descriptive of the condition that obtains.” Robert Morris, “Notes on Sculpture I” (1966), Continuous Project Altered Daily
3 “Arthur Clarke and I also looked up and secured the support of the famed anthropologist Louis R. Leakey, who supplied invaluable insights that Kubrick would later apply to the “Dawn of Man” opening sequence of his film. [When] the director of NASA’s Office of Manned Space Flight saw the amount of documentation Lange and I had brought with us from the States, he dubbed our office complex ‘NASA East.’” Fred Ordway, scientific adviser, 2001: A Space Odyssey in Retrospect (1982)
4 "They commit themselves to the third dimension because it is, among other things, a coordinate that art has to share with non-art (as Dada, Duchamp, and others already saw). The ostensible aim of the Minimalists is to 'project' objects and ensembles of objects that are just nudgeable into art." Clement Greenberg, "Recentness of Sculpture" (1967), in Gregory Battcock, ed., Minimalism: A Critical Anthology
5 “Adorno championed modernist art not only for its negative capability, however, but also for its utopian moment, its vision of something other or better than the present regime. Here we encounter minimalism’s departure: its refusal to picture something else: a refusal which finally returns the viewer—at best a more disillusioned viewer—to more of the same.” Anna Chave, “Minimalism and the Rhetoric of Power,” Arts Magazine (1990)
6 “The monolith would not only be a symbol of God, but of authority in general, therefore of the father, whom the child dreams of killing in order to take his place.” Michel Ciment, Kubrick: The Definitive Edition (1982)
James Turrell, Munson, 1968
HAL’s eye, 2001: A Space Odyssey
In 2001, a black rectilinear alien artifact appears at the “Dawn of Man.” The presence of the alien monolith transforms the aggressive but bloodless displays of a starving troop of proto-humans: The dominant male wields a bone tool to kill, first for food, then to murder his rival.1 A three-million-year jump cut links the exultation of that first bone club being thrown into the air with the year 2001 and an armed satellite orbiting Earth.2 All these millennia later, an identical monolith has appeared on the moon, and then again orbiting Jupiter. American astronauts, barely more lively than the artificial intelligence on which they rely, are sent on a doomed mission to investigate. A second evolutionary struggle takes place aboard the spaceship, this time between modern man and his technological caretaker. When the one surviving crewmember reaches Jupiter, his contact with minimalism (in the form of the monolith) transforms him: He experiences transcendence and is reborn as a higher being, the fetal Star Child.3 Lucas used 2001 as a point of departure, but he had a very different destination in mind.4 Having given up on making a film about the American war in Vietnam because the topic was too hot politically for producers, Lucas decided to rework his ideas for what would eventually become Apocalypse Now (1979) into a space movie casting America as the Empire and the North Vietnamese as the Rebellion.5
1 “Two decades ago, any biologist would have assumed that our ability to wield tools and lay concerted group plans made us far more murderous than apes—if indeed apes were murderous at all. Recent discoveries about apes suggest, however, that a gorilla or common chimp stands at least as good a chance of being murdered as does the average human.” Jared Diamond, The Third Chimpanzee (1992)
2 “The bone goes up and turns into what is supposed to be an orbiting space bomb—a weapon in space.” Arthur C. Clarke, quoted in Standing on the Shoulders of Kubrick: The Legacy of 2001 (2007)
3 “Minimal art was the attempt to recuperate transcendent Puritan values by reencoding them via an iconoclasm of austere formal spatial purity. At the same time its ambition was to transpose and redeem utilitarian industrial processes and gestalt forms into an aesthetic space of the phenomenological. Echoing the ambitions of William James, minimal art wanted it both ways: on the one hand, the tough-minded empiricism of Frank Stella’s remark that what you see is what you get; on the other, the elusive, tender-minded transcendence (never part of the official doxology) encoded by the purity of the formal spatial relations, whose lawlike severity implied a transcendent order reaching beyond the aesthetic phenomenalism.” Robert Morris, “Size Matters,” Critical Inquiry (Spring 2000)
4 “To see someone actually do it, to make a visual film, was hugely inspirational to me. He did—I can do it.... When 2001 first came out, I was in film school, where obviously it had a huge impact on me.... I think it was the first time people took science fiction seriously.” George Lucas, quoted in Standing on the Shoulders of Kubrick: The Legacy of 2001
5 “A lot of my interest in Apocalypse Now was carried over into Star Wars. I figured I couldn’t make that film because it was about the Vietnam War, so I would essentially deal with some of the same interesting concepts that I was going to use and convert them into space fantasy, so you’d have essentially a large technological empire going after a small group of freedom fighters or human beings.” George Lucas, quoted in The Making of Star Wars
Robert Morris, War, 1963
Storm trooper, Star Wars, 1977
Kubrick’s film presented a future of company men moving with assurance and clear intention toward a godlike minimalist object.1 Lucas, on the other hand, gave us a slapdash world of knuckleheads pursued by industrial-scale minimalists. Visually, Kubrick’s film is as seamless and smooth as the modernist authority it mirrored. 2 Like the mid-century modernists, 2001 associated abstraction with the progressive ideals of the United Nations as embodied by its New York headquarters.3 Lucas, on the other hand, was a nonbeliever. Even the initially smooth and unitary form of the Death Star was shown, as the rebel fighters skimmed its surface, to be deeply fissured with an ever-diminishing body of structural fragments. These crenulated details suggested a depth and complexity to modern life that modernism’s pure geometries often obscured.4
1 “We have been working with many, many companies; about fifty, really. IBM, General Electric in Philadelphia, RCA in Michigan, Bausch and Lomb in Rochester, New York, and so on down the list. Wherever we needed help, we’ve gone to industry and they have been more than delighted to give it to us.” Fred Ordway, scientific adviser and technical consultant, 2001: A Space Odyssey: A Look Behind the Future
2 “This spring, Dr. Wernher von Braun, director of NASA’s Marshall Space Center, said early next year we’ll flight-test the huge three-stage Saturn V rocket, which will transport three Apollo astronauts to the moon.... This amazing progress in space finds the American people less than well prepared to comprehend its social impact. Scientists maintain a dialogue with scientists, quite properly to be sure. But there remains a much-needed job of indoctrinating our public with the consequences.... One means of preparing ourselves for the future is to educate by entertainment.” Vernon Meyer, publisher of Look magazine, 2001: A Space Odyssey: A Look Behind the Future
3 “It hit me hardest of all when I was sitting behind U. Thant and Dr. Ralph Bunche in the Dag Hammarskjold Theater, watching a screening, which we had arranged at the United Nations’ Secretary General’s request. This, I suddenly realized, is where all the trouble started and this very building is where we are trying to stop it. Simultaneously, I was struck by the astonishing parallel between the shape of the monolith and the UN Headquarters itself; there seemed something quite uncanny about the coincidence. If it is one.” Arthur C. Clarke, Moonwatcher’s Memoir (2002), foreword
4 “Every city’s primary use, whether it comes in monumental and special guise or not, needs its intimate matrix of ‘profane’ city to work to best advantage.... Furthermore, a city matrix needs its own less spectacular internal minglings (‘jumbles’ to the simple-minded). Else it is not a matrix but, like housing projects, it is ‘profane’ monotony, working no more sensibly than the ‘sacred’ monotony of civic centers like San Francisco’s.” Jane Jacobs
UN Building, 1950
2001: A Space Odyssey, 1968
After World War II, machine aesthetics—a high level of fabrication and finish that was usually reserved for industrially manufactured products—was tainted by connections to dubious ideologies.1 The Italians had associated it with fascism, the Russians with communism, the French and Dutch with socialism;2 and in the US, the crass commercial appeal of art deco had made it lamebrain.
Greenberg argued that the development of abstract sculpture “was slowed down in the later forties and in the fifties by the fear that, if it became markedly clean-drawn and geometrical, it would look too much like machinery.” According to Greenberg, these earlier artists suffered from the “fear of [their work’s] not looking enough like art.” Through the 1960s, there was an anxiety surrounding “the look of machinery” among American artists.3
1 “Modernism was regularly outspoken about the barrenness of the working-class movement—its politics of pity, its dreary materialism, the taste of the masses, the Idea of Progress, etc. But this may have been because it sensed socialism was its shadow—that it too was engaged in a desperate, and probably futile, struggle to imagine modernity otherwise.” T. J. Clark, Farewell to an Idea (1999)
2 “Social realism in a Mies pavilion would be as unthinkable as a WPA mural in the Petit Trianon (except that the flat roof itself was a symbol of socialism in the 1920s).” Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown, & Steven Izenour, Learning from Las Vegas (1972)
3 “I am not interested in idealizing technology.” Sol LeWitt quoted in Smithson, “Entropy and the New Monuments” (1966), The Collected Writings
Diego Rivera, Man at the Crossroads, 1933
X-wing, Star Wars, 1977
In the late 1950s, the artist Robert Morris gave up an ignoble career as a railroad brakeman in Oregon, where he had been preparing antiquated steam engines for their trips across the Cascades. His recent accounts of his time working on the railroad portray a world that rivals the confusion, incompetence, and miscommunication experienced by Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp in Modern Times (1936).1 After delving into this latter-day machine-age work, Morris made the first minimalist box, trading the excitement, flux, and momentum of futurism’s dynamism (all of which were missing from his firsthand experiences of the supposedly dynamic world of locomotives) for stillness and control, which, he concluded, “is necessary if the variables of object, light, space, body are to function.”
By the time Morris started working as an artist in the early 1960s, the machine aesthetic and Taylorist ethic of standardization (and their leftist connotations) had been supplanted by the all-American (and ideologically pure) atomic-age look of NASA engineering.2 The brawny, grease-smeared mass production characteristic of automotive factories had been replaced by the ideal of skilled technicians in clean-room suits constructing spindly structures from foils and plastics.3 As NASA’s political star was in ascendancy, its shadow, the colorless deadpan of minimalist box art, conveyed a similar aura of competence, control, and calculation.4
1 Morris discussed his early work experience in and around rail yards, which culminated with him being blackballed as a brakeman in the late ’50s, as part of the Sculpture Center’s Subjective History series, in 2008.
2 “Consider the influential model of postmodernism developed by Jameson over the last decade. He adapts the long-wave theory of economic cycles elaborated by the economist Ernest Mandel, according to which the capitalist West has passed through four fifty-year periods since the late eighteenth century (roughly twenty-five years each of expansion and stagnation): the Industrial Revolution (until the political crises of 1848) marked by the spread of handcrafted steam engines, followed by three further technological epochs—the first (until the 1890s) marked by the spread of machined steam engines; the second (until World War II) marked by the spread of electric and combustion engines; and the third marked by the spread of machined electronic and nuclear systems.” Hal Foster
3 “The cultural picture in computing today therefore looks much as it did in transportation technology in the 1930s—everything tomorrow is going to be wildly faster than it is today, let alone yesterday. And this progress has been running for long enough that it’s seeped into the public consciousness. In the 1920s, boys often wanted to grow up to be steam locomotive engineers; politicians and publicists in the 1930s talked about ‘air-mindedness’ as the key to future prosperity. In the 1990s it was software engineers and in the current decade it’s the politics of internet governance.” Charles Stross,
“Shaping the Future”
4 “It signifies a new sophistication in bureaucratic circles that even dense and technical work of the intelligentsia, as long as it was self-censoring in its professional detachment from values, could be used ambassadorially as a commodity in the struggle for American dominance.” Max Kozloff, “American Painting During the Cold War,” in Francis Frascina, ed.,
Pollock and After (1973)
Robert Morris, 1974
Darth Vader, Star Wars, 1977
Greenberg’s modernism was founded on the premise of a seamless transition from one historical period to the next.1 The art historian Rosalind Krauss argued that minimalism was not explainable by “genealogical trees” and that the new art of the 1960s and 1970s represented a “definitive rupture” with modernism,2 suggesting that history was characterized more by fractures than continuities.3 Robert Smithson, who was just a few years younger than Morris, was at the forefront of the shift from minimalism to postminimalism. He began his career aping the clean polygons of the minimalists but soon became more interested in the systems and logic of production underlying such forms. Instead of looking to the polish of finished products, Smithson imagined pausing an industrial process—the building of a dam is one example he gives—and viewing the moment aesthetically, as a “discrete stage.”4 Kubrick showed little interest in the processes occurring beneath the spaceship Discovery One’s control panels; the ship was a vessel, and his characters were merely passengers. Lucas, meanwhile, gave us gearheads for pilots and delved deeper into Smithson’s brand of discrete-stage aesthetics, bringing to the fore the “mazes of transfer pipelines” and industrial ephemera celebrated by Smithson. Star Wars showed us the machine world midstride, not as a finished product;5 it taught us to love the blight and grime of industry.
1 “Profoundly historicist, Greenberg’s method conceives the field of art as at once timeless and in constant flux. That is to say that certain things, like art itself, or painting and sculpture, or the masterpiece, are universal, transhistorical forms. But in the same breath it is to assert that the life of these forms is dependent upon constant renewal, not unlike that of the living organism.” Rosalind Krauss, The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths (1986)
2 “It did not matter that constructivist forms were intended as visual proof of the immutable logic and coherence of universal geometries, while their seeming counterparts in minimalism were demonstrably contingent—denoting a universe held together not by Mind but by guy wires, or glue, or the accidents of gravity. The rage to historicize simply swept these differences aside.” Rosalind Krauss, “Sculpture in the Expanded Field,” October (1979)
3 “Statistics, multiple perspective, subjectivity, and self-reference, alone and together can be shown to have devolved from the collapse of ontological continuity. Severally they lead to the nonlogical, nonobjective, and essentially causeless mental universe in which we (with the exception of a few historians) now live.” William Everdell, The First Moderns (1997)
4 “The process behind the making of a storage facility may be viewed in stages, thus constituting a whole ‘series’ of works of art from the ground up. Land surveying and preliminary building if isolated into discrete stages may be viewed as an array of art works that vanish as they develop.” Robert Smithson, “Towards the Development of an Air Terminal Site” (1967), The Collected Writings
5 “The requisite awkward system of troughs, spouts, and pumps is mostly visible-an example of classically post-minimalist procedural candor.... Neglected of late, the tradition of mechanically engineered abstraction embraced two ideals: utopia and science. The first seems irrecoverable...but the second feels newly promising, in a time when technological advances outpace our imaginative resources.” Peter Schjeldahl, “Uncluttered,” the New Yorker (2008)
Robert Smithson, discrete stage abstraction, 1967
Death Star, discrete stage, Return of the Jedi, 1983
In the ten years that separated 2001 from Star Wars, the corruption of Watergate and the horrors of the Vietnam War revealed deep rifts beneath the veneer of American power and prestige.1 American political authority, which had seemed unassailable in the early ’60s, was in crisis. At home, riots and suburban flight had left cities around the country blighted and impoverished. Plans to “renew” those urban centers stoked political tensions. Those on the left felt that the proliferation of isolated corporate towers and massive turnpikes drained the life from cities, in the name of progress.2 Those on the right resented the New Deal–esque intrusions of federal government epitomized by puritanically utilitarian housing projects.3
In 1972, after crime had spiraled out of control in Pruitt-Igoe–low-income housing projects in St. Louis designed by Minoru Yamasaki–the "towers in a park" were abandoned and dynamited. To some, this failure signaled an end to programmatic modernism in architecture.4 Following the detonation of Pruitt-Igoe (and before the explosion of the Death Star), citizens watched nightly news reports of the war in Vietnam’s disgraceful end and the abandonment of the Apollo program. The goodwill that had been enjoyed by the US, and by extension NASA, was no longer.5 Not only did the American brand of progress fail to excite; to a growing majority, it had become the enemy.6 Americans were primed to cheer the destruction of their own power.
1 “I started to work on Star Wars rather than continue on Apocalypse Now.... [There would be] a small independent country like North Vietnam threatened by a neighbor or provincial rebellion, instigated by gangsters aided by empire.... The Empire is like America ten years from now, after gangsters assassinated the Emperor and were elevated to power in a rigged election.... We are at the turning point: fascism or revolution.” George Lucas, quoted in The Making of Star Wars
2 “Whitewash is extremely moral. Suppose there were a decree requiring all rooms in Paris to be given a coat of whitewash. I maintain that that would be a police task of real stature and a manifestation of high morality, the sign of a great people.” Le Corbusier, L’art décoratif d’aujourd’hui (1925)
3 “Through the twenties, as Manhattan is ‘removing stone by stone the Alhambra, the Kremlin and the Louvre’ to ‘build them anew on the banks of the Hudson,’ Le Corbusier dismantles New York, smuggles it back to Europe, makes it unrecognizable and stores it for future reconstruction.... It left as hedonistic instrument of the Culture of Congestion; it returns from Europe brainwashed, instrument of implacable Puritanism.” Rem Koolhaas, Delirious New York (1978)
4 “Pruitt-Igoe is a ruin. Like the Berlin Wall...this ruin has become a great architectural symbol. It should be preserved as a warning.” Charles Jencks, The Language of Post-Modern Architecture (1977)
5 “A rat done bit my sister Nell, with Whitey on the moon / Her face and arms began to swell, and Whitey’s on the moon / I can’t pay no doctor bill, but Whitey’s on the moon / Ten years from now I’ll be payin’ still, while Whitey’s on the moon” Gil Scott Heron, “Whitey on the Moon,” The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (1972)
6 “Minimalism’s fundamentally architectural, classical, visual language invites comparison with the classically founded architectural mode of the International Style. By the 1960s those elegant, precise and antiseptic-looking glass boxes that we recognize as the legacy of the International Style had become well established as the architecture of big business.” Anna Chave
Explosion of Pruitt-Igoe, St. Louis, 1972
Explosion of the Death Star, Star Wars, 1977
Since WWII, the call to make it new had swept away the incremental growth of old cities in favor of the pasteurized architecture of large-scale planning projects. Concurrently, the abstract expressionists had developed an avant-garde that traded in eccentric gestures and human nuance—one that American cold warriors could get behind.1 In the 1960s, however, as the modernist architects reached the peak of their power,2 minimalism replaced abstract expressionism at the fore of the new American canon.
However, there was no clear replacement for housing projects and corporate headquarters. Governments around the world continued to bulldoze and reconstruct whole cities despite the growing evidence that their citizens resented the massive scale (and monolithic character) of change. Thus, it was minimalism and not the drips of abstract expressionism that ended up as the model for official expressions of the US federal government. Maya Lin’s Vietnam memorial is the prime example of this appropriation.3 But it was followed by the memorial to the victims of the Oklahoma City bombings, by architects Hans and Torrey Butzer and Sven Berg, which builds on postminimalist procedural logic (see Bruce Nauman’s 1966 “A Cast of the Space Underneath My Chair”). Micheal Ayrad’s current World Trade Center memorial design adopts this same aesthetic of institutional grief.4
1 “By 1952 these artists, continuing the interest in social issues they inherited from the 1930s, did not see anything wrong with their political affiliations with Cold Warriors. But to say that de Kooning or Pollock were working with the CIA, the answer is of course no.” Serge Guilbaut, “Postwar Painting Games,” Reconstructing Modernism (1999)
2 “A second generation of Modern architects acknowledged only the ‘constituent facts’ of history, as extracted by Sigfried Giedion, who abstracted the historical building and its piazza as pure form and space in light. These architects’ preoccupation with space as the architectural quality caused them to read the buildings as forms, the piazzas as space, and the graphics and sculpture as color, texture, and scale. The ensemble became an abstract expressionism in architecture in the decade of abstract expressionism in painting.” Venturi, Brown, & Izenour
3 “A certain pinnacle of the Wagner effect was no doubt achieved in Lin’s Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. Exhibiting a strong gestalt form scavenged from minimal and earth art conventions, the black granite wall of names functions as a curtain drawn across governmental criminality. Criticality evaporates in this tight theater foregrounding private grief, the expression of which serves to effect closure on a national wound that should have been left open. Here is public art at its most devious and perverted.” Robert Morris, “Size Matters”
4 “Representing power in such an abrasive, terse and unapologetic way, the work none the less has a chilling effect: this is authority represented as authority does not usually like to represent itself; authority as authoritarian.” Anna Chave
Tony Smith, Die, 1965
Original Death Star model, Star Wars, 1977
Robert Smithson made his first moves beyond the boxy colorless forms of minimalism as the “artist-consultant” for the development of an air-terminal site.1 Smithson is famous for his earthworks—but it is important to remember that the earth that interested him was not an idealized and untouched landscape, but a terrain in constant flux.2 Lucas, like Smithson, rejected Edenic fantasies of a virgin wilderness, instead imagining a picturesque wasteland marked by human activity.3 To oppose the stamped-out world of the Death Star, Lucas created the Skywalker homestead, a mud-daubed pit-dwelling outfitted with hologram projectors, robots, and shield generators. It housed a family of moisture farmers—a step down from dirt farmers, one imagines—holding out among junk gleaners and nomads. Here, Indian mounds, marginal agricultures, and industrial remnants serve as indexes of human interaction with nature. 4 Smithson’s imagination of the natural world includes humanity and all its products, even turnpikes, strip mines, and dams.5 Likewise, the alien desert in Star Wars mirrors the American convergence of industrial complexes, abandoned airports, jungle-strangled ball courts, and poisoned drilling grounds that became the “expanded field” of American artists.6
1 Robert Smithson, “Towards the Development of an Air Terminal Site”
2 “The farmer or engineer who cuts into the land can either cultivate it or devastate it.... When one looks at cliff dwellings in Mesa Verde, one cannot separate art from nature. And one cannot forget the Indian mounds of Ohio.” Robert Smithson, “Fredrick Law Olmstead and The Dialectical Landscape” (1973), The Collected Writings
3 “The picturesque is located...between the grand pretensions and death drives of the sublime, and the agonized longing for an enthrallment by the beautiful. When an object becomes sublime it is the all, the totality, the incomprehensible. In short it becomes an idol. When an object is beautiful, we must have it, take possession of it, master it, and of course it inevitably enslaves us. In short it becomes a fetish.” W. J. T. Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want? (2005)
4 “[Spiral Jetty’s] location near a disused oil-drilling operation reflect Smithson’s great interest in rehabilitation of land damaged by industry. One of his last works was a proposal for the reclamation of a strip mine—he wanted to act as a mediator between ecology and industry by reclaiming the land in terms of art.” Peter Selz, Theories and Documents of Contemporary Art (1996)
5 “The making of artificial lakes, with the help of dams, brings into view a vast ‘garden.’ For instance, the Peligre Dam in the Republic of Haiti consists of 250-foot-high concrete buttresses. The massive structure, with its artificial cascades and symmetrical layout, stands like an immobile facade. It conveys an immense scale and power. By investigating the physical forms of such projects one may gain unexpected esthetic information. I am not concerned here with original ‘functions’ of such massive projects, but rather with what they suggest or evoke.” Robert Smithson, “Towards the Development of an Air Terminal Site”
6 “[Tony] Smith mentions other ‘abandoned’ sites artists like [Robert] Smithson soon entered, but one of his examples might qualify the avant-gardist value of this ‘expanded field’: the Nazi drill ground in Nuremberg designed by Albert Speer. In short, on the other side of traditional forms lies mass spectacle, and the desublimation of these forms can also abet a regression of the subject.” Hal Foster
Robert Smithson, Asphalt Rundown, 1969
Star Wars, 1977
While the Imperial aesthetic drew on NASA and minimalism, the Rebellion fused the machine world with the look of the desert wasteland inhabited by the Skywalkers. The rebel ships were set apart from Darth Vader’s fleet by their patinas of filth, grubby earth tones, asymmetrical builds, and improvised modifications.1 The Imperial ships in the first sequel were even larger, chief among them the Super Star Destroyers. (The rebel personnel transports in The Empire Strikes Back were made to look outdated and pathetic; the director, Irvin Kershner, said they were modeled after ships from 1930s science-fiction films.) The visual contrast supports a simple conflict: authoritarian technocracy versus the squalor and disorder endemic to the periphery. It’s important to note that Lucas did not portray the Imperium as a mechanized villain antagonizing a culture with stronger bonds to the natural world. He did not oppose the organic and the inorganic. There is no wilderness in Star Wars. In fact, the organic and the inorganic are hopelessly entangled; it’s the huge scale and the inimitable rigor of the Imperial forces that stand apart.2 Lucas did not abandon modernism, he pieced it together out of the debris of its own implosion. “George wanted all the rebel ships to look secondhand, old, and beat up,” said one member of the film’s crew. “He wanted them to look like they weren’t as well built or well designed as the Imperial ships”—like they had already been occupied for a long time. When Star Wars was released in 1977, the question was no longer whether we should live in machines.3 It was how we would occupy them. 4
1 “The flying hamburger was my favorite design.... I wanted something really off the wall, since it was the key ship in the movie; I wanted something with a lot more personality. I thought of the design on the airplane, flying back from London: a hamburger. I didn’t want it to be a flying saucer, but I wanted to have something with a radial shape that would be completely different from anything else.” George Lucas, quoted in The Making of Star Wars
2 “This conjunction of an immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American experience. The total influence—economic, political, even spiritual—is felt in every city, every statehouse, every office of the Federal government. We recognize the imperative need for this development. Yet we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications. Our toil, resources and livelihood are all involved; so is the very structure of our society. In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.” Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1961
3 “When the Engineers completed construction of the Peligre Dam, the waters flooded previously productive farmland and forced the residents into the surrounding desolate terrain. Old-timers lamented about the idyllic life in the days before the dam...and they all knew who benefited from the dam—the agribusinesses downstream and the wealthy elites who controlled these businesses along with their American backers.” Edward O’Neil, Awakening Hippocrates (2006)
4 “I can remember, as well, standing on the corner of 52nd Street and Third Avenue on a spring afternoon, six feet from a large citizen gouging the pavement with a jackhammer, and thinking about the Ramones, amazed at the preconscious acuity with which I had translated the pneumatic slap of the hammer into eighth-notes and wondering what part if any, of the pleasures and dangers of the ordinary world might rightly be considered ‘natural.’” Dave Hickey, Air Guitar (1997)
Robert Smithson, Terminal, 1966
Star Wars, 1977
The natural environment of man has yet to be built. Forward-facing eyes and dexterous hands suggest the forest canopy as a likely birthplace for this strange chimpanzee.1 The upright axis of its pelvis has convinced biologists that the savanna was crucial to its development. 2001 conformed to the orthodox viewpoint of 1960s anthropology, which suggested that humans had evolved from an aggressive, male-dominated hierarchy of carnivorous apes. This theory could be employed to justify modernist housing projects, which were intended to elevate man’s moral stature or to disparage cities as moral sinkholes. But theories diminishing the evolutionary primacy of Man the Hunter abounded. Elaine Morgan’s 1972 book Descent of Woman expanded Alistair Hardy’s theory of the aquatic ape: soft, hairless hides; salt-shedding sweat; buoyant babies covered with layers of fat; a vocal range alien to other apes and rivaled only by dolphins and whales—these traits suggest a period of aquatic life buried in our evolutionary record.
We are further set apart by our high, domed skulls and infantile facial features—those of an ancient omnivore in perpetual youth.2 Other apes turn out their lips to show desire, but the human’s lips are constantly turned out—an anomalous, permanent display.3 We are gregarious and live in groups,4 we are largely monogamous, and we are the only primate with a strong preference for concealed copulation. No one can say when Homo sapiens began dreaming of the future, but they are thought to have begun constructing cities fifty-five hundred years ago.5
1 “Modernity sees humanity as having descended from what is inferior to it—life begins in slime and ends in intelligence—whereas traditional cultures see it as descended from its superiors.” Houston Smith, quoted in Ray Kurzweil, The Singularity Is Near (2006)
2 “Neoteny, the fact—long recognized by embryologists—that the human brain is not completed, and not completely ‘wired,’ at the time of birth is what has given the cortex and neocortex their phylogenetic prevalence over older (both in embryological and evolutionary terms) cerebral structures and has allowed the formidable development of human intellectual capacities.... It will always be too soon to grant autonomy to human beings, and this is why humanity cannot be freed but only emancipated. It is bound to anticipate an adult stage that its very nature precludes—’bound’ in both the sense of a natural determination and of a moral obligation.” Thierry de Duve, Kant After Duchamp (1996)
3 “Our progress from being just another species of big mammal to being uniquely human therefore depended on the remodeling of our pelvises and skulls, but also of our sexuality.” Jared Diamond
4 “There never was a point at which we become social: descended from highly social ancestors—a long line of monkeys and apes—we have been group-living forever. Free and equal people never existed. Humans started out—if a starting point is discernible at all—as interdependent, bonded, and unequal. We come from a long lineage of hierarchical animals for which life in groups is not an option but a survival strategy. Any zoologist would classify our species as obligatorily gregarious.” Frans de Waal, Primates and Philosophers (2006)
5 “‘Togetherness’ is a fittingly nauseating name for an old ideal in planning theory. This ideal is that if anything is shared among people, much should be shared. ‘Togetherness,’ apparently a spiritual resource of the new suburbs, works destructively in cities. The requirement that much shall be shared drives city people apart.... There is no public life here, in any city sense. There are differing degrees of extended private life.” Jane Jacobs
Robert Morris, Wheels, 1963
Space station, 2001: A Space Odyssey, 1968
The title of Thomas More’s Utopia (1516) is “derived from the Greek topos (‘place’),” writes Françoise Choay. But it is also “qualified by the prefix U-, understood by More as a contraction of the negating ou- (‘non-place’) and as the adjective eu- (‘good-’ or ‘right-place’).” Beyond the enduring popularity of its title, the book is an important literary signpost marking the inauguration of modernization. In it, the natural world of the city of Utopia is realistically drawn—not as a medieval pastoral fantasy, but as a modern urban plan. Utopian literature is the first “aerial art,”1 giving the omniscient perspective of maps and master plans its first effective form. More proposed that, by reconfiguring and reordering public and private spaces,2 society could rid itself of greed, pride, and class.
If Utopia is a desire, it is the desire to tame and control the chaos of city life.3 But there is a Dark Side to Utopia: Its logic demands subordinating every private detail to unitary public policy.4 Utopia is control without hierarchy, power unbounded. Labor becomes process, while intimacy is mistaken for secrecy and denigrated as hieratic; personal space is lost to the idolatry of publicness, free of all intimate fancy,5 detail of play,6 and domestic life. These characteristics of Utopia’s Dark Side are common to both the Death Star and minimalism.
1 “Art today is no longer an architectural afterthought...but rather a total engagement with the building process from the ground up and the sky down. The old landscape of naturalism and realism is being replaced by the new landscape of abstraction and artifice.” Robert Smithson, “Aerial Art” (1969), The Collected Writings
2 “There is some [discussion of space] in Japanese and Korean literature, mixed with an astrology of place, called Pung-su in Korean and Feng Shui in Chinese, both meaning ‘wind and water,’ classed vaguely in English as ‘geomancy.’ But the subject of space in architecture, the nature of architecture, is not developed.” Donald Judd, “Some Aspects of Color in General and Red and Black in Particular,” Donald Judd Colorist (2000)
3 “Architects are out of the habit of looking nonjudgmentally at the environment, because orthodox Modern architecture is progressive, if not revolutionary, utopian, and puristic; it is dissatisfied with existing conditions. Modern architecture has been anything but permissive: Architects have preferred to change the existing environment rather than enhance what is there.” Venturi, Brown, & Izenour
4 “In these minute niches, indeed, we can observe the work of no less energy—call it wit, invention, decoration or ornament.” Fredric Jameson, Archaeologies of the Future (2005)
5 “Here then, the faculty which produces aesthetic or artistic decoration has suddenly become more public and more collective in its function than the ‘august shaping power’ of Imagination or primal wish-fulfillment, which sinks to a rather shameful and private activity that needs to be disguised at all costs.” Ibid.
6 “The term ‘detail’ is used here in a special negative sense and should be understood to refer to all factors in a work that pull it towards intimacy by allowing elements to separate from the whole, thus setting up relationships within the work.” Robert Morris, “Notes on Sculpture II”
Thomas More, Utopia, 1516
Le Corbusier, Plan Voisin for Paris, 1925
At its healthiest, utopianism desires to eradicate oppressive and destructive hierarchies. But when it aims to satisfy this desire through political action, it repeatedly degenerates into violence.1 Minimalism can be understood as an extraordinarily radical expression of the nominal utopian desires that drive modernization; the minimalists’ embrace of “nonhierarchical orderings” and their rejection of the “European tradition”2 are coded references to absolute equality.
More’s fantasy is that of a conquistador: He dreamed of a New World under the sway of a benevolent despot, Utopus, who “brought the rude and uncivilized inhabitants into such a good government, and to that measure of politeness, that they now far excel all the rest of mankind.” Further, it is a fantasy of enclosure. Utopus “designed [a deep trench] to separate them from the continent, and to bring the sea quite round them.”3 The New World city would resemble a monastery, protected from the Old World’s cosmopolitanism by a forbidding moat.4
Fredric Jameson argues that modernity begins with More and his contemporaries.5 One can choose 1516, as Jameson does, or just as easily 1792, 1871, 1968, 1977, or 2001.6
1 “[T]he theme of reprogramming (or deprogramming) is a neglected feature of Utopias that repress the problems of their transition or emergence, just as it is an essential feature of any Cultural Revolution, which must substitute new habits for those of the past and the old order. The reflexive paradoxes of reprogramming—the educators must themselves be educated or reeducated—are common to revolutions and Utopias alike.” Fredric Jameson
2 “So strong is the grip of the rhetoric of exaltation as an attitude in the large context of the European culture pattern that the elements of sublimity in the revolution we know as modern art, exist in its effort and energy to escape the pattern rather than in the realization of a new experience.... We are freeing ourselves of the impediments of memory, association, nostalgia, legend, myth or what have you, that have been devices of Western European painting.” Barnett Newman, “The Sublime Is Now,” Tiger’s Eye (1948)
3 “An immense, devastating brutal evolution has burned the bridges that link us with the past.” Le Corbusier, The Guiding Principals of Town-Planning (1925)
4 “Greece, the medieval, the Incas, Protestantism: these are the four crucial elements of More’s Utopian text, the four raw materials of its representation.... Nor is it without significance that both these social realities—the Inca empire and the monastic compound—are in the process of wholesale dissolution in More’s own time: the former by way of the Spanish conquest, the latter by way of Henry VIII’s reforms.” Fredric Jameson
5 “[A]lmost exactly contemporaneous with most of the innovations that we have seemed to define modernity (conquest of the New World, Machiavelli and modern politics, Ariosto and modern literature, Luther and modern consciousness, printing and the modern public sphere).” Ibid.
6 “We have been calling ourselves ‘modern’ in the West since the sixteenth century. In a more than graceful gesture to our past, we began a hundred years ago to term ‘modern’ everything that had happened to us since the fourteenth century.” William Everdell
Sol LeWitt, Serial Project No. 1 (ABCD), 1966
Death Star modular tiling, Star Wars, 1977
The Apocalypse of St. John, written in the early second century, depicts a series of visions of a great city of jewels and gold descending from the sky. Modernization is a disastrous conflation of More and St. John. Whereas More described a city floating over the landscape as a conceptual order (grid), St. John described it as a vision (God). (His vision was brought to life with the descent of the mother ship in Steven Spielberg’s 1977 film Close Encounters of the Third Kind.) Utopia, understood as vision, turns cities into segregated and isolated barracks: machines for living (grid as God).1 The metaphor of the ship as a floating city is as old as ships and cities,2 but the fantasy of making cities in the image of ships is utopian and modern.3 Since the end of WWII, flying saucers have been the dream ships of our civilization.4 Until Star Wars, they took the form of encapsulated planned cities. They are textbook examples of “total design”: Every detail, from program and plan to the integration of furniture, lighting hardware, and plumbing fixtures, looks as if it were designed by a single all-powerful architect. Star Wars, however, offers us two very different cities in microcosm, two very different kinds of ship. 5
1 “Concentration camps were in fact a very modern invention—modern in their insistence on analysis and fragmentation.... For the concentration camp was invented and given its name at the same time as cubism and quantum physics, by the same civilized Westerners.” William Everdell
2 “In truth, a man-of-war is a city afloat, with long avenues set out with guns instead of trees, and numerous shady lanes, courts, and by ways. The quarter-deck is a grand square, park, or parade ground, with a great Pittsfield elm, in the shape the main mast, at one end, and fronted at the other by the Commodore’s cabin.” Herman Melville, White-Jacket (1892)
3 “Early Modern architects appropriated an existing and conventional industrial vocabulary without much adaptation. Le Corbusier loved grain elevators and steam ships; the Bauhaus looked like a factory; Mies refined the details of American steel factories for concrete buildings.” Venturi, Brown, & Izenour
4 “In civilizations without boats, dreams dry up, espionage takes the place of adventure, and the police take the place of pirates.” Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces,” trans J. Miskowiec, Diacritics (1986)
5 “In Gulliver’s Travels (1726), Jonathan Swift presents both an extended parody of experimental science and a vision of a terrifying superweapon, a flying island used by its rulers literally to crush any earthly opposition to their tyranny.” H. Bruce Franklin, “What Is Science Fiction and How It Grew,” Reading Science Fiction, eds. James Gunn, Marleen Barr, and Matthew Candelaria (forthcoming from Palgrave Macmillan, London)
Wassily Kandinsky, Composition VII, 1913
Mother ship, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, 1977
The Death Star is a flying saucer that has been inflated to the size of a moon. Like the minimalist art it resembles, the Death Star is a utopia stripped of all progressive justification: It has monastic barracks, its sexuality is defined negatively (see Darth Vader’s masochistic garb), and its entryway is a breach in the “equatorial trench.”1 In contrast, the other saucer in Star Wars is a filthy “incremental city” of jury-rigged hand-me-downs.2 This seedy saucer accommodated the details of everyday life, replete with drinking, gambling, sexual flirtation, and bickering. It harbors all the chaos of the unplanned street: rebel scum, smugglers, hicks and hermits, all navigating their own lives for good or ill.3
A flying saucer had never been a slum before. The immaculate silver sheen of the saucer was reinvented as a dingy Dumpster full of boiler parts, dirty dishes, and decomposing upholstery. Lucas’s visual program not only captured the stark utopian logic that girded modern urban planning, it surpassed it.4 The Millennium Falcon resisted the modernist demand for purity and separation, pushing into the eclecticism of the minimalist expanded field.5 Its tangled bastard asymmetry made it a truer dream ship than any of its purebred predecessors. It is the first flying saucer imagined as architecture without architects.6
1 “[More] seems to have ceased all sexual relations at a relatively early age, and to have worn a hair shirt the rest of his life.” Fredric Jameson
2 “Total design is the opposite of the incremental city that grows through the decisions of many: total design conceives a messianic role for the architect as a corrector of the mess of urban sprawl; it promotes a city dominated by pure architecture and maintained through ‘design review,’ and supports today’s architecture of urban renewal and fine arts commissions.” Venturi, Brown, & Izenour
3 “Now that the masses have solved the problem of pleasure, they present the elite elsewhere on the island with the problem of the masses.... ‘There is scarcely any variety of human flotsam and jetsam that is not represented in this permanent population.... Every defaulting cashier, every eloping couple, every man or woman harboring suicidal intent...comes flocking to it from every part of the island’ to be exposed to ‘a concentrated sublimation of all the mean petty, degrading swindles which depraved ingenuity has ever devised to prey upon humanity.’” Rem Koolhaas
4 “Leia is dressed in white and is part of the technological world—black white and gray.... She has a spaceship, but she would have been a stranger if she had gone to Tatooine, the natural world, tan, brown, and green.... Artoo fits in with everything [on the Death Star] because he is primarily white. We made the stormtroopers white, too (also to mix things up, so not all the bad guys were dressed in dark colors).... The only thing that we varied a little bit was the Han Solo costume: He’s dressed in browns and has a spaceship, because he is an eclectic. He takes from everything.” George Lucas, quoted in The Making of Star Wars
5 “But what appears as eclectic from one point of view can be seen as rigorously logical from another.” Rosalind Krauss, “Sculpture in the Expanded Field”
6 “Apart from theaters and ball parks [saucers], the occasional communal space that is big is a space for crowds of anonymous individuals without explicit connection with each other.” Venturi, Brown, & Izenour
John Chamberlain, Gondala Ezra Pound, 1983
Millennium Falcon, Star Wars, 1977
Minimalist art was an extreme but characteristic example of abstract artists’ attacks on the umbilicus of art history.1 Mario Bava’s Planet of the Vampires, which Smithson calls “a movie about entropy,” is typical of sci-fi films of the era, presenting a future that is not attached to any particular past but does remain fettered by the concept of utopia. Like the glittering lapidary surfaces and organic forms of Brancusi and other modern masters, the future was going to leave history behind.2 In Bava’s film, a pair of sleek spaceships approach a clouded planet to investigate the possibility of life. 2001, Star Wars, and NASA’s own rockets especially projected a future that in no way resembled Planet of the Vampires’ seamless world. Bava’s film is an obsolete future.
1 “Art at the present is confined by a dated notion, namely ‘art as a criticism of earlier art.’” Robert Smithson, “Towards the Development of an Air Terminal Site”
2 “Modernism injected a new kind of heroism into the civic realm. Enormous abstract sculptures, landed like spacecraft in front of courthouses or shopping malls, have tended to be—with the exception of, say, a Calder stabile—as still as a tomb and as eternal.” Cathleen McGuigan, “The Hottest New York Exhibit Is So Big, It Won’t Fit in a Museum,” Newsweek (2008)
Constantin Brancusi, Bird in Space, 1923
Planet of the Vampires, 1965
Minimalism both consummated and ruptured the American canon; it was an abrupt shift away from the idiosyncratic handmade compositions of postwar artists, to the machined, depersonalized aesthetic of “one thing after another,” as Donald Judd described it.1 The Death Star registered this sea change, but the Millennium Falcon exceeded it, offering a compelling alternative to the efficiency of “less is more,”2 a machined environment subject to accident and happenstance.
Lucas attempted to reproduce the sense of immersion in an alien culture that he experienced while watching Akira Kurosawa’s historical dramas for the first time.3 The Hidden Fortress made a particular impression on Lucas. The film follows the misadventures of two peasants fleeing their own army after being mistaken for enemy soldiers and forced to bury the dead. They are the lowest of the low, dressed in rags stiff with filth and stinking of carrion. It is though their eyes that Kurosawa’s film unfolds. Star Wars follows two equally worn and dirt-streaked losers, who happen to be robots. Kurosawa created historical realism by layering his sets and characters with patina, wear, and filth. Lucas created a realistic future out of distressed surfaces, oil stains, and a soundscape that included grinding gears and backfires.4 Kurosawa called his attention to realism “immaculate reality”; Lucas called his a “used future.”
1 “The purest examples that come to mind from the early 1960s are both by Robert Morris...quasi architectural integers whose status as sculpture reduces almost completely to the simple determination that it is what is in the room that is not really the room.” Rosalind Krauss, “Sculpture in the Expanded Field”
2 [But critics] demonstrated that the functionalists, despite their protestations, derived a formal vocabulary of their own, mainly from current art movements and industrial vernacular.” Venturi, Brown, & Izenour
3 “‘Hidden Fortress was an influence on Star Wars right from the very beginning,’ Lucas says.... One of his notes summarizes Lucas’s thinking: ‘Whole film must be told from robots’ point of view.’” J. W. Rinzler
4 “George Lucas...wanted the sounds in the film to sound natural. He wasn’t interested in perhaps what was the tradition in science fiction films which was to generate electronic sounds and synthesized sounds that would have an otherworldly quality. He wanted the sounds to have a worldly quality. That they would sound like real objects, real motors, actual places. The doors would be rusty on the space ships or the places where people lived. The engines would sound like that they were maybe mis-tuned or would backfire once in a while. He wanted a used universe in a sense.” Ben Burt, Star Wars DVD commentary
Rebel scum, Hidden Fortress, 1958
Rebel scum, Star Wars, 1977
Lucas’s “used future” benefited, however inadvertently, from the urban-planning ideas of Jane Jacobs. In her 1961 tract The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jacobs uses the term Utopian to describe the inclination of reform-minded urban planners toward reductive social engineering. The notion of a “used future” upends the core premise of the utopian reasoning behind postwar urban renewal: The future was not going to be new. But neither would it be a return to the past. While Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner enjoys much greater critical acclaim and academic acceptance than Star Wars,1 its historical eclecticism widely seen as iconic of postmodernism, the director’s visual program very intentionally followed the one set forth by Lucas. The conventional reading of Blade Runner’s dystopia2 reduces the film to what Robert Venturi called a “decorated shed”: a familiar structure, be it a slab tower or a noir detective story, wrapped in a Dickian aesthetic of “kipple”—the look of which owes a great deal to the Star Wars production team.3 But Blade Runner’s vision of a dense, complex city life is actually more akin to Rem Koolhaas’s Manhattanism than to Venturi’s Las Vegas strip.4 The film belongs to the minor characters and extras, the cast-offs who eke out a living in the city’s aging structures.5 Reducing Blade Runner’s set design to a grand experiment in monumental historic eclecticism misses the point. Star Wars showed that we do not have to return to nineteenth-century pastiche and the top-down hierarchies it represents; instead, we can look forward to a future of incremental cities built by competing but interdependent players.6
1 “Who is more foolish: the fool, or the fool who follows him?” Obi-Wan Kenobi, Star Wars (1977).
2 “The greatest achievement of the human brain is its ability to imagine objects and episodes that do not exist in the realm of the real, and it is this ability that allows us to think about the future. As one philosopher noted [M. M. Haith], the human brain is an ‘anticipation machine’ and ‘making future’ is the most important thing it does.” Daniel Gilbert, Stumbling on Happiness (2006)
3 “Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner [1982], offers an elegant futuristic melancholy very much at odds with its literary source, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? [1966].... Dick is notoriously the epic poet of entropy and of the transformation of the world into kipple, the layer of dust, the rotting of all that is solid, a destruction of form itself that is worse than death.” Fredric Jameson
4 “The Culture of Congestion proposes the conquest of each block by a single structure.... On each floor the Culture of Congestion will arrange new and exhilarating human activities in unprecedented combinations. Through Fantastic technologies it will be possible to reproduce all ‘situations’—from the most natural to the most artificial—wherever and whenever desired.... The Culture of Congestion is the culture of the 20th century.” Rem Koolhaas
5 “Cities need old buildings so badly it is probably impossible for vigorous streets and districts to grow without them. By old buildings I mean...plain, ordinary, low-value old buildings, including some rundown old buildings.... Old ideas sometimes use old buildings. New ideas must use old buildings.” Jane Jacobs
6 “Human self-awareness is a psycho-social phenomena resulting from feedback in modeling the behavior of one’s neighbor, and, almost coincidentally, modeling one’s own behavior to make sure we’ll fit into social activities.... Self is not an illusion; it’s real. But not unitary, it’s not primary, and it’s not always in charge.” Greg Bear, Darwin’s Children (2003)
Las Vegas Strip
Blade Runner, 1982
Nine years before the premiere of Star Wars, Robert Smithson was wandering through New Jersey’s exhausted landscapes of abandoned airports and mirrored lobbies. Sixteen years before Star Wars was made, Robert Morris was producing the first minimalist boxes and Jane Jacobs published her assault on the top-down hubris of urban planning. These were real rebellions, against an empire of creative destruction that had designated crowded apartment blocks and well-worn neighborhoods as slums and was bent on razing them.
Unlike the residential architecture of Robert Venturi, which invokes bygone palaces,1 Star Wars was not a retreat to the imagery of past.2 Lucas was not reacting against the dominant program of faux-industrial imagery, which Venturi righteously criticized. Venturi’s passive ambit of comforting the old with a palatial appliqué had nothing to do with the modernist compulsion to make it new.3 Lucas, like Smithson, Morris, and Jacobs, dug deep into the dominant ethic of rationalizing the inconsistencies and contradictions of modern senescence. Star Wars built on the radicalism and procedural logic of minimalism and made a bold visual assertion, proposing a future “drawn not from how it ought to be, but from how it is.”4 In defiance of conventional wisdom, Lucas revealed a place that was modern, but not new, a future long occupied, unfinished, worldly. Modernity is the presumption that the natural environment for man has yet to be built. Lucas was the first to imagine that future built environment as already old.5
1 “The white-glazed brick denotes decoration as a unique and rich appliqué on the normal red brick. Through the location of the white areas and stripes on the façade, we have tried connotatively to suggest floor levels associated with palaces and thereby palace—like scale and monumentality.” Venturi, Brown, & Izenour
2 “The world has arrived at a period which renders it the part of Wisdom to pay homage to the perspective precedents of the Future in preference to those of the past. The Past is dead, and has no resurrection; but the Future is endowed with such life, that it lives to us even in anticipation. The Past is, in many things, the foe of mankind; the Future is, in all things, our friend. In the Past is no hope; the Future is both hope and fruition. The Past is the text-book of tyrants; the Future the Bible of the Free. Those who are solely governed by the Past stand like Lot’s wife, crystallized in the act of looking backwards, and forever incapable of looking before.” Herman Melville
3 “By originality here I mean more than just the kind of revolt against tradition that echoes in Ezra Pounds ‘Make it new!’ or sounds in the futurists promise to destroy the museums that cover Italy as though with countless cemeteries.’ More than a rejection or dissolution of the past, avant-garde originality is conceived as a literal origin, a beginning from ground zero, a birth.” Rosalind Krauss, The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths
4 “The pseudoscience of city planning and its companion, the art of city design, have not yet broken with the specious comfort of wishes, familiar superstitions, oversimplifications, and symbols, and have not yet embarked upon the adventure of probing the real world.” Jane Jacobs
5 “Well-subsidized opera and art museums often go into new buildings. But the unformalized feeders of the arts-studios, galleries, stores, for musical instruments and supplies, backrooms where the low earning power of a seat and a table can absorb the uneconomic discussions—these go into old buildings.” Ibid.
Star Destroyer, The Empire Strikes Back, 1980
Daniel Libeskind, abandoned proposal for V&A
Thirty years after the premiere of Star Wars, the strange chimpanzee crossed another threshold. For the first time in fifty-five hundred years of building cities, more of humanity now lives in them than in rural settlements.1 In the coming years there will be countless master plans for new mega-cities in Africa, Asia, and South America.2 We can only hope that these plans will be drawn by disciples of Jane Jacobs, students of Robert Morris, admirers of Robert Smithson, and fans of Star Wars.3
1 “10% of the world’s population lived in cities in 1900, 50% live in cities today, 75% is an estimate for the year 2050.” Ricky Burdett and Phillipp Rode,
The Endless City (2008)
2 “Asia has been in the grip of a relentless process of building, on a scale that has probably never existed before. A maelstrom of modernization is destroying, everywhere, existing Asian conditions and creating completely new urban substance. The absence, on the one hand, of plausible, universal doctrines, and the presence, on the other, of an unprecedented intensity of new production, create a unique wrenching condition: the urban condition seems to be least understood at the moment of its very apotheosis.” Rem Koolhaas, “City of Exacerbated Difference” (
The Great Leap Forward (2001)
3 “If time is a place, then innumerable places are possible.” Robert Smithson, “Entropy and the New Monuments”
Death Star, Return of the Jedi, 1983
OMA, RAK Gateway master plan, 2006