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Despre demolare şi memorie
Cătălin
BERESCU
Aveam 15 ani cînd
Ceauşescu a început să demoleze Bucureştiul. Este vîrsta la care
îţi abandonezi ezitările pentru a deveni brusc un radical.
Ştiam, dintr-o dată, ce uram: şcoala, televiziunea, muzica
populară cîntată de ţărănci cu sandale de lac. Eram
încă ezitant în a numi lucrurile care îmi plăceau. Nu ştiam
încă dacă voi deveni fotbalist sau arhitect (recunosc, uneori mai
regret şi acum alegerea). Mai multe lucruri concurau pentru a deveni prima
mea dragoste: desenul, chitara, plus o fată mică şi foarte
creaţă care îmi zîmbea năucitor lăsîndu-mă
fără glas. Am început să chiulesc sistematic. Aşa mi-am
întîlnit prima dragoste.
Hoinăream cu orele prin
vechile cartiere ale Bucureştiului. Mă opream din loc în loc, în
faţa vreunei biserici sau vreunei case frumoase şi stăteam cu
orele pe cîte o treaptă privind oamenii şi strada. Eram întotdeauna
singur, prea concentrat asupra locului care îmi aducea atîta bucurie pentru a
mai şti că e posibil să şi împărtăşeşti
o astfel de iubire. Era atît de uşor să descopăr noi locuri
şi să le urmăresc cum se schimbă în funcţie de
subtilele mele strategii de vagabondaj sistematic – unul cu metodă şi
rigoare. Colecţionam detalii cu voluptatea unui entomolog şi
stări ale luminii pe cîte o faţadă cu exactitate de exponometru.
Dintr-o dată însă a trebuit să accept că obiectul dragostei
mele a dispărut.
Nu sînt un iubitor fanatic
al Bucureştiului. (În ziua de azi ura împotriva lui este atît de mare
încît mă mir că el mai există pe hartă.) Nu agreez nici
romantismul de mucava al celor care se străduiesc să îl evoce ca fostul-viitor
“mic Paris”. Chiar dacă mă proiectez într-un univers al amintirilor
dulcege – ca un om care are amintiri adevărate, din al căror
prestigiu se hrăneşte, contemporan carevasăzică cu
întîmplări şi fapte istorice – nu sînt un nostalgic de felul celor
care zic “pe vremea mea…”. Nici măcar nu sînt sigur că a existat o
“vreme” a mea. Dar sînt sigur că împărtăşesc sentimentul de
pierdere irecuperabilă a Bucureştiului cu mulţi dintre
concitadinii mei. Am mai descoperit şi că felul în care judec
astăzi starea oraşului are mai puţin de-a face cu faptul că
sînt arhitect şi mai mult cu felul în care regimul Ceauşescu a
acţionat asupra memoriei noastre.
O şesime din aria
totală a Bucureştiului a fost demolată în decurs de cîţiva
ani. Un caz fără precedent pentru un oraş pe timp de pace.
Puţini oameni au reacţionat deschis la ceea ce se întîmpla. Toţi
ceilalţi erau prea ocupaţi să supravieţuiască.
Amintirile ar trebui să fie pure şi să ne ajute să
clarificăm lucrurile. Asta se întîmplă atunci cînd citeşti datele
istorice: “În 1984, demolarea radicală şi construcţia au început
într-o arie centrală rezidenţială a Bucureştilor,
mărginită la Dîmboviţa (la nord), bulevardul George Coşbuc
şi Calea Rahovei (la est), Strada Sabinelor (la sud) şi străzile
Izvor şi 13 Septembrie (la vest). Totul a fost dărîmat: case
boiereşti, vile, case-parter sau cu etaj, toate înconjurate de
grădini, mici clădiri cu trei sau patru apartamente, clădiri
publice, biserici, monumente istorice…”[1]
Autoritatea unei
instanţe contaminată de raţionalitate se răsfrînge asupra
noastră:
“Schitul Maicilor, monument
istoric: Biserica a fost reconstruită în 1762, restaurată în 1896,
apoi după cutremurul din 1940 şi în 1955-1958. Biserica a fost
mutată cu 245 m printr-o operaţie complexă care, în sine, a
reprezentat o importantă realizare tehnică. Monumentul este ascuns
acum în timp ce clădirile adiacente şi întreaga stradă au fost
demolate.”[2]
Deîndată ce
abandonăm datele şi începem să ascultăm voci cărora le
cerem să recompună epoca ne trezim în faţa unei viziuni mult mai
lipsite de vigoare, de o neclaritate care se încăpăţînează
să mimeze complexitatea. Cei care locuiesc acum clădirile de pe
Bulevardul Unirii, cei care îşi doresc să locuiască acolo ca şi
cei care au lucrat la planşetă în epocă împart o viziune
incertă asupra vinovăţiei. Ca în orice regim post-totalitar
toată vina pare să migreze spre fostul dictator. În viziunea
profesioniştilor el împarte o parte din responsabilitate cu arhitecta Anca
Petrescu, singura care îşi asumă drepturi de proprietate
intelectuală asupra clădirii Casei Republicii (dar care nu are nici o
contribuţie la demolările din zonă). Demisia de la memorie a
celor 300 de arhitecţi care au lucrat pentru casă – toţi
susţin că au lucrat temporar şi numai în poziţii nesemnificative
– şi preţul uluitor la care au ajuns apartamantele “de la fîntîni”
sînt dovada că ştergerea memoriei s-a produs. Sînt dovada că
accentul pus de propaganda comunistă pe construirea unui viitor mai bun
şi-a făcut un loc trainic în mintea noastră.
Demolarea e o încercare de
eradicare a memoriei. Sînt rare cazurile în care o clădire să nu
suporte o conversie sau o refuncţionalizare. Dar miza demolării nu a
fost aici construirea unui oraş mai bun ci ştergerea unui strat de
istorie. Numai cel puternic, cuceritorul barbar, poate face tabula rasa.
Demolarea este, în acest caz, o pedeapsă. Dimensiunea biblică se
suprapune cu cea politică. Casele boiereşti şi chiar
clădirile cu trei-patru apartamente pomenite de Dinu Giurescu sînt
purtătoarele unui păcat politic care nu poate fi şters prin nici
un fel de conversie. Voinţa politică nu este aici decît sprijinul
ideologic dat violenţei intituţionalizate, prerogativă a
statului totalitar care, din perspectiva de astăzi, pare a avea o
singură faţă – cea a lui Ceauşescu. Ambiguitatea şi
dubiul apar prin înfăşurarea discursului punitiv în cel progresist.
Orice regim totalitar va
folosi însă acest instrument fără nici cea mai mică ezitare
pentru că demolările sînt un acompaniament eroic pentru schimbare.
Orice revoluţie va face uz de acelaşi discurs dublu pentru a marca
trecerea. Căderea Bastiliei şi demolarea Reichstagului sînt probabil
cele mai cunoscute exemple.
Dar Bucureştiul nu avea
o Bastilie. Duşmanul de clasă era mai difuz. El crease un oraş
coerent, un spaţiu cu o striaţie proprie, ca să folosim termeni
deleuzieni. Trecerea la un alt tip de striaţie nu se putea face decît prin
intermediul unui spaţiu lis. Consecinţele psihologice majore asupra
locuitorilor – în condiţiile în care mediul construit are de multe ori
aceaşi valoare ca o rudă – au fost majore. Schimbarea lentă de
generaţii pe care o constituie creşterea şi descreşterea
caselor a fost aici înlocuită cu execuţia sumară şi
brutală. Crima s-a reflectat în mod imediat în morţi premature ale
celor evacuaţi.
Starea actuală a
centrului Bucureştiului, disfuncţional, inegal şi urît este
descrisă de preferinţă prin metafora rănii care
aşteaptă vindecarea. Vorbim mereu despre oraş uitînd că
demolarea, rana iniţială a vizat mai mult oamenii şi un mod de
viaţă decît nişte clădiri în sine. A fost un gest împotriva
libertăţii şi asta nu numai în termeni politici. Tindem să
vedem oraşul ca un organism, ca o structură capabilă de a
reacţiona coerent, predictibil şi omogen. Ar fi adevărat
dacă am mai avea memorie. Oasele cele noi ar creşte lîngă oasele
cele vechi, am avea ochi noi cu care să vedem lucrurile frumoase tot
aşa cum le vedeam şi cu cei vechi. Dar realitatea spune că
oamenii dau multe zeci de mii de dolari pe un apartament caraghios de pe
bulevardul Unirii, tot ea ne arată că aleşii poporului au
cheltuit sute de miliarde de lei pentru a termina lucrările începute de
Ceauşescu şi că, în timp de 14 ani, pe terenurile virane din
jurul Casei Republicii au crescut doar 20 de oţetari şi nişte
leagăne. Nu-i aşa că demolarea a reuşit?
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On demolition
Catalin BERESCU
Bucharest in
the 80’s
I was 16
when Ceausescu started to demolish Bucharest. It is the age when you abandon
your hesitations and turn into a radical. I knew what I hated – at that moment
the school, the state television, the popular music. I was still hesitating about
what and how I will love. I was still not sure if I’ll become a football player
or an architect (I admit I sometimes regret I didn’t choose the first). Many
things where competing to become my first true love: drawing, guitar, rock
music and, of course, a little curly hair girl named Emilia. I started to skip
classes; I was a really bad student. But this is how I met my first true love.
I was
rambling for hours in the green quarters of central Bucharest. I stopped from
time to time sitting in front of a church and watching people passing by. I was
always alone, too concentrated on the streets that where bringing me so much
happiness and still unaware of the fact that you can share this kind of love.
It was so easy to discover new places and then to see how they reconfigure
according to the subtle strategies of my detours, to watch the changes during
the beautiful Bucharest autumn. I was collecting details with the
voluptuousness of an entomoligst. The streets of Bucharest became the first
victims of my teenager radical love. For the whole period of my high school
studies I rambled systematically, almost with a method. Then I had to admit
that the object of my love has disappeared.
I am not a
Bucharest loving freak. I don’t like the romanticism that struggles to bring
back bits and pieces of the formerly “little Paris”. But I share the feelings
of an irrecoverable lost with a lot of my fellow citizens. I discovered that my
architect training has little to do with the way I see and judge the actual
state of the city. It has more to do with the way the totalitarian regime acted
on our conscience and memories.
One sixth
of the total area of Bucharest was demolished in several years. Few people
reacted openly at this massacre. All of the others where too busy with the
tricky business of surviving.
It all
started with the great earthquake from 1977. It is a common place to say now
that this inspired Ceausescu in demolishing Bucharest. The obsessive propaganda
on the topic new regime vs. old regime, on “the amazing achievements of the
proletary forces allied with the peasants and the intellectuals” vs. “palaces
build by the bourgeoisie and the latifundiaries through exploitation of the
masses” was already solved, as a real estate problem, by the nationalization of
almost anything in 1948. Although it was an important point on the propaganda
agenda the private property was not a political threat for the communists.
Large palaces where turned into museums or city halls, mansions into
dispensaries or kindergartens, luxury apartments into social houses for those
with “healthy social origins”. But old buildings bare the whole personality of
the epoch and person that produced them. Even if they where converted “the
enemy of our revolutionary regime” was still there. Occupying the house,
stealing the goods and the property, banning or killing the owners were the
first steps. Now, the regime was at the apex of its stability. No free press,
no political parties, no private initiative, no dissidence or samizdat. The
Party and Securitate had absolute power. Except over the memories.
This is the
context of the great earthquake. Like my parents and all other people coming
from the countryside Ceausescu was showing respect mixed with envy and hate to
the old buildings. The memories of a poor childhood and the fabulous distance
from the adobe houses they were born in and the fancy eclectic palaces, now
their offices, was the reason for this attitude. The houses were seen as
national values but they also embodied the bitterness of “generations of poor
peasants fiercely exploited to insure the luxury of the establishment”. Hate
and dogmatic repression were so generalized at the time the regime changed that
even small apartments of regular functionaries were nationalized and the owners
thrown out and sent to forced labor. Even with this massive change of
population the city was still conserving its elegant look – a green city with
coquette houses hiding under secular trees and several large boulevards
surrounded by modern cubist architecture. Bucharest can still be considered one
of the largest architectural reservations for modern architecture in the world.
The
earthquake material consequences were significant but not disastrous. With a
number of almost 1000 death and around 30 buildings collapsed Bucharest was not
touched in his very heart. But it appears that this led to the idea that the
old city and the old buildings were no longer secure. Ceausescu inspected
personally the sites of the disaster. To quote Stefan Ciurel, former investment
responsible for the Civic Center Project “this was the moment when he realized
that the prestigious old buildings are not immortal. That you can wipe them out
in a single night”. After the necessary replacements the life did not get back
to normal. Everything was going to change.[3]
The razing
The year
1984 was the beginning of the largest demolition action of the decade in the
whole world. It intended to create room for the largest building in Europe (the
second largest administrative building in the world after Pentagon) and for the
so-called “Civic Center”. Its final result was the radical reconstruction of
the center of Bucharest. Some other 29 cities were already in the process;
their cores were replaced by civic Centers in a proportion of 90%. Ceausescu
was visiting the new places, on a regular basis, large manifestations were held
in previously insignificant places. The systematization of rural areas was
aiming to erase 3000 villages.
But this
was different. That is why it didn’t started with Bucharest. And this is why
there was no official comment, no data and a very discrete propaganda for the
project. The secrecy that entoured the main building has created myths which
still exists. Hundreds of foreign tourists are visiting the house every day
while more than half of the people of Bucharest are convinced that you cannot
enter The House without a special permit.
The
displacements of the churches started in 1986. Moving the churches was a
memorable event itself. (pictures of the sliding) A heroic action praised as a
wonder of the technique covered now by shame and oblivion. Mihai Voda church
was translated 227 meters and then surrounded by blockhouses. Schitul Maicilor
slid for 245 meters to stop behind ten stories building. Hiding the churches
was the strategy of the moment. Thirteen of them were displaced and almost 30,
among whom we can count Vacaresti and Cotroceni, masterpieces of Brincovenesc
style and Sf. Spiridon Vechi, the oldest church in Bucharest, were demolished.
The same engineer who coordinated the displacement swore in front of the nation
(that means on TV) that he will have no peace until he will not bring back the
churches. There was also a project made by a young architect, Radu Negulescu,
as part of a religious architecture exhibition, to bring back the church this
time sliding away a ten storey block of flats and to recreate the monastery
around it.
What an
amazing action and what an amazing ambition to reverse the process.
The wound,
the healing
Memories
are supposed to be pure and to bring a sense of clarity. This is how you feel
when you read historical data. It is the authority of an instance that is
contaminated by rationality. But as you abandon this instance and listen to
real people talking about the same period you are trying to recompose you
always get a more mild, somehow complex vision of the facts. Personal vision
has to do less with judgment and more or less with personal history. One can
easily came to the conclusion that statistic data is the only reliable source:
Ceausescu demolished 1/6th of the total territory of
Bucharest, mainly the historical core. The city was hit in the Khora. But many
other people, and not necessarily Ceausescu’s fans, can tell you that he built
houses for the people…. Yes, there were some excesses, but the guilty one was
already punished. The House of the Republic, now the Parliament Palace is “the
expression of the genius of the Romanian people”, as Jacques Santerre, former
president of UE Council declared at his first visit. It is made of millions of
tons of concrete and steel, tens of thousands of square meters of marble etc.
You have to help them to remember the starvation, the lack of energy and water,
the two hours per day TV program, the 1000 persons queue for butter. And it’s
quite impossible to find a responsible for all of these not so far away facts.
This leads
to the strange issue that of the uncertainty of guilt. Like in any
post-totalitarian regime the whole guilt goes to the former dictator as he is
seen as a scapegoat. He shares some of this responsibility with Anca Petrescu,
who was the only person to ask for all the intellectual rights on the palace.
None of the 300 architects that worked for the project likes to show his works.
They all condemn in categorical terms the result, they all state that they
worked temporary and in a non-significant position, they all blame it on the
leaders. From another point of view the demolition action is romanticized,
turned into counter-propaganda. The “post-apocalyptic” landscape, as Augustin
Ioan says is a fertile topic for a vigorous condemnation of the communist
regime. A regime with a single face: the one of Ceausescu.
Demolition
is an attempt to erase definitely the memory, a punishing act of a biblical
dimension. It is only in the power of the most powerful to erase something
leaving the place like it never been anything there. But despotism is just a
particular case of modern totalitarian systems. And it is not working for an
entire modern city. Under Ceausescu’s regime the accent was on building a
better future. The counter-propaganda was putting the accent on the lost of
valuable cultural heritage. As the two players were playing on different arenas
the receptor was forced to put in balance imponderable profits and the judgment
still remains ambiguous.
The actual
situation of the center, dysfunctional, uneven and ugly attracts common
metaphors.
It is seen
as a wound that needs to be healed. This most common metaphor intends to send
us to the image of the initial blessing and it turns it into a ritual action.
Demolishment is not only a physical action but also a public execution. In the
long duration, from the point of view of the historical time demolition is no
more than a current action, a common manifestation of the living space
physiology. Nevertheless it implies major psychological consequences as the
build environment is – for a constituted space – as close as a relative to its
inhabitants. Construction and demolition are, in this respect, the equivalent
of a generation change. In the case of brutal, arbitrary interventions the
impact could be as close as a murder. Many people died of a heavy hart after
being expelled from their own houses overnight. No one is happy with the new
house, they all wish they could come back to their former dwellings.
Demolition
in totalitarian systems
Demolition
is a public execution: an act of wiping a terrible shame, an exemplary action
of punishment for a political sin. I will not speak of the demolitions due to
technical conditions as I wish to focus on the ones significant for the
society. Demolition of this kind is always the expression of a political will,
one of the acts of institutional violence that constitutes the prerogatives of
the state. In most of the cases the punishment and the erasing of the memory
are well folded into the discourse on progress. The action itself presupposes
or even asks for a public echo. It can be a pretext and support for large media
actions, propaganda or counterpropaganda. The silent demolition happens in a
context of moral doubt (like at Enei Church or at Vacaresti), otherwise it is
an excellent occasion to recycle the discourse on progress.
The
totalitarian systems use this instrument without any hesitation. Demolishments
are a heroic accompaniment, like the brass party in an orchestra, for a change
of a regime. Remember Bastille and Reichstag as inaugural moments of the change
but also the church Demolishments in Moscow. For the totalitarian regimes they
were the overture of a massive construction work, a new “writing” in stone,
marble, granite of a new, exemplary history. Materials must be durable as the
Third Reich was intending to last 1000 years, Mussolini was prepared to rebuild
Rome Carol the II of Romania was the King of “the most amazing time of Romanian
history” and last but not least Ceausescu “The Great Founder of the New Era”.
Revolutions
are symbolic demolitions. Demolitions themselves are no less symbolic. The
physical act of pulling down a house is rarely justified by the impossibility
to convert it. It is an attempt to erase a layer of history. The writing of the
“new history”, which is the ideal of any totalitarian system, cannot be done
but on a white paper. For Bucharest this meant tabula rasa.
Under a
dictatorship demolition presupposes the restoration of an ideal that existed
before the evil came and embodied itself in the form of a building. Usually the
idyllic pastoral faraway past is the best ground to cultivate a new state
mythology. Re-signifying the past is an invariant of any regime of this kind.
To build is
to date. The building creates a temporal mark; the place is inoculated with a
memory. The irradiation goes beyond the physical space, which influence is
reduced to an immediate consumption of perceptions, and leads to an indelibly
operation over the place itself. This reality asks for historical continuity.
It is most obvious for sacred places – temples, churches, cemeteries – but it
works as well for many other parts of the build environment. This belief in the
power of genius loci has nowadays an administrative form – the history
of each place has been fiched and turned into normative urban planning
rules. The historic continuity dictates beyond any reasonable doubt what a
certain place can host. Building is also accompanied by various consecration
rituals, which usually includes a short synoptically discourse that brings the
remembrance of the former buildings. Before or after cutting the ribbon, each
public building has to have this to complete its inauguration. It works as well
for reconstructions, restorations or new buildings, the buildings always keep
the history within their walls.This should explain the phenomenological
difficulty of the demolition itself.
The
physical death of a building is a metaphor that values a construction as part
of the collective history. Violence is inherent to the action. Whatever neutral
the reason of tearing down a building is we have a lot of dramatic action, a
culminant point, heartbreaking images, raw material for the news on TV.
Demolition is entirely similar to the violent death. It attracts the masses; it
produces images easy to remember and it gathers people specialized in this kind
of events. It is the most powerful moment in the symbolical life of a building,
a counterpart of the moment of laying the first brick (as etymology shows us
the demolishment is opposed to the action of building). It is now when you can
see all the viscera of a body slaughtered under your eyes. The macabre similitude
may be extended over the ruins – cadavers (esquis) exposed as a memento. It is
easy to understand why pieces of the ruins of the Berlin Wall became reliques
so fast.
If an
edifice becomes the emblem of a malefic power it cannot be converted and it
must be pulled down: Bastille, Reichstag Chancellery. Demolitions are the
appanage of the conqueror and in the same times a mark of its savageness. The
cruelty against a building is sometimes covered by the aura of the liberator,
as in fairy tales the castle of the dragon is sometimes wiped off the face of
the earth after the beast is defeated.
Demolition
is making a pair to construction in an iterative manner. It gives the occasion
for re-building. In the biblical text and in any mythical tale this is done
without any rest (i.e. no reconsidering of the past, reuse of materials,
recycle and – English is wonderful sometimes – with no pause, period of
inactivity or planning). Today the disciples of the Venetia Charta build with
the conscience marked by the idea of an irrecoverable lost. Every new building
destroys something. If it is another building or a monument you have to face
the canons of the cult of the singleness and integral value of a historic
object. The object is captive in its own space-time area and it cannot be
accessed but as a relic of a phantomatic past. The merry reconstructions of the
post-modern cultural tourism (like The Globe Theater in London) are a healthy
alternative to recuperate an illusional past. The more we rebuild, the more we
face a better past. (Warsaw, Budapest identical reconstructions )
Demolition
is a trial for genius loci. It is an attempt, sometimes accomplished, to
destroy the spirit of the place along with the building itself. In this respect
the demolition of the houses of the suicide bombers in Israel has its logic,
not as a political act but as an action based on a phenomenological approach.
As I’m quite sure they’re not doing it for philosophical reasons I doubt it
will have the effect of bringing peace in that certain spot. It is not quietude
that is instaurated
In a
totalitarian regime demolition envisage people more than buildings itself. It
is a gesture against freedom and not merely in political terms. To put it in
Deleuzian terminology it is the replacement of a type of striation with another
- the interesting part is that only by replacing the first striation with a
lisse space one can do this. The totalitarian systems are powerful striated
structures. They are modeled by visible structures placed in a rigid hierarchy and
they tend to impose this kind of hierarchy to the entire space. When this comes
in contact with a space of the same nature – like an old city, a very complex
hierarchy but which does not match t its own structure it has no strategy to
adapt. It must conquer and replace the different type of order. It must
reconfigure the entire space in order to survive; it must impose its authority
over the vague or the parallel hierarchies. This tendency to reconfigure the
entire space could be one of the first symptoms of any totalitarian regime.
While in a
democracy Demolishments are a consequence of local politics in a totalitarian
system they are dictated by a political doctrine, embodied or not in an
authoritative leader. Even if we strip it of its major ideological value, the
ones resulted from the main objectives of the political system, we cannot
reduce it to a technical operation.
Any element
that constitutes the space has a specific value for the inhabitant. We all
experienced the disappearance of a secular tree from the neighborhood
overnight. Anyone can notice the dramatic change in the quality of the space:
light, hierarchy, and proportions – they all change. The shock of the change is
less powerful if you assist the operation itself, as you witness the transition.
But space is always in transition. We try to capture its marks as we come back
from time to time to our childhood places. We are fascinated by condensed
visual histories of a building process, that kind of fast forward animations
that show you in a few seconds what happened from the first time they dug for
the foundations till the roof was placed. It is an intense pleasure provoked by
the quasi-instant understanding of a phenomena that cannot be perceived
otherwise.
A
demolition scene is always crowded as people like to watch the reverse
phenomena, and for the same reasons.
In a
democracy the worn-out metaphor of the city as an “organism” and of the sites
covered with debris as “unhealed wounds” has a strictly ideological value. This
judgment works as a moral critique of the one who caused a local damage and as
an optimist vision of a society/city that can react in a predictable,
homogeneous way. A less passionate investigation shows a vivid ecology around
these places. Avid investors, squatters (Turkish gekecondu, fabulous example),
wild life, crazy recreational zones (I spent some time playing in the ruins of
the former National Theater), in one way or another they attract, before
reconstruction, things and actions who can only have their own history. These
are the zones in which the lisse space is insinuating.
Bibliography:
Dinu
C. Giurescu, The razing of Romania’s Past, Ed. Museion, Bucharest 1994
Stelian
Dumistracel, Threatened villages – Lost villages, European
Institute, Jassy, 1995
…
(coordinated by… ) The story of the houses, Simetria, Bucharest 2001
Irina
Nicolau, The story of a street in Bucharest
Nicoleta
Toma, The House of the Republic
Doina
Petrescu, … in Architecture and Revolution, London 2000
Augustin
Ioan, Power, Play, National Identity, FCR, Bucharest 2000
Sorin
Vasilescu, Arhitectura totalitara, UAUIM
inapoi________inapoi la cuprins________inainte
[1] Dinu C. Giurescu, Distrugerea
trecutului României, Ed. Museion, Bucureşti 1994 p.51
[3] Bucharest was an old city in
his central part and a very young one at its periphery. The industrialization
created a huge wave of immigrants – labor force for the new industry. The
administrative apparatus, i.e. the Communist Party facilities, Securitate
headquarters Ministries were housed in old buildings spread in the city. It was
logical for a “democratic centralist” regime to gather everything in one place.
This is how the House of the Republic project was born.