Aircraft – Le Corbusier

Aircraft - Le Corbusier
Industrialisation defined the nineteenth century. Country after country first emulated and then surpassed the success of the British in developing sophisticated capitalist economies in which technological progress was hailed for transforming the world. But the carnage of the First World War destroyed the fundamental concepts that underlined this system; it completely shattered the idea that this form of social organisation was inevitably going to bring about a stable world. People suddenly realised that the same machines that had promised unstoppable progress could be used to kill on a scale unimaginable before then. So, industrial societies in the aftermath of this war faced two possible choices; one was an escapist return to an earlier pre-industrial epoch, epitomised by the Arts and Crafts movement of the late nineteenth century(in which the bespoke and handmade was privileged). The other option was to somehow separate the grim realities and the negative consequences of industrialisation (war, pollution, urban poverty etc) from a belief in the inherent good of technology to produce a better future. In this view, the Great War could be regarded as an aberration, an unrepeatable period of collective madness when technological developments had been used for evil rather than for more noble purposes. Unsurprisingly, this was the path chosen. This seductively simple idea thoroughly permeated public discourse during the inter-war decades, influencing everything from art and architecture to politics and science, as traumatised societies attempted to escape the stifling structures of the past by constructing a New Age based upon rational principles derived from apparently objective scientific concepts.

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The influence of Le Corbusier (the pseudonym adopted by Charles-Édouard Jeanneret) as the leading prophet of high-modernist urban planning and design cannot be underestimated. Nearly every country with pretentions to modernisation during the twentieth century dabbled, to differing degrees, with the alluring idea that it would be possible to reorder society through planned intervention in the built environment. While Le Corbusier was not alone in advancing these ideas, his charisma, drive and ego made him the best known and most influential of those who put forward such utopian schemes. At the core of the high-modernist architectural philosophy was the idea that through the use of rational, planned design it would be possible to influence human behaviour and so create a perfectly ordered and balanced world of peace and plenty (as outlined in Le Corbusier’s publications Toward an Architecture [1923] and The Radiant City [1935]). In the high-modernist view, the dark, squalid slums and overcrowded tenements of previous centuries, breeding grounds of disease, poverty and crime, were to be eliminated. A new era of progress and civilised order would be ushered in through the construction of new, rational cities based on universally applicable rules that would determine the precise requirements needed by each inhabitant. And just how were these cities to be built? The urban planners and politicians who had permitted the growth of unchecked urban squalor in the cities of old had been corrupted by vested interests and the grubby compromises of representative democracy. They obviously couldn’t be entrusted with such a task. No, this job required somebody new. This needed someone who was far above such tawdry concerns; it required a visionary genius who would act in the best interests of all. (The final sentences of the book state that: “Sometimes in the course of the centuries a man has sprung up here and there instinct with the power of genius, establishing the unity of his time. A man! The flock needs a shepherd.”)

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High-modernist ideas were based on the idea that you needed to wipe the slate clean and start afresh. As can be imagined, this particular view of how humanity should be improved tied in rather neatly with the various political movements, of both right and left, that sprang up in the 1930s. The difference between countries that wholeheartedly embraced high-modernist schemes and those that merely toyed with modernism on a smaller scale has less to do with ambition and a lot more to do with politics – an authoritarian regime is much more likely to indulge in grandiose re/construction projects than a system which has a greater degree of political accountability. It is certainly no surprise that Le Corbusier flirted with both the USSR and Nazi-backed Vichy France in his pursuit of an despotic patron who would be able to bulldoze all opposition to his centrally planned utopia. Interestingly, for all his enthusiasm, Chandigarh in India was the only city Le Corbusier actually managed to see built (even then he wasn’t the first choice – the sudden death of the primary architect Matthew Nowicki provided a sudden opening). Basically, the fundamental flaw with the high-modernist concept is that it is utterly disdainful of the very real cultural, social and human needs of those who actually have to live in these cities. This contempt lies at the heart of their failure.

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This brings us neatly to the book in question. First published in 1935 (my copy is a rather scruffy ex-library book of the 1988 Trefoil reprint), Aircraft was the first in a series published by The Studio under the New Vision banner. In this series, new technologies and ideas were presented to the reader through the combination of short texts and photographs (two other titles in the series looked at Locomotives and Photomicrography). Using images gleaned from a wide range of sources, this book is a celebration of flight, both as a clear demonstration of man’s mastery of the air and for providing a new perspective on the world. From this distance, when we have all become jaded with cheap and nasty airlines making us print out our own boarding cards and trying to flog us overpriced sandwiches, it’s hard to understand just how much of an adventure flight was in those early decades. At the time of publication, the Wright Brothers had made their first flight only 32 years previously. Given impetus by the Great War, powered flight had quickly advanced from the rickety, pioneering days to becoming a mode of travel by the 1930s that was both more reliable and accessible to the public at large (at least in the developed world). Interestingly, Leonardo da Vinci’s designs are featured in Le Corbusier’s narrative of progress – which can be read as an obvious attempt on his part to bask in the reflected glow of Renaissance genius. Thus aviation is presented as the inevitable pinnacle of human achievement and served as an unequivocal demonstration of how progress could be attained through wholeheartedly embracing new technologies and ideas. Here, photographs of aircraft in flight and abstract close-up images are used to celebrate form. The myriad shapes and types of sleek, gleaming aluminium aeroplanes that were at the pinnacle of 1930s design all serve to underline the rupture between the discredited legacy of the past and a New Age of progress.

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But it is how the aeroplane has changed our perception of the world that is the real subject of this book. The aeroplane, according to Le Corbusier, has liberated mankind from the stifling, narrow point of view that is an inevitable feature of life at ground level. Now, freed from these shackles, we are able to soar high above the earth and, in so doing, look down upon the hellish urban environments we have created. The bird’s eye perspective has revealed what was once kept hidden from view. What Le Corbusier sees is the moral and physical poverty of a former era which he indicts as being the root cause of injustice and conflict. As he asserts in the introduction to the book, “Such are the great cities of the world, those of the nineteenth century, bustling, cruel, heartless, and money-grubbing.” Furthermore, “The city is ruthless to man. Cities are old, decayed, frightening, diseased. They are finished. Pre-Machine civilisation is finished.” Contrasting these images of cities with nature, Le Corbusier also proclaims that their failure is due to a fundamental lack of harmony in the way they grew up piecemeal over the years. But a plan devised by a genius (guess who?) would overcome these flaws and produce a rational urban environment that would be fully in balance with the natural and objectively scientific concepts discovered by man. But the aeroplane does more than just provide a bird’s eye view from which to contemplate the city below; for Le Corbusier, it creates a wholly new and modern conscience which will no longer tolerate the injustices of the past. Thus, new technology is used to discredit everything that has gone before and pave the way for the slate to be wiped clean. By piggy-backing on the widespread public enthusiasm for the new (in the form of aviation), combined with  photographic “proof”, in this book Le Corbusier is attempting to link his particular ideas about urban design with a broader popular mood for change.

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From the trauma of the First World War, which discredited the rigid aspirations of a society based upon nineteenth century values, a new-found optimism in the potential of new technology to create a better world emerged. The 1920s and 30s were defined by ideas and social movements that attempted to use apparently rational and objective principles in an attempt at social engineering, presented as a way of escaping the horrors of the recent past.  The aeroplane was the apex of modern achievement at the time and was held out as a shining example for those who wanted to believe in the future. Up in the air, the aeroplane reveals an old, decrepit urban world that is the root cause of all evils. It is also no coincidence that this perspective mirrors that of the high-modernist planner, who sees all and ceaselessly strives to better mankind as an omnipotent God-like substitute. For an architect salivating at the thought of wiping the urban slate clean and starting afresh (heedless of the direct human consequences) the aeroplane proved to be a very useful tool in pushing this own agenda. Progress is presented as inevitable and natural; an unstoppable force that only needs to be harnessed by someone of vision and genius for the betterment of all. Utopian phrases and comparisons with natural forms are repeatedly used by Le Corbusier in this attempt to impose his very narrow and simplified vision upon the world. As he clearly states in the book, “Cities with their misery, must be torn down. They must be largely destroyed and fresh cities built.”

But as we have discovered to our cost, such cities are the concrete fantasies of a sociopath.

 

Pastoral / Moscow Suburbs – Alexander Gronsky

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For any society facing a housing shortage the high rise tower block appears to offer the perfect solution. While differing in shape, size and form depending on architectural vision and national priorities, the basic pattern remains essentially the same. Mainly produced using uniform, system built construction methods that utilise pre-fabricated concrete panels, the components are then transported to the building site and slotted into place to form a series of identical concrete boxes. These are then usually stacked on top of each other to form the completed high rise building. As well as being cheap, easy to construct and maximising the use of scarce land in urban areas, such buildings have the added advantage of being modern and rational, two factors which appealed greatly to urban planners the world over in the second half of the twentieth century. In the Russian context, other factors that came into play. The sudden industrial development ushered in by Communist rule meant a huge increase in the urban population and a consequent demand for new housing, leading to cramped, shared communal living in crumbling mansions and other wholly unsuitable buildings. This situation was not helped by the destruction wrought by World War 2 which laid waste to many cities in the Western part of what was then the USSR. These factors combined to give a real impetus to the adoption of high-rise buildings as a quick-fix solution to all these problems.

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Published by Contrasto in 2013, Gronsky’s book examines the edgelands on the periphery of Moscow, now a thriving 21st century mega-city of 11.5 million people fuelled by the proceeds of natural resource exploitation. Along with St Petersburg, Moscow is a magnet for all those who want to escape the narrow confines of rural Russia which perversely, for the world’s largest country, has led to a shortage of living space. Modernist architects with their dreams of architectural order, liked to produce clean, neat and rational spaces that (they assumed) would produce contented citizens. The reality was very different. Instead of producing utopia, this architectural form created alienation and despair with people cooped up in oppressive grey blocks, identical in all aspects. This theme was explored in the 1976 movie The Irony of Fate, a Soviet comedy in which the interchangeable nature of bland architecture is central to the plot: the main protagonist is unable to tell different cities apart because they look exactly the same. Even the street names and front door keys to different apartment blocks were standardised. Naturally, this architectural bleakness is exaggerated somewhat for the movie but it does reflect a deeper malaise about this form of architecture that is common throughout the world.

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A key aspect in the adoption of this architectural form was the assumption that this rational mode of living would be met with approval by those who dwelt within. However, the evidence is that people react against this imposed conformity at the first opportunity. The scruffy waste land surrounding these buildings becomes a playground where the cramped constraints of communal living can be rebelled against. In previous centuries the artistic representation of the pastoral landscape was an ideal, something to be envied by those living in the dark, polluted cities of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Gronsky shows us a hybrid landscape in which these simplified binary categories no longer apply.  Here, amongst the scrawny vegetation and the rubbish, people come to escape the cares and worries of urban life. Through his use of an elevated vantage point and the distance between photographer and the subject Gronsky mirrors the eye of the planner surveying the scene around him. Only instead of the rational, ordered landscape envisaged by the architect, he shows us chaos. In many ways, his photographs are reminiscent somewhat of the artist Pieter Bruegel the Elder who also depicted everyday peasant life amongst the vernacular architecture of sixteenth century Holland. Of course, this visual strategy has also been adopted successfully by photographers since the 1970s, most notably by the New Topographics who explored a tired America on the cusp of industrial decline.

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Gronsky’s book does a masterful job in depicting this subversion of the modernist architectural ideal. Amongst the waste ground, bordered by smoking power stations, electricity pylons, motorways, railway tracks and building sites, overlooked by high-rise buildings, disorder and chaos reigns. Suffusing Gronsky’s images is an aura of melancholy; perhaps it’s something to do with the national temperament or the legacy of Russian literature which produces this air of viewing people that are trapped in living lives of quiet desperation. Beginning with the buildings themselves, Gronsky swiftly moves on to the surrounding waste land that is the focus of this book. Here, we see people interacting with a subdued and tattered natural environment; bored teenagers mooch about in the bushes, people go for a swim in a river into which a pipe discharges something that is probably quite nasty, others choose to have a picnic beside the railway tracks or sunbathe amongst the construction sites, two Moslems kneel in prayer, while a macho wanna-be shoots at bottles amongst the scrub. The seasons change; summer turns into winter and the sunbathers move away to be replaced by a snow filled landscape. Throughout, drinking sessions are held in the scrappy undergrowth and the empty bottles, plastic bags and broken chairs are dumped behind. The rusting carcasses of abandoned cars lie submerged beneath the wild nature that is in the process of consuming them. This is a scarred landscape. Everybody uses it but nobody takes any responsibility for it.

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Far from the utopia the architects and politicians promised us, we have been reduced to living in a hybrid state in which we are the inhabitants of a landscape damaged by pollution and tainted by the ceaseless demands of the construction industry, the vast profits of which grease the wheels of elite groups the world over. In real life, people are not the interchangeable, two-dimensional caricatures envisaged by the sociopathic visionaries or the ego-maniacs with the grand plan. Human nature is far too complex to regiment in this way. This landscape is the inevitable result of architectural and political decisions in which the needs of those who had to actually live in this space were completely ignored.

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The Last Rivet (Photographs by Berenice Abbott & Margaret Bourke-White)

Published in 1940, this book of images and text commemorates the completion of the Rockefeller Center in New York, begun at the height of the Depression in 1932. It originally came with a rivet motif dust jacket (which I don’t have) and the cover is even made from green velvet. Classy.

Before looking at the book itself, perhaps a word about these fine captains of industry is in order. The Rockefeller’s fortune was based on the success of Standard Oil, founded by the original patriarch John D. Rockefeller in the 1870s, and whose ruthless business practices ensured that rival oil companies were either taken over or destroyed, until by the 1890s it controlled 88% of all refined oil in the US. Eventually, in 1911, under pressure from the courts and the US government concerned about this monopoly, Standard Oil was broken up into different companies that make up the names that still dominate the globe such as Mobil, Exxon and Chevron. The Rockefellers owned a quarter of all the shares in the new companies, whose value doubled, making John D. the richest man in the world at the time. John D. Junior, son of the founding father, took over and was implicated in the Ludlow Massacre when the National Guard, whose wages were bankrolled by the Rockefeller controlled Colorado Fuel and Iron Company, shot and burned to death between 19 and 25 people during a miners strike in April 1914. I think it’s fair to say that the Rockefeller fortune was not gained by being nice to people. And just as night follows day, immense wealth and power buys respectability for a Medici-like family whose tentacles soon spread throughout much of American commercial, banking and political circles.

But wait, it gets better. At the same time as the Rockefeller Center was being built the family business was keeping some very shady company indeed.  Standard Oil of New Jersey (later renamed Exxon) entered into profitable partnership arrangements with the notorious German company I.G. Farben (infamous producers of Zyklon B poison gas for use in concentration camps and organisers of slave-labour factories in Auschwitz) as well as being instrumental in providing vital fuel additives to the Nazis (tetraethyl lead). This was needed to make aviation fuel in order to fly German planes and drop bombs on much of Europe. They even seem to have gone to great lengths in the cover up, shipping it through the neutral  Spanish Canary Islands (after re-registering all their oil tankers in Panama so as to prevent them being  stopped and searched) where it was then transferred to German ships bound for Hamburg. They also appear to have used their South American depots to supply fuel directly to German tankers. But it wasn’t just the Nazis cash that Standard Oil of NJ was happy to take; they were also engaged in similar practices with Mussolini’s Italy and Japan. It has been argued that through their actions they may have directly assisted in the bombing of Pearl Harbour where a substantial portion of the US Navy was sunk.  But this is not to say that Standard was choosy about its customers; it had no problem selling oil to the Allied side as well. Business is business after all.

And there’s more; another of the Rockefeller cash-cows was Chase National bank, which ran a complicated money laundering scam for the Nazis through the German-American community in which worthless bits of paper issued by the Nazi regime were magically turned into US dollars needed to buy raw materials for desperate German factories. According to documents released by the US Archives, between 1936 and 1941 Chase brought in $20 million for the Fuhrer, while at the same time helping themselves to a substantial amount of the $1.2 billion in commission paid for their services as middleman, which mainly came out of funds taken by the Nazis from their Jewish victims. The bank went to great lengths in order to hide their activities from the US Treasury and Chase is also directly implicated in seizing money from the French bank accounts of its Jewish customers after the German takeover and for being overly helpful with the Nazi regime throughout the entire war. After being investigated for these activities, Chase avoided prosecution using blackmail; they threatened to embarrass the FBI and other government departments if it went to court by spilling the beans about all the dirty tricks they knew about.  Then, just as now, it is virtually impossible to hold powerful corporations to account. And these are only the scandals that have come to the surface; who knows what other skeletons have been quietly buried.

John D. Junior in a rather cynical move considering the company he was keeping at the time, piously expresses his personal hatred of war in the book and presents large corporations as responsible, ethical beings concerned about the welfare of mankind; “War is often laid at the door of business. On its very face such an imputation is as absurd as it is false.” To reinforce the message, there is an image of the Final Abolition of War mural by Jose Maria Sert which was commissioned for the lobby.

Now, nobody’s saying that the Rockefeller’s were stuffing suitcases of Reichmarks under their beds or had a safe full of swastika-embossed gold bullion hidden behind the Monet in the sitting room. That’s the kind of thing criminals do. When you’re amongst the super-rich you don’t need to get your hands dirty – the company you control does all that and you get to cream off the massive profits from the rising stock prices. And of course, you have no direct knowledge of any possible wrongdoing because nothing is ever written down or said aloud. These sorts of things are done on a nod and a wink making it almost impossible to prove who knew what. That way, if something does go wrong some middle-management bozo gets to go to jail while the main players are able to feign surprise and shock at what has been uncovered.

Unsurprisingly, the subject of the Rockefeller’s profiteering from their Nazi connections is not an area that the book dwells upon – that kinda thing tends to spoil the feel-good mood.

The spin that the Rockefeller’s are peddling in this publication is that the centre was a happy collaboration between labour and industry, with both sides working harmoniously together in order to build the complex. Indeed within the book we have repeated mention about the gratitude felt by New York to the Rockefeller’s for creating, directly and indirectly, 75,000 jobs during the Depression decade. Certainly in an era of mass unemployment any bit of positive news is seized upon by politicians and the media to say that the future is looking better, but to exhibit such fawning gratitude towards the originator of a commercial project which was designed to further enrich the already super-rich, is, to pardon the pun, a bit rich.  In order to prove their gratitude towards the little people who did the actual work, there is even a photograph of a worker in the book, head raised as if in awestruck wonder at the vision of progress that he was helping to build all thanks to the far-sighted vision and generosity of the Rockefellers. One whole photograph.  Ain’t that nice?

Perhaps a more accurate indication of the Rockefeller’s attitude towards the common man was best expressed in their painting over of the mural commissioned from Diego Rivera for the Center, Man at the Crossroads, whose depiction of the potential power of working class solidarity (and an image of Lenin) didn’t really conform to the way they liked to do business.  This deliberate exercise of immense personal power to obliterate anything that might pose a challenge to them, I think, speaks volumes about the true nature of the Rockefellers. Although they pay lip-service to partnership with the people, their actions and business interests are all really designed to consume and exploit the powerless individual in the name of enriching themselves.  A few bucks thrown at some philanthropic exploit is supposed to paper over what has in reality been a very sordid history of greed, intimidation, amorality, manipulation, as well as the corruption and corrosion of democratic structures, not to mention aiding and abetting totalitarian regimes bent on world conquest.

Now I’m not saying that the photographers who were involved in producing images for The Last Rivet were in any way culpable. A paying gig is a paying gig; I’m sure that an assignment to represent what was seen as an architectural triumph would have been gratefully received by many. The photographs in the book come from a number of photographers, most notably from Berenice Abbott and Margaret Bourke White, although the individual images are not credited. Architectural images predominate with the main RCA building being presented over and over again. The largest image, presented as a double page spread, shows Fifth Avenue full of hustle and bustle and streets filled with traffic, which is the only image to make reference to the rest of New York city itself. The Rockefeller Center is presented as a world apart, distant from the mundane everyday of the chaos below.

The other main body of images in the book consist of the Last Rivet ceremony itself, consisting of the type of ribbon-cutting photography you’d expect see in the local paper; assorted dignitaries lined up on chairs, pompous stuffed suits and attentive crowds. A full page image at the beginning of the book even shows the man of the people, a be-suited Junior in white-gloves, doing a bit of riveting.

The photography in the book doesn’t work for me; it very much looks like what it is, a compromised mish-mash of safe images designed to flatter.  For a book that has the look of something that a lot of money was pumped into, the net result is pretty poor.  It wasn’t as if they were short of a couple of bucks to hire a graphic designer and really push the boat out and produce something really spectacular.  Some of the architectural images are ok but from the likes of Bourke-White or Berenice Abbott, I’d expect better. Apart from the velvet cover and the rivet motif, the book as a whole is quite unremarkable and, to be frank, boring. You could forgive this in part if the photography was good, but even that is, in the main, as insipid as the contents of this book.

But it’s not all bad; I do like the paper stock they printed it on.

New China Builds

Published in 1976, the final year of Mao’s reign, this book was designed to showcase the architectural gems of ‘new’ and improved communist China (as opposed to the old, bad China ruled by the corrupt Chang Kai-Shek). As such it has high production values and was designed to impress foreigners about the wonders accomplished through communist collective endeavour since 1949 when Mao had assumed power.

Thematically the book is divided into sections dealing with industry, transportation, residential complexes, showcase public buildings, rural communes and water conservancy projects. As such, it is veritable catalogue of the Maoist built environment, all constructed through decades of unprecedented suffering, terror and death.

The Great Leap Forward from 1958-1961 is estimated to have resulted in approximately 45 million deaths through famine and starvation (according to historian Frank Dikotter’s recent book Mao’s Great Famine). Coming ten years after Mao took power in 1949, the Great Leap Forward was designed to demonstrate to the world that China had been completely transformed under his rule. Amongst other aspects of this insane plan, China embarked on a vast range of horrendously expensive prestige building projects designed to bedazzle everybody with the wonders of Maoism. All this was part of Mao’s attempt to usurp the mantle of the leader of world-communism after Stalin’s death in 1953 by showing that China had accomplished more in the few short years of his rule than the Soviets had managed to do since 1917.

According to Dikotter the construction projects embarked upon suffered from widespread defects; a shortage of adequate materials led to substandard replacements, including poor quality cement and steel reinforcing bars made from brittle metal, all assembled hurriedly by exhausted and starving workers. As can be imagined, although these buildings looked fine from a distance, they were simply rotten to the core inside.

Flattening centuries old cityscapes, Mao transformed Tiananmen Square in Beijing into a vast parade ground where the masses could congregate to worship their new emperor. Old buildings were regarded as backward and shameful and were demolished to make way for modernist, Soviet inspired, monstrosities designed to ‘serve the people.’ But however bad conditions were in the cities they bore no comparison to the countryside where the vast majority of the population lived.

Even the mighty industrial plants the regime was so proud of, that were supposed to propel China overnight into a great  power, were more white elephants that produced lots of junk rather than quality products. But in a system that defined progress through statistics, output was king. Inadequate servicing and a lack of spare parts meant that the shiny new machinery of the 1950s soon rusted away and became unuseable. And the easiest way to get rid of the all toxic waste produced was to dump it into the nearest river with no thought about the impact this would have on health or the environment.

But this was as nothing compared to the rural water conservation schemes in which millions of people were forced to work on in order to increase irrigation and improve agricultural output. Many of these river diversion schemes and dams were constructed simply by having vast numbers of people pile up earth banks with no adequate thought to engineering or planning. The result was horrendous. As well as the inevitable bursting of badly built dams, this grand scheme proved to be an environmental catastrophe.  Soil eroded more quickly, rivers became silted up, flooding increased because the rain had nowhere to go and fertile topsoil was simply washed away leading to the expansion of deserts. Interestingly, less than twenty years later Pol Pot and his genocidal Khmer Rouge henchmen copied this same model in their effort to transform Cambodia into their own nightmarish version of utopia.

Although the book is designed to showcase collective might and architectural wonder, it is appropriate that many of the images are completely bereft of people. These photographs of the modernist blocks, the dams and belching factories can be regarded as tombstones to the memory of the countless numbers sacrificed in this megalomaniacal ego trip.

Mao’s legacy is still writ large upon both the Chinese people and landscape to this day.