Progress in Human Geography 27,6 (2003) pp. 787-796
Cultural landscapes: just landscapes
or landscapes of justice?
Don Mitchell
Department of Geography, Maxwell School, Syracuse University, 144 Eggers Hall,
Syracuse, NY 13244-1020, USA
So what is the state of geography today? It is in a mess - hyphenated, obfuscated, as confused as it is confusing.
Why? Society is itself degenerating. The culture is coarse, vulgar, prostituted, chaotic, 'dummied down'. We are
in desperate need of intellectual reinforcements, and geography can help.
William Bunge (2001: 76-77)
In fact, '[w]hat is needed', writes George Henderson (2003: 196), 'is a concept of
landscape that helps point the way to those interventions that can bring about much
greater social justice. And what landscape study needs even more is a concept of
landscape that will assist the development of the very idea of social justice.' This is
especially crucial, now, because 'the study of landscape, that thing which so often
evokes the plane on which normal, everyday life is lived - precisely because of the
premium it places on the everyday - must stand up to the facts of a world in crisis, to
the fact that the condition of everyday life is, for many people, the interruption or
destruction of everyday life' (Henderson, 2003). In exactly this sense, 'landscape' is far,
far more than the 'dreamwork of empire', as W.J.T. Mitchell once called it (quoted in
Cosgrove, 2003: 264): it is rather the very foundation, the very groundwork of empire.
That landscape is a groundwork - not just a dreamwork - of empire is implicit
throughout Kenneth Olwig's (2002) important new study of the relationship between
landscape and the body politic. Olwig's interest in Landscape, nature, and the body politic
is not so much with empire, per se, but rather with the construction of the modem EuroAmerican state and polity (which itself is necessarily imperialist), and how this construction was accomplished through the usurpation and transformation of landscapes
- such as those in early modern Northern Europe - that themselves were political
landscapes in the truest sense of the term (p. 18). They were polities, with specific sets
of rights, specific juridical relations, and certain conceptions of justice that derived from
people living in and on the land, working with it, and possessing it. In this sense the
landscape represented the desires and needs, the customs and forms of justice of the
0 Arnold 2003
10.1 191/03091 32503ph464pr
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788 Cultural landscapes
people who made them. Dialectically, Olwig notes, 'the abode of the land is created by
abiding by the law' (p. 18) and so 'the material face of the land reflected the social face
of the landscape polity.... The physical environment was a reflection of the political
landscape' (p. 21).
Yet landscapes of this sort tended to get in the way of the imperial ambitions of any
number of European monarchs and lesser royals. Their denizens tended to defend them
and to resent their loss.1 So landscape in this substantive, political sense served as a
challenge to imperial power: the question for imperial power was how to make the
landscape reflect its interests rather than the interests of its inhabitants. The question
was how landscapes could effectively be taken from their 'owners', be diverted to a
different purpose, and through that a new image of the polity constructed. How could
the landscape be changed?
Olwig's answer to this historical question is both familiar and depressing: it is a story
of out-and-out destruction of ways of life, even if this story is masked in a rhetoric and
practice of landscape 'improvement' overseen by such luminaries as Inigo Jones. The
genius of Olwig's analysis is that it shows that the seeds of change - of landscape's
alienation, and thus the transformation of the landscape polity and the modes of representation embodied in the landscape - were found in the landscape itself; since 'the
physical environment was a reflection of the political landscape' (p. 21) the trick was to
remake the physical environment so it reflected a different kind of polity. The trick was
to destroy the landscape in order to 'improve' it - and in the process to instill a new relationship between land, law and justice.
What Olwig narrates, then, is a landscape history of expropriation and alienation (see
Olwig, 2004). His is a story of the social injustice of landscape; but in so telling this story
he also provides some of the tools that will be necessary to reformulate the concept of
landscape in the manner Henderson calls for. What Landscape, nature, and the body politic
provides, in other words, is, along with an important historical excavation of the roots
of our contemporary landscape way of seeing, an equally important excavation of a
quite different way of seeing landscape's relationship to law and social justice. He
suggests that beneath the dreamwork and groundwork of empire lies a very different
relationship between people and their landscape, one that is never fully repressed: there
is a struggle for landscape, and it is at the same time the struggle for justice.
Such an excavation is especially important as America embarks on its latest imperial
adventures. It is doubly important now, because, as then, the landscape of empire is
every bit as much a landscape of destruction as it is a landscape of production. These
are destructive times, indeed. In the two years since I wrote my last progress report, we
have seen this: the attack on the Pentagon and the World Trade Center and the latter's
subsequent collapse; the ensuing brutal war on the people of Afghanistan under the
guise of rooting out Al-Qaeda and the Taliban, a war that destroyed what little infrastructure was left in an already devastated country and which has killed more civilians
than were killed in the September 11 attacks; the months-long siege and destruction of
Palestinian towns by an Israeli occupying army sent in to avenge the death and
destruction dealt by Palestinian suicide bombers (who themselves were avenging the
death and destruction that is so central a part of Israel's colonization of Palestine); the
massive destruction of (fictitious) value on the world stock markets during summer
2002, and the destruction of the Argentine economy that preceded it (a destruction of
working people's savings and livelihoods so that overseas banks could be spared their
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Don Mitchell
789
own folly); and, of course, the invasion and occupation - accompanied by a massive
destruction of infrastructure - of Iraq on a trumped-up pretext that it was poised and
ready to use so-called weapons of mass destruction, itself a destruction of even the
pretense of democracy. All of these are (in addition to everything else they are) destructions of landscape, destructions of real physical places and real people, and such
destruction always needs to be contested. As geographers, we can provide some of the
'intellectual reinforcements' Bunge calls for: we have a lot of tools for understanding
and helping to put an end to the destruction of landscape. I wonder if we have any
interest in doing so. We certainly have interest in understanding the production of
landscape,2 and all the myriad cultural processes and politics that go into that. But how
much do we care about its destruction?3 We are enamored with the affirmative, with
seeking out even the smallest glimmers of hope in a world that for the majority really
is degenerate, really is, on the whole, a rotten place.4
Writing in the wake of the September 11 attacks, and reflecting on the state of urban
theory, Andrew Kirby (2002) makes an argument that is just as true for landscape
studies. Since the awful bombings of Guemica, Nanking and Berlin (and we could add
Hiroshima, London and Dresden), 'we have worked hard to produce a fiction that such
destruction will not occur again, in an era of smart bombs, economic sanctions and professional armies. Yet this is nothing more than a convenient fiction, as even smart
weapons do damage . . .' (p. 1).5 'It is not hard to see where such fictions come from', he
continues (p. 1). 'For ten years and more we have swerved into a cul-de-sac, in which
metaphor, like irony, has taken precedence. The city has been reduced to a narrative and
it is that textual landscape - rather than its more gritty counterpart - that has come to
occupy our attention' (p. 1). So, in Kirby's estimation (p. 2):
Contemporary postmodem urbanism has failed us, as it has drawn us away from an understanding of cities
and their populations. While we should be devastated by images of death and destruction, we should not be
surprised to see a city facing problems of emergency management that have stretched everything to breaking
point.... Everyone should have a better understanding of the complexities of urban life, and part of our
problem of having lost that instinctive grasp reflects, in some significant part, the abject failure of many
academics to maintain the city as a real object of study - not a metaphor, not a symbol, but a very complex
system that requires explanation and an equally public discourse.
So too, it bears repeating, with landscape.
This is not to argue that attention to symbol and metaphor is not important. It is. But
it is only important to the degree that it provides a window on, and a way into, the
physical city, the material landscape, the real social relations that make up the substance
of women's and men's lives.6 What tools do landscape geographers have that can
provide the intellectual reinforcements necessary to understand the constant destruction
of landscape such that we can help advance the production of a more just, less
degenerate landscape? Now is an appropriate time for such prospective, rather than retrospective, questions. The editors of Progress in Human Geography have determined to
pause, at least for now, reports on the cultural landscape, in part because in their
estimation (and mine too) the vibrant theoretical ferment of landscape studies that
marked the late 1980s and 1990s has begun to wane. So it is an appropriate moment to
regroup and perhaps to reorientate landscape studies. Like George Henderson, I think
they need to be reorientated in a more explicitly social justice direction.
In his highly illuminating essay,7 Henderson (2003) argues that landscape in
geography can be broken down into four dominant discourses: landscape as landschaft;
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790 Cultural landscapes
landscape as social space; the epistemological landscape ('landscape as the material
revelation of human practice and thought'; p. 189); and the apocryphal landscape
('landscape as a way of seeing, especially a way of seeing that relishes the gaze, that
asserts power by privileging perspectival vision, which, far from being a mere way of
seeing, informs the actual, material making of places'; p. 192).8 One could add - and
probably should add, since it forms perhaps the strongest focus of landscape
research in the past few years - landscape as a concretization and maker of memory.9
Yet Henderson's point is not really to be exhaustive; rather, it is to be proscriptive
(p. 196):
Our efforts to intervene in landscape must be tested against a whole set of other issues: the concern for security,
safety, and joy in one's work; the struggle for wages that guarantee a good life; the question of who gets to
decide what work is, what work gets done, and what goods get made; the fight against excessive personal and
corporate accumulation of wealth and power; the idolatry of the market The list could go on ....
It should include the struggle against racism, sexism and homophobia; the neverending battle against genocide and for a decent, healthy life for all; and the elimination
of states (to use a phrase from President Bush's advisor Paul Wolfowitz) - states like my
own - intent on building an empire out of the blood and toil of ordinary people around
the world, an empire made possible only through the destruction of the lives and
livelihoods of others.
To put this in different terms, landscape research must be about all manner of other
things than just the landscape itself. Again Henderson (2003) is worth quoting (p. 336,
note 1):
I think the promise of the landscape concept is that adjectives such as cultural, social, political, and economic ought
to be already folded into what we mean by landscape, or at least the best of such meanings. I advocate a concept
of landscape that indudes the very best reasons to pay attention to it. Put another way, could we, in the very
first instance, define landscape in such a way that we understand why the cultural, social, political, or economic
might matter?
Or, put yet another way, landscape may demand a theory of landscape, but it also
demands that theories of capital circulation and crisis, of race and gender, and of
geopolitics and power be built right into it. We can no longer afford to assume the
fetishized landscape as our starting-point.10 The recent reconsideration of J.B. Jackson's
ideas and career - of which Henderson's essay is a part - shows just how much is
gained when this sort of material complexity is made central to landscape analysis (see,
for example, Schein, 2003; Wright, 2003), and how much is lost when it is not (e.g.,
Lewis, 2003; Scott Brown, 2003).
As Schein (2003: 202) argues in that volume, seeing landscape as an 'unwitting
autobiography' (in Peirce Lewis's, 1979, famous phrase) 'suggests that landscape
primarily is the result of human activity, material evidence that can be read to make
any number of cultural observations'. Such empiricism, however, 'leaves the
landscape itself out of social and cultural processes (it is inert and exists as the detritus
or spoor of cultural activity)'. What difference might it make, then, if rather than seeing
landscape a priori as evidence of some culture, or national identity, or act of power or
resistance, we started instead by taking Clyde Woods' (2002) experiences seriously
(p. 62):
Unfortunately, I have been forced to witness the destruction of one African American community after the other
over the last thirty-five years. I saw major sections of my hometown of Baltimore burned to the ground after the
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Don Mitchell 791
assassination of Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. in 1968. The 1970s brought the demolition of the homes of a
thousand neighbors in order to build a one mile freeway to nowhere. For at least thirty years, toxic fumes have
spewed forth from factories located across the street from nearby residential blocks.
And those were the good ole days ....
Woods provides witness to the destruction of whole peoples in Baltimore through drug
addiction, AIDS and venereal disease, the systematic destruction of the education
system, police brutality and mass incarceration. His studies at UCLA on the persistence
of rural poverty - especially African American poverty - in the South showed him
planned starvations, usurpations of land and the willing connivance of social scientists
(see Woods, 1998). In the 'killing fields' (Woods, 2002: 62) of Los Angeles itself, Woods
witnessed the riots in the aftermath of the exoneration of the police in their brutal
beating of Rodney King: 'Then I returned to Baltimore just in time to see the city
through a televised party designed to celebrate the demolition of hundreds of units of
public housing' (p. 62).
Or what if our landscape geography began from Ruth Wilson Gilmore's (2002a: 16)
argument that the twentieth century should be understood as the 'age of human
sacrifice', an age of genocide that really sees no sign of letting up (see also Hewitt, 2001),
and that the landscape (in Gilmore's case the prison landscape) must be seen not only
as evidence of this age of human sacrifice (which it is) but also as a specific 'geographical solution to socioeconomic problems, politically organized by the state . . .' (Gilmore,
2002b: 268)?
A landscape geography able to respond to and intervene in this - to intervene in the
destruction of landscape and livelihood that is everyday life for most African
Americans in the USA - and to other currents of racist uneven development around the
world (Gilmore, 2002b), would require several things:
* it would have to be undergirded by a theory of race and a normative commitment
to antiracism;11
* it would have to be grounded in a theory of uneven geographical development, able
to draw deeply on theories of disinvestment and capital flight as well as theories of
financial and real estate capital (Breitbach and Mitchell, 2003);
* it would have to integrate theories of uneven development with theories of spatial
'fixes' not only as Harvey (1999; 2001) talks about them, but even more as Gilmore
(2002a; 2002b, 2004) does;
* it would have to be deeply social-historical, refusing to satisfy itself with surface
readings of the landscape and delving instead into the gritty, often ugly, sometimes
energizing, social history of specific places (see Wilson, 2000a; 2000b; Blomley, 2003;
Linkon and Russo, 2002);12
* it would, that is, have to be based on records, documents, interviews, empirical
evidence and on a means to integrate that evidence (for excellent examples, see
Harner, 2001; Page, 2003);
* it would therefore have to have a theory of scale at its heart, understanding how the
histories and geographies of particular places and landscapes cannot be understood
outside an analysis of processes working at smaller and larger scales, and that scale
is a means to see how the violent destruction of landscape (and livelihood) in one
place can redound very much to the benefit of landscapes (and people) in other
places (see Mitchell, 2003);13
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Cultural landscapes
* it would have to have, also at its heart, what Henderson (2003: 190) calls a 'conflict
model of social theory' - a theory of power and its exercise.
What can landscape studies say about all this? How can they intervene in it? How can
they, for example, help to 'collectively identify geographical research issues of race and
racism . .. as part of a movement within geography to reignite geographic research on
race which had diminished since its peak in the 1960s and 1970s' (Schein, 2002: 3),
which was the goal of the workshop at which Woods presented his remarks? In
particular, how can they tie such a focus on race (or other aspects of identity) into a
wider theory of landscape production and destruction - the geographic practices (to
appropriate Cresswell, 2003) that define the material, representational and affective
landscapes within which we live?
One answer became apparent in a year-long study seminar held in 2002-2003 at the
Center for Advanced Study in Oslo, Norway. Entitled 'Landscape, Law, and Justice' and
organized by geographers at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology in
Trondheim (especially Michael Jones, Gunhild Setten and Kenneth Olwig), the study
group was comprised of geographers, sociologists, legal scholars, historians and others
from the Nordic countries, Scotland and - in the person of David Lowenthal London/Berkeley. At semi-public seminars, and eventually in a week long conference
held in June 2003, participants explored the relationship between different common and
statutory law traditions and the (literal)- place of justice, the relationship between law
and identity, and the way that contestations over different forms of both formal and
informal justice both shape the land and shape the law. In these seminars, landscape
was quite something different than what we had come to think of it as in AngloAmerican geography. While some - like the Finnish radical Ari Lehtinen and the panNordic Ken Olwig - wanted to argue for a specifically Nordic landscape (one formed
out of different social relations, put to different social ends, given different social
meanings), it wavs not just in that narrow sense that the discourse of landscape was
different. While the group's interdisciplinarity required special care that geographers
(or others) did not use their standard theoretical languages easily or without
explanation, it was also not that need for a more accessible language that made the
discourse different. Rather, it was the degree to which the seminars took the substantiveness of landscape (to use Olwig's, 1996, term) so seriously. Landscape was more than
a way of seeing, more than a representation, more than ideology - though it was very
deeply all of these. It was a substantive, material reality, a place lived, a world produced
and transformed, a commingling of nature and society that is struggled over and in. In
these struggles, productions and lives, law (as a social practice) was critical, and
normative goals of justice were always foremost. Discussion of struggle, justice, the
deadweight and liberatory practices of common law, the strange careers of statutory
law, the changing etymologies of landscape practice - all of these gave form, vitality
and especially importance to landscape.
Or, as the Swedish landscape geographer Mats Widgen put it in remarks at one of the
seminars, it is important to understand how 'law' is like the chemicals in a darkroom:
it 'develops' the landscape (though the converse is true too - landscape, as Olwig, 2002,
has shown, can be crucial in developing the law). Illustrating this idea with pictures of
a Kenyan hillside before and after changes in property law, Widgren showed how a
particular view emerged from the alchemy of land and law, and how the traces of new
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Don Mitchell 793
ways of life were made visible to the distant viewer, new ways of life that were equally
the destruction of old ones.14 The new landscape that emerged was not only evidence of
a changed relationship between people, land and law, but was that changed relationship.
The landscape was an active part of it.
This tight relationship between landscape and law has been developed most fully, in
the Anglo-American context, in recent work by Nicholas Blomley (2003), who was the
keynote speaker in the concluding conference of the 'Landscape, Law, and Justice'
seminar. In a wide-ranging, impassioned and at times beautiful new book, Blomley
(2003) explores how the relationship between land and law is worked out through the
politics of urban property, a politics far more complex and indeterminate than the
seeming stability of property as a social fact seems to allow. Blomley argues - convincingly - that any landscape geography interested in justice has to pay close attention to
the theory, history and contemporary struggles over property, a point also driven home
in Olwig's (2002; 2004) work. This is one key step in returning to the study of urban or
other landscapes as 'real object[s] of study', as Kirby (2002) calls for. But other steps are
needed. As Gilmore (2004) shows so compellingly, relations of property - how to free
up land where it is scarce, to dispose of it where it is abundant, and to use it 'productively' within an economy that is founded on destruction and rank injustice - are
themselves deeply entwined in all manner of other relations, from race and gender to
class and power, and that the law-landscape nexus is one through which what she calls
'breathtakingly cruel shifts in the meaning and practice of justice' are made concrete.
This landscape of injustice, logical as it is in terms of crisis-laden capital flows, is a key
component of society's 'degeneration' (as Bunge calls it).
Landscape studies not only can, but now must, develop the intellectual tools
necessary to be part not only of the intellectual reinforcements needed to combat this
degeneration but also of the political reinforcements. Landscape studies can no longer
be only about just landscape. Landscape is too important to be allowed, any longer, to
be the dreamwork - or the groundwork - of empire. Landscape studies must be
dedicated to seeing that landscape becomes the groundwork - and dreamwork - of
justice.
Notes
1. For an important account of how landscapes - homes, lands, livelihoods - were expropriated,
and how that expropriation was resisted in imperial Canada, see Harris (2002). For other recent
compelling examinations of colonial landscape transformation in North America, see the special issue
of Cultural Geographies on 'North American Spaces/Postcolonial Stories' edited by Kay Anderson and
Mona Domosh and comprising articles by Braun (2002), Domosh (2002) Morin (2002); and Olund
(2002).
2. Or, more accurately, the production of landscape images in this or that text.
3. To my knowledge there is only one book in geography that explicitly looks at landscape in
relation to destruction: Jakle and Wilson (1992). There is a minor subgenre of research in geography
on the destruction or removal of monuments (for a recent example, see Whalen, 2003) and invocations
of 'creative destruction' in the journal literature are fairly common, but sustained meditations on the
politics and practices of destruction themselves are rare.
4. Even the most polluted landscapes, landscapes dedicated entirely to the art and science of
destruction - like America's nuclear weapons laboratories - are seen more in terms of production than
destruction: see Mercer (2002).
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794 Cultural landscapes
5. The day I first wrote these words, 23 July, 2002, Israel bombed the Gaza City apartment block of
leading Islamic militant, killing him, his family, and 14 or 15 others including children in a horrific
display of disproportionate, barbaric force. Hamas and other organizations promised to step up their
campaign of suicide bombing in response - a promise they made good on. The result was a year of titfor-tat killings in Palestine/Israel, stepped-up bulldozering of Palestinian orchards, homes and
businesses by the Israeli army, and a brutal war- of attrition that only now (uly 2003) seems to be
a
pausing.
6. For two different, wide-ranging approaches into the materialities of urbanism, see Merrifield
(2002a; 2002b).
7. Published as part of a collection of essays devoted to analyses of the life, work and influence of
J.B. Jackson (Wilson and Groth, 2003).
8. For an excellent recent discussion of this last form, see Cosgrove (2003).
9. For recent examples, see Azaryahu (2003), Charlesworth (2004), Foster (2004), Leib (2002) and
Nagel (2002), but see especially the remarkable book Steeltown USA: work and memory in Youngstown
(Linkon and Russo, 2002). Written by American Studies and labor studies scholars (who are also
founders of the important Center for Working Class Studies in Youngstown), Steeltown draws
extensively on both landscape and labor geography, but moves beyond both by rooting them deeply
in the specific struggles and affectations of place.
10. The recent republication of Harvey's The limits to capital (1999) and several of his early essays
on the built environment (see Harvey, 2001) serve as important reminders of the value of seriously
considering the landscape as the means for and the concretization of the circulation of social relation-
ships (including especially value).
11. In this it would have to be committed to unveiling, debunking and destroying the cant that
official knowledge about such things as race - which is just what Pred (2000) does in his
expose of racism in officially non-racist Sweden. Rich Schein's (2002; 2003) excellent recent essays
indicate a starting-point for anti-racist landscape geography.
12. In his examination over the struggles to memorialize Arthur Ashe on Richmond, Virginia's
most prominent - and Confederate - street, Leib (2002) provides an excellent case study of how race
works through, is protected in and sometimes gets - at least partially - overthrown in the landscape.
As he himself is utterly clear in noting, however, his is a case study of the symbolic landscape and the
eventual erection of the Arthur Ashe monument stands as a symbolic one (the symbolism of which is
in fact contested within African American communities as well as by white residents). What he does
not say (nor, of course, does he need to) is that such symbolic victories do not address many - most of the material problems facing African Americans in racist Richmond.
13. For an excellent critique of the teleology that - at least implicitly - frames historical-materialist
accounts of landscape like my own, see Hinchliffe (2003:214-15). Gilmore (2002a: 22, note 5) provides
the best rejoinder as to why at least some teleology is necessary in any normative project:' "Freedom"
is shorthand for the object of history.'
14. Mats Widgren made these remarks in a presentation to the seminar in December 2002.
serves as
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