Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 2001, volume 19, pages 161 ^ 177

DOI:10.1068/d201t

The city and topologies of memory

Mike Crang, Penny S Travlou

Department of Geography, University of Durham, Science Site, South Road, Durham DH1 3LE,
England; e-mail: M.A.Crang@durham.ac.uk, pennytravlou@yahoo.com
Received 5 October 1998; in revised form 12 November 1999

Abstract. The relationship of space and time has become a vexed issue in accounts in the postmodern
metropolis. Rich and enlivening accounts use spatial categories to describe the interrelationships of
elements of the city moving from historicism to geography, to gloss Jameson's development of
cognitive mapping. Postmodern geographies utilising the ideas of cognitive mapping show marked
similarities with the accounts of time and space describing classical and medieval arts of memory and
the Romantic writings of Flaubert on Athens. However, spatialised accounts of the city often seem to
replicate problematic divisions of space and time that also underlay historicist accounts and merely
invert the latter's priorities. The work of Bergson offers key insights into how this division occurred
and a sense of temporality that may be lost in spatial metaphors. This is a sense of difference and
alterity that we trace in the work of Proust and argue can be brought to inform the urban theatre of
memories through a careful reworking of ideas suggested by de Certeau and Derrida. In this paper we
take the case of Athens, bringing together East and West, ancient and modern, original and copy, as a
grounding to discuss these issues. We suggest a sense of time ^ space as both fragmented and dynamic;
a sense of the historical sites as creating instability and displacement in collective memory.

Introduction
In this paper we attempt to clarify the implicit models in current debates over the role of
space in social theory by drawing out some approaches relating space and time through
memory. We follow Halbwachs's (1992) approach where sites of memory hold communal
identities togetheror divide themand where the spatiality of memory links the
social and the personal. We explore the interplay of the spatial arrangement of elements,
temporality, and the experience of the city. We begin with a moment in theory and a
place that seems both to support and to destabilise some contemporary ideas. We look
to Athens as a city marked by a juxtaposition of different temporalities abutting
discontinuous moments on the urban stage. The Saint Simonian dream of a great
temple housing ``les panoramas et les dioramas qui reuniraient en un seul point tout
l'espace et tout les temps'' (Prendergast, 1993, page 48) is revisited as a space of
incoherence rather than (visual) command, where the rule of spatial and temporal
interval is abandoned to allow objects to transgress upon one another (Krauss, 1988,
page 63); temporalities collide and merge (Burgin, 1996) causing the ``postmodern
confusion of time and space, in which temporal continuity collapses into extension
and spatial dimension is lost to duplication'' (Olalquiaga, 1991, page 19). The landscape
becomes a juxtaposition of asynchronous moments where space forms a container for
different eras producing a depthless world where time as process is erased, as in
themed environments, and which demands cognitive mapping (Jameson, 1992) of
`juxtastructures' (Shields, 1991). This process can be read as a metaphor for commodi-
fication, bringing different times into one homogenised (and marketable) field though
this is not to say that the uses and practices of such spaces are thus homogenised
(Crang, 1994a; Game, 1991). We suggest different ways of reconnecting time and space,
while outlining the risks of a spatialised time that merely inverts the binary models of
historicism. We want to explore the issues raised by seeing places as becoming, with
162 M Crang, P S Travlou

multiple temporalities to ask ``how does a sense of duree feature in place?'' and vice
versa (see Yeoh and Kong, 1999, pages 133 ^ 135).
In order to gain some purchase on issues that veer towards formidable abstrac-
tions, we locate these issues in the passage of time in the citymade present through
spatialised remainders forming an aesthetic juxtastructure in Athens, which forms a
point of departure and return for our story. The idea of juxtaposition is then explored
in relation to ideas of theatres of memory. This we cast into relief through Flaubert's
writings about Athens that create a city of discrete moments and temporal rupture. We
then contrast these two senses of placing time with theories that see time as nonspatial
and propose a radical antagonism between space and time. We use Bergson to intro-
duce theories of dynamic and active time over inert space. We argue that reasserting
space risks simply inverting this, whereas we need a sense of space ^ time where the
two are not antonymical (Massey, 1992, page 71). We thus contrast the inert space of
Bergson with the fecund spaces and emplaced memories in Proust. Through the work
of de Certeau we offer some alternative sense of memory that bring together time and
space. Finally, we try to draw this back to Athens considering the work of ruins and
absence in memory.
We take inspiration from the many-storied Venice of Calvino's book Invisible Cities
(1997). We too see a multiplicitous city, but we choose the dissemination of Athens for
four reasons. First, it is the originary polis that haunts other Western cities. Second,
and conversely, it stands at crossroads of Occident and Orient with its status shifting
awkwardly over time and implying different chronologies. Third, it is a city with a vast
tourism industry that feeds off synchronicity and produces a world of images. Fourth,
the trajectory of development in Southern European cities makes them postmodern in
a rather different sense than the conventional, westward narrative of Paris, to New
York, and on to Los Angeles suggests (Leontidou, 1993; 1996).
Returning to Athens undermines the story of movement from an origin that under-
lies the orders of authenticity in so much urban theory. It is not only that Athens forms
an absent origin, but that the past remains and becomes present. As Serres (1991,
page 30) would have it, the relationship is not one of cities succeeding one another,
but rather that ancient cities were disseminated around the Mediterranean: ``Geography
presents us with a sowing.'' Athens provides an occasion to explore the differential
relations of past and present beyond temporal relationships of origins, antecedents,
and copies. It offers a chance to move away from a theory of representation (original,
copy, simulation) to a theory of spatial practice (crossing, folding, piercing).

Athens: the juxtaposition of different times

Zaira: ``The city does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand,
written in the corners of streets ... every segment marked in turn with scratches,
indentations, scrolls.''
Calvino (1997, page 11)
Athens provides an occasion to examine a recurring theme in contemporary writings
on spatiotemporal theory; the shift from a time-focused approach to a concern for
space. Harvey suggests that:
``the organisation of space has become the primary aesthetic problem of mid-
twentieth century culture, as the problem of time (in Bergson, Proust, and Joyce)
was the primary aesthetic problem of the first decades of this century'' (1989,
page 201).
In this, he echoes Foucault's much recited claim for reversing the previous historicist
ascendancy that ``the present epoch will perhaps above all be the epoch of space. We
are in the epoch of simultaneity: we are in the epoch of juxtaposition, the epoch of near
The city and topologies of memory 163

and far, of the side-by-side, of the dispersed'' (Foucault, 1986, page 22). In this sense,
postmodern theories reject the convention of history (time) as fecundity, and geography
(space) as inert background (Massey, 1992, pages 65 ^ 66; Soja, 1996). Postmodernism
can be portrayed as pitting a geographical against an historical imagination.
Correspondingly, the urban fabric is seen as an arena where different historical eras
converge. This shift may be interpreted as ``the transformation of the time of progress
into the space of seemingly meaningless juxtapositions'' (Roberts, 1988, page 554).
Postmodernism is characterised by the abandonment of historical continuity and the
plundering of history, absorbing whatever is found there into the present (Jameson,
1992). Postmodernism, therefore, destroys historical narratives as chronology and
sequence, and promotes a depthless synchronic collage that juxtaposes past and present
moments in a fragmented city (Harvey, 1989; Roberts, 1988; Walsh, 1992). Collage
stresses the side-by-side display not just of different moments, but of many different
textures and genres. The postmodern era is thus:
``a period of stylistic stasis, a period characterised not by the linear, cumulative
development of a single fundamental style, but the coexistence of a multiplicity of
quite different styles in a fluctuating and dynamic steady-state'' (Roberts, 1988,
page 556).
As a result, the past becomes available to, and the same as, the present. Harvey
(1989), for instance, retraces Raban's Soft City ; an ``emporium of styles, an encyclo-
paedia, a maniacal scrap-book filled with colourful entries'' (page 83). In a similar way,
Soja (1996) uses Borges's ``Aleph'' to frame and describe Los Angeles; a space where
``the sum total of the spatial universe [as] in eternity, all timepast, present and
futurecoexists simultaneously'' (page 54).
The city of Athens, an old city that lacks the wilful idiosyncrasies of the American
urban models so often citied, has an aesthetic that is ``the result of recycling, fusion of
levels, discontinuous signifiers, explosion of boundaries and erosion'' (Bruno, 1987,
page 65). But this is an involuntary postmodernism, with different historical periods
and narratives juxtaposed in its landscape. The Athenian landscape might have been
called postmodern long before there was such a label used by architects. Krier, in his
`manifesto' of postmodernism notes the ``absolute value of the pre-industrial cities, of
the cities of stone'' for their ability to trigger time (after Ellin, 1996, page 16). These cities
act as `theatres of memory' where sites and buildings from different epochs bring the
past into the present landscape. People stroll across a pattern of different time-moments
while moving through spaces. The urban nexus of modern Athens is marked by super-
imposed and contrasting landscapes, creating not only radiating (spatial) layers but also
multiple (temporal) surfaces. This is not, however, an ordered development around a
traditional urban core, but the spatial juxtaposition of radically different periods, from
Classical archaeological sites to metropolitan office blocks. Styles separated by centuries
are jostling against one another in a seemingly competitive growth pattern. The land-
scape is a scrapbook where some historic sites are marked out, while others are not so
much buried as erased:
``Classicism prevails. Byzantine themes and revolutionary allusions are closely sec-
ond. Very little is left, however, to record the long centuries of Ottoman domination;
even less to record or recall the briefer Catalonian or Venetian occupations''
(Faubion, 1993, page 15).
This scrapbook creates a discontinuous temporality; from ancient Athens we jump
directly to the present with few intervening historic moments. The city defies any
systematic chronology of historical progress. The past is not a receding horizon, but
rather ``literally and figuratively, a presence'' (Faubion, 1993, page 88). The sense of
time is an almost mystical communion of memory that is actually ahistoric in the way
164 M Crang, P S Travlou

it opposes a sense of temporal development (Le Goff, 1992, page 65). This theatre of
memory works by seeing space as a receptacle for discontinous and equivalent pockets
of time. The contradictory, historically overcharged landscape of Athens is framed by
Eurocentric collective memories. Modern Athens, as the Greek capital city, was
founded in the 19th century, blending the authoritative and didactic Greek ideal
``with a haunting sympathy for the ruinous landscapes of Greece and a love for free-
dom drawn poignantly into a focus by the Greek war of Independence'' (Boyer, 1994,
page 152). The newly born capital looked to the past for its present. Through the
collective memory of the Western civilisation the backwater settlement of the Ottoman
empire became, literally, the exhumed and resurrected ancient Athens.
Following classical ideals, the first architects and city plannersmainly foreign-
ersproduced a city plan that turned all perspectives towards the Acropolis, since it
was supposed to be ``in accordance with the glory and beauty of the ancient city of
Athens'' (Boyer, page 163). Modern Athens was planned as an analogical extension of
the ancient city with its public, administrative, and private mansions designed accord-
ing to neoclassical architectural style. Every construction was a repetition of past
forms, a resurrection and ceremony of past glory by using classical architectural
language (just as education used the classical literary tradition to purify and resurrect
the cultural environment of the new state). The memory of ancient Athens animated a
sentimental desire to return to the origin of Western knowledge, to reappropriate the
rightful patrimony of Northern Europe, and to reform the present based on the highest
and purest accomplishments of the past. The result of this situation was the formation
of two cities within Athens:
``a new Athens that borrowed from everywhere and came to resemble nowhere, and the
scenographic illusions of ancient Athens, ephemeral as a dream'' (Boyer, 1994,
page 170).
The Athenian landscape became more dislocated between the 1950s and the 1970s
when the majority of the so-called `neoclassical buildings' were demolished and replaced
with apartment buildings, built to accommodate the needs of an expanding population,
mostly immigrants from rural Greece. The traces of different epochs were crushed by
colourless modernism at its unimaginative worst in the Athenian apartment buildings
(Leontidou, 1996). Now, only a few buildings here and there remind resident or visitor of
Athens's past, reducing the historical landscape to a few benchmark sites, especially the
``two ancient points of reference; the Acropolis and the Mount Lycavittos'' (Faubion,
1993, page 15). The classical past supersedes the Oriental city and, in turn, forms the
impossible model against which recent landscapes become obstacles to the ancient.

Memory places: the arts of memory

Zora: ``This city which cannot be expunged from the mind is like an armature, a
honeycomb in whose cells each of us can place things he wants to remember.''
Calvino (1997, page 15)
We would suggest that visions of time distributed in space, as juxtaposition or cogni-
tive maps, owe much to the classical `arts of memory'. These were systems for recalling
times past where orators or scholars constructed an imaginary building, complex of
buildings, or even a city, and placed images at marked locations so as to remind
themselves of topics or issues to be addressed. They called up the building and strolled
through it to encounter topics in the order in which they placed them. In this way, as
Cicero suggested, orators might remember speeches without notes. Like the psycholo-
gist Luria's patient who could remember everything that had ever happened to him
through placing items on routes along which he then mentally walked (Luria, 1968),
The city and topologies of memory 165

these are spatialised trips down memory lane. Yates (1968) charted the connections of
such practices to buildings, such as abbeys, or towns, and purpose-built `memory
theatres'. Rather than see the ornate decoration of cathedrals as iconography, we can
plausibly see it as helping worshippers recall and recite memorised stories (Le Goff,
1992, page 71). Medieval thinkers used maps, such as Dante's hell (Yates, 1968,
page 75), to organise concepts and ideas, using space to lend stability to intangible
ideas (Connerton, 1989, page 37) of which the current vogue for mapping and charting
intellectual terrains seems a rather pale shadow. They created a symbolic architecture so
that ``Remembering is like constructing and then travelling again through a space. We
are already talking about architecture. Memories are built as a city is built'' (Eco, 1986,
page 89). This allowed the control and management of time through imagined space:
``The recollection of `places'or topoi, of memory was a mnemotechnic which organised
knowledge and experience by a visual space of discrete points, places and boundaries
engendering notions of spatial exclusivity, enclosure, visibility, and distance as well as
those of association and order. It was made possible only by reiteration, by a trusting
adherence to those things, and by the sequential arranging of places that were
sufficiently different from one another to prevent infinite substitutability and trans-
ference from confounding the order'' (Emberly, 1989, page 747).
Space created an orderly and predictable field of visual knowledge (Carruthers,
1990, page 192). Calvo's 1527 map of `Augustinian' Rome thus laid the city out around
sixteen equal radial divisions, assigning a monumental site in each (Boyer, 1994,
page 208). We might note that, more recently, this was the visual practice behind
Geddes's plan for an outlook tower in Edinburgh, surveying the landscape (Boyer,
1994, page 212). To illustrate the implications of this we can take three examples. First,
in sites representing the past, like museums, spatial sequence can support or disrupt
historical narrative (Crang, 1994b; Harbison, 1977). The purposeful articulation of
memory is enabled through time's spatial distension. Second, this mapping of histor-
ical events can also be seen in the naming of streets or monuments creating places of
social memory. This is not to say that these are monovocal or uncontested (see
Johnson, 1995). However, in forming the sites of contest or dialogue, they sustain a
social memory that articulates civic and personal identities (Green, 1990). The brand
new streets of Crawley New Town got a mythological colouring through historical
namescreating a spatialised and detemporalised English historical-geography
(Appleby, 1990, page 36). A mythologising that is equally apparent in the streets
around Athens's Acropolis, (re)named after historical and mythological people.
Whether events are attached to places by design or through common usage, the `arts
of memory' offer a powerful implicit model of how place and memory can be linked. It
is suggestive of how the urban fabric can indeed become a text, inscribed with located
and spatialised elements; the epigraphy of memorialising space parallels writing to
landscape (Le Goff, 1992, page 59). Third, the mode of representation and self-hood
seems to prefigure many postmodern attributes (Cosgrove, 1990). Self-hood was con-
structed through these topoi being recalled and composed, not only as personal points
but communal foci of social memory (Carruthers, 1990, page 182). This offered a
nonlinear, omnitemporal self, linked to others through common sites of memory. An
evocative prefiguring of spatialised subjectivity in a posthistoricist world. It is tempting,
perhaps too tempting, to read the mixed-up impossible spaces and mythical world of
Hieronymous Bosch's The Garden of Earthly Delights as prefiguring the juxtastructure
of themed environments (de Certeau, 1992, page 52). Taking up this aspect, current
spatialised times emphasise the incoherence or disorder of time made possible through
disjunctive spaces. The loss of spatial and temporal intervals moves the memory theatre
from ordering to disordering the world.
166 M Crang, P S Travlou

However, this is not the only way in which time can be spatialised. For an alternative,
we turn first to Athens and the memory topoi emplacing time in the work of Gustav
Flaubert. Here we emphasise the epistemological gap; the uncertainty and misconnec-
tion between memory and place. In the subsequent section we address the philosophical
implications of approaches that oppose space to time, surface to depth, through the
work of Henri Bergson. After this, we develop more complex spatialities through
the `impossible' architectures offered by Marcel Proust (Eco, 1986, page 94).

Flaubert's Athens
Zoe: ``The traveller roams all around and has nothing but doubts: he is unable to
distinguish features of the city, the features he has in his mind also begin to mingle.''
Calvino (1997, page 34)
Flaubert conceived time as distinct moments, making history a sequence of `mummifi-
cations'. According to him, history was immobile, unable to change within the present,
but isolated, imprisoned in the past when the actual events took place (Brombert,
1971). To `freeze' momentsand, in general, the pasthe used the gaze as a primordial
camera. ``I am the eye; I know how to look and gaze at things'' (quoted in Tsianikas,
1997, page 11). The world became a sequence of visual moments, ``tableaux vivants'',
stopped in time suddenly by the glancing eye producing a timeless instant: ``l'image
parfait d'un oeil'' (the perfect image of an eye). Flaubert presents the landscape as a
photograph and a practice of painterly sightseeing. His ``photographic gaze'' is mainly
apparent in his travel notes describing his journey to the Orient. The present does not
exist for him, only the past. This major silence is notable; in front of his eyes space is
passing without any ``depth'' because history had stopped long ago (Tsianikas, 1997). In
common with romantic philosophy, he valorised the loss of memory as intelligibility
(Klein, 1997, page 304). Mallarme (in Brombert, 1971) argued that Flaubert's travel to
the Orient, including Greece, was a romantic escape linked to this tragic conception of
time. Indeed, Athens was starkly compared with Rome where the reuse of monuments
contrasted with early Romantic visits to a deserted Athens after the war, depicted as a
view across deserted fields where the ruins stood out rather than being reincorporated
into a continuing urban landscapemore ``torn page'' than palimpsest (Boyer, 1994,
page 162). Flaubert was greatly influenced by romantic philology that denied the
existence of the future while simultaneously proclaiming the continuance of an endur-
ing past embodied within the presentand thus the concern for ruins. However, this
treats the past as being at a ``temporally distorted distance'' from the present (Glasser,
1972). Thus, ``the topography of ancient Greece was admired romantically for its ruin-
ous features and for the meaning these exercised on the viewer's imagination. It was
the era to travel into the past, to gaze on the history of ancient times and meditate
upon the grand and melancholy spectacle as it remained isolated within the present''
(Boyer, 1994, page 161).
For Flaubert, talking about his journey to Athens, the return is to the idealised
past of ancient Greece which represents his `home'. Both the actual and the imagined
Athens serve as a memory theatre on which he stages a classical drama tragically cut
off from the present. This also raises the issue of nostalgic recollection, but we have to
ask `for where?' Nostalgia is a compound word from the Greek nostos (to return home)
and algos (pain).
Moreover, he places his recollections within the classical landscape of Athens. In
his letters, he describes the Athenian landscape in relation to his expectations. Flaubert
treats the present space as empty. This `blank' landscape, wherein the gaze is lost,
echoes his literary space. Like most of his works, he begins his narrative from empty,
The city and topologies of memory 167

inert, but indefinite space. His unique narrative style subjects Athens to a subtractive
textual mapping. Duquette (1972) names Flaubert's novel L'Education Sentimentale
``l'architecture du vide'' (the architecture of emptiness), a metaphor that also fits his
journey to the Orient. In this way, the Orient is not a whole entity but an empty entrance
through which someone must pass and be tested (Tsianikas, 1997). These empty spaces
are portals to a process of anamnesis and self-creation realised through Athens, as
before even going there, he has memories about the place; memories `in absentia'. By
this term, we mean the memories a person has for a place and time where he or she has
never been. Said (1978) outlines this kind of deja vu, where travellers find themselves
trapped in a place prefigured in their mind. Travel is more recognising than gazing. In
the case of the 19th-century traveller, these processes are conditioned by an education
that inculcated a thorough knowledge of the classical world. Before even gazing at the
Athenian landscape, they carried inside themselves one full of history and mythology.
Usually, they recognized what they already knew (Mentzos, 1989). These memories were
then located on the visited landscape where ``space is conceived as being already
existent, as being divided up into empty loci into which the images by which memories
would be recalled, are placed'' (Smith, 1987, page 26).
Flaubert desperately tries to locate places, monuments, even landscapes that could
remind him of what he has already known about Athens. His approach echoes the
medieval arts of memory, visualising concepts and then drawing them into cognitive
maps. However, ``a cognitive map is a cross section representing the world at one
instant in time'' (Downs and Stea, 1977, page 2). The problem for his ars memoriae
is, hence, its inability to fix multiple temporalities in the present urban landscape. For
instance, in the very beginning of his travel notes about Athens, he tries to trace in his
recollected map the bridge where guards were standing and watching the girls going to
the mysteries of Eleusis, and the grove of oleanders where the people used to hide. He
even wonders about their absence and he says, ``if my souvenirs are right, there should
be here a forest ...'' (Flaubert, 1964, page 70). `Souvenirs' of these places are actually
scenes of ancient Greek literature which he had read before visiting. He cannot find his
recollected places, because they do not exist anymore; his reaction is to ignore the
present space, to subtract it from his gaze. He empties it from all descriptions and
manipulates it ex nihilo ^ ex abrupto (Tsianikas, 1997). This subtractive landscape then
leaves only the memories of places he cannot find. Prefiguring Proust, these topoi are:
``also the place where the direction of expectation of the aesthetic experience
reverses itself: the anticipation of the imagination which is failed by the irreparable
inadequacy of the actual present can fulfil itself in what is past when the purifying
power of recollection makes it possible to recover in aesthetic perfection what was
experienced deficiently'' (Jauss, 1982, page 9).
In raising the lack in the present we reveal one of the fundamental problems in
mapping the past into real and imagined landscapes; that is, the reliance on space as
a container of time.

Thickening landscapes and the push of time

Zenobia: ``No one remembers what need or command or desire drove Zenobia's
founders to give their city this form, and so there is no telling whether it was
satisfied by the city as we can see it today, which has perhaps grown through
successive superimpositions from the first now undecipherable plan.''
Calvino (1997, page 35)
In contrast to the approaches discussed in the previous section are historicist accounts
that see time as `thickening' places. Space becomes the field on which the passage of
168 M Crang, P S Travlou

time is marked. So for Halbwachs (1992) space functions for collective memory by
stabilising and anchoring identities. It is a conception of time as vertical depth against
a horizontal spatial arrangement. We outline the dichotomisation of space (as inert)
and time (as dynamic) in order not to invert the dichotomy, but to open up possibilities
for a dynamic sense of space ^ time.
The dualistic separation of time and spaceseeing them as opposite in kind, and
privileging time (compare with Massey, 1992)can be clarified through the work of
Bergson. This is best explained by outlining what he saw as incorrect before suggesting
how he saw time operating. The version of time he opposed is what Castoriadis (1987)
called ``identitiary time'', that is, discrete moments in a chronological sequence
(t1 , t2 , t3 , :::, tn ) that sees time as akin to space. The past forms a spatial extension of
the present; as in the frequent use of time as simply another equivalent dimension (to
east ^ west, north ^ south add date, time of day, or whatever). Castoriadis (1987,
page 193) argued this vision of ``empty time'' relied upon a vision of ``pure and empty
objective space'':
``This identitiary time is the homogeneous and neutral medium of `successive coex-
istence', which is coexistence itself for the Gaze (Theoria) that examines the latter
spread out before it ... . In this identitiary time exists the identitiary present and,
reciprocally, identitiary time is but the innumerable (and numbered) repetition of
identitiary presents, always identical as such and different only by their place''
(Castoriadis, 1987, page 201).
Instead of seeing the present as a sequence of moments, Bergson (1991, pages 149 ^
150) argued that it is better defined as an absence; by what it is not than what it is. The
present is not a moment in time, a positive entity, but a becoming that erases itself. It is
the indivisible, yet ungraspable, limit between past and future. It cannot be reflected upon
or represented as a static image but comprises motion and flow. Identitiary time
attributes to the moving body the immobility of the point through which it passes.
He thus suggested that this fails to distinguish movement (time) qualitatively from
distance covered (space) (Deleuze, 1988). Spatialised models of time thus create a
`cinematographic illusion':
``your succession of points are at bottom, only so many imaginary halts. You
substitute the path for the journey and, because the journey is subtended by the
path, you think the two should coincide. But how should progress coincide with a
thing, a movement with an immobility?'' (Bergson, 1991, pages 189 ^ 190).
The illusion comes by substituting an abstract, spatial representation for the unit of
experience and fracturing it into divisible units (Lloyd, 1993, page 97). Time is qual-
itatively different from space, and spatial metaphors for time obscure this (Boundas,
1996, page 94). For Bergson, space juxtaposed things while time devoured the states
which succeeded each other (1991, page 150). There are two types of multiplicity. One in
terms of space, which is a quantitative change (augmentation or diminution), creating
multiple and discontinuous actual objects. The second multiplicity is `duration' (duree)
which is a qualitative heterogeneity (changing type and kind), a multiplicity of fused and
continual states that are virtually copresent (Deleuze, 1988, page 31). Thus, memory
should not be seen as a field in which items (or images of the past) accumulate. It seems
that the idea of (post)modern collage takes up just this point of fixed representations
and equivalent packages of space ^ time in order to create spatiotemporal confusion.
We draw upon two principles from the above. First, duration is not `empty time'
but is perceptions and actions in a flow of experience. Consciousness is always situated
in a duration that throws itself into the future. Memories are organised and called up
by attention to the present and the future; what Bergson calls ``attention to life'', or we
might say being-towards. Bergson argued for caution where we fall from this lived
The city and topologies of memory 169

relationship towards an intellectualised image of time as a representation, as a memory

theatre (Burgin, 1996, page 25; Lloyd, 1993, page 102). Second, the present includes
the past through a process of attention contracting into the future and dilating into the
past (Deleuze, 1988, page 49). The present and past coexist in a virtual order:
``We have great difficulty in understanding a survival of the past in itself because we
believe that the past is no longer, that it has ceased to be. We have thus confused
Being with being-present. Nevertheless the present is not; rather it is pure becom-
ing, always outside itself. It is not, but it acts. Its proper element is not being but
the active or useful. The past, on the other hand, has ceased to act or be useful. But
it has not ceased to be. Useless, inactive, impassive it IS, in the full sense of the
word'' (Deleuze, 1988, page 55, emphasis in original).
Reversing how we often think of time, the past does not recede but moves towards
the present and exerts a pressure to be admitted, gnawing its way into the future
(Deleuze, 1988, page 70; Lloyd, 1993, page 104). However, the dynamic idea of the
past's virtual presence came at the cost of seeing space as fixed and inert through a
restrictive antitemporal mode of spatiality (Sternberg, 1990, page 906). We want to take
the insight into the fecundity of time and see if we cannot develop a sense of spatiality
that admits difference as well as increase, multiplicity as well as numerous instances.

The subterranean landscapes and lost time of Marcel Proust

Ersilia: ``to establish the relationships that sustain a city's life, the inhabitants
stretch strings from the corners of houses ... when the strings become so numerous
you can no longer pass among them the inhabitants leave ... . The ruins of the
abandoned cities, without the walls which do not last ... [are] spider webs of
intricate relationships seeking a form.''
Calvino (1997, page 76)
Bergson feared that space rendered time into a realm of quantitative differences of
degree, and the mnemotechnics of the arts of memory relied on just such empty space
to place objects in time. As Bachelard put it, ``we think we know ourselves in time,
when all we know is a sequence of fixations in the spaces of the being's stability ... . In
its countless alveoli space contains compressed time. That is what space is for'' (quoted
in Burgin, 1996, page 258). Yet the question emerges as to whether space can guarantee
stability. Cubists explicitly cited Bergson for an art where painting did not have a unity
of time, but created a heterogeneous, ``qualitative'' space that was a pictorial analogue
to duree (Antliff, 1993, page 43). If we turn this reading to the city, it suggests space can
offer copresent, different times. Not just representations of times but the virtual
presence of past times. Bergson argued memories were called forth by our orientation
to the world, but we might ask whether lines of memory could develop on their own in
noninstrumental lines of association (Gross, 1985, page 375)?(1) There are remarkable

(1)Gross (1985, page 374) characterises Bergson as saying that in pure memory is an immense
zone of obscurity with a jumble of unordered images. ``There are no patterns existing in this
realm, but only the mental images of every experience from our past subsisting in a variegated
jumble of accumulated impressions.'' Given Bergson's criticisms of models of memory reliant on
the idea of `representations' instead of lines of transmission, this seems to conflate what we have
here separated as spatialised arts of memory and Bergson's ideas of `duree'. As such, it is
unfortunate if we follow Deleuze's (1988) interpretation that much of Bergsons's ire was directed
at `impure' compound categories. Rather we might say that ``for Bergson the past cannot be
identified with a recollection image. Rather, it is a virtual archive wherein we leap to link
memory with an image that could represent it'' (Rodowick, 1997, page 99). The image of time
is thus at a different level, an afterimage of the process of movement linking recollections, or as
Deleuze would have it not static images but images that contain dynamism within themselves
(1989; Rodowick, 1997).
170 M Crang, P S Travlou

connections to Proust's Au Recherche du Temps Perdu and he had to deny that his work
was `romans bergsoniennes' because, rather than space and time, it distinguished
`memoire involontaire' and `memoire volontaire' (Gross, 1985, page 376; Lloyd, 1993,
page 125). The most famous example of involuntary memory being the `madelaine',
dipped in tea, whose flavour suddenly overtakes the writer and transports him to the
past. Occasionally, sounds and smells frame a place as much as vision (Auge, 1997;
Downs and Stea, 1977). Proust opens the possibility of memory flowing of its own
accord, unsettling the individual with the swarm of memories thought long-forgotten
(Gross, 1985, page 373)(2) forming ``that Proustian dimension where people and things
occupy a place in time which is incommensurable with the one they have in space''
(Deleuze quoted in Rodowick, 1997, page 95). This entails refiguring the self, so
whereas Bergson offered a subject unified through the flow of duree, ``Proust's whole
concept of memory was founded on the notion that we are not continuous but
altogether discontinuous selves'' (Gross, 1985, page 378).
Proust saw time as fundamentally discontinuous or `convoluted' rather than as lines
of transmission. Time is not simply mapped out on space but buried and hidden in the
landscape. Space is not the means of legibility but opacity. Thus ``the eternity which
Proust opens to view is convoluted time, not boundless time. His true interest is in the
passage of time in its most realthat is space-bound form'' (Benjamin, 1969,
page 206). Benjamin finds in Proust the turning around of attention and distraction
as the organising principles of memory into ``an inhibition of movement, a state of
consciousness arrested in the present'' (Crary, 1988, page 103; 1991).(3) The lines of
memory's flight are held in an afterimage of notion.
Thus, whereas ``Bergson denounces and rejects the metamorphosis of time into
space'', Proust ``not only accommodates himself to it but installs himself in it, carries
it to extremes and makes it finally one of the principles of his art'' (Poulet, 1977,
page 4). Wavering memories compete, forcing a choice of two incompatible places
trying to coexist. The fragmentation and convolution of time is preceded by a frag-
mentation of space. Underpinning convoluted time is a dispersed, not a unifying,
memory. Space acts to bound and contain an archipelago of incidents, or as Poulet
(1977, page 90) puts it ``closed vases'' that are left by the withdrawal of life. The work of
memory is an incessant process that puts these places in juxtaposition rather than
melding them into a whole; the past is brought into the present in an art of repetition
(Lloyd, 1993, pages 126 and 142). The subject of memory is thus composed of signs of
the fragmented past.
A similar re-collection can be found in Benjamin's own remembrances of the city.
Thus, when he is unpacking his book collection, he is overcome by a rush of memories of
cities where they were obtained. His love of collecting books needs to be seen as a way of
creating himself from among these fragments. ``Collecting for Benjamin ... is a healing
anamnesis, a means of re-membering his fragmented past, of re-collecting a lost
(2) As Benjamin (1969, page 198) argued, ``the important thing for the remembering author is not
what he experienced, but the weaving of his memory, the Penelope work of recollection. Or
should one call it a Penelope work of forgetting? Is not the involuntary recollection, Proust's
memoire involontaire, much closer to forgetting than what is usually called memory?''
(3) Benjamin had a typically dense relationship with the work of both Proust and Bergson, but

saw them as symptoms of their own epochs. Benjamin cited Matter and Memory as a towering
work but one flawed by not seeing the historical circumstances of its creation where its stress
on coherent, vital individuals was a reaction to industrial modernity (Benjamin, 1969, pages 156 ^
157; Crary, 1991, page 103). A criticism turned around to find in Proust an alternate vision of
loneliness where ``the overloud and inconceivably hollow chatter which comes roaring out of
Proust's novels is the sound of society plunging down into the abyss of this loneliness'' (Benjamin,
1969, page 207).
The city and topologies of memory 171

maternal presence, the plenitude of childhood'' (Schor, 1994, page 253). As Benjamin
(1969, page 201) put it, ``Paris vecu'' is more than touched by the shadows of Proust,
projecting biography onto the city map:
``Autobiography has to do with time, with sequence and what makes up the con-
tinuous flow of life. Here, I am talking of space, of moments and discontinuities.
For even if months and years appear ... [the] atmosphere of the city that is evoked
here allots them only a brief shadowy existence. They steal along its walls like
beggars that appear wraithlike at the windows, to vanish again, sniff at thresholds
like a genius loci, and even if they fill whole quarters with their names, it is as a
dead man's fills his gravestone'' (Benjamin, 1978, page 305).
This ghostly geography of the city suggests not so much presence as absence, so
many spaces as allegories of time. Using the city as this sort of mnemonic system leads
to a shifted idea of space. So, for Benjamin, Paris's ``city streets served as a mnemonic
system, bringing images of the past into the present'' (Friedberg, 1993, page 73), both
in relation to the ruins of modernity and his childhood. Deleuze turned to Baroque
folded space (Rodowick, 1997), but we would instead follow Benjamin's focus on the
ruin as a symbol of Baroque tragic drama that quotes antiquity and brings it into the
present through allegories (van Reijen, 1992, page 3). Benjamin drew the parallel that
``allegories are in the realm of thoughts, what ruins are in the realm of things'' (1978,
page 178). Antique ruins forced a confrontation between sense of permanence and
transitoriness, endurance and decay. Or adapting Simmel's three antagonisms (van
Reijen, 1992, page 6), they exposed: the persistence of the past into the present, the
contradiction of intended meanings and current interpretations, and the embodiment
of ideas in things. Thus the physical decay of classical sites contrasted the `eternal'
ideals. Their specific location contrasted the universal claims. The topoi of the ruin
thus offered Benjamin a dialectical image of clashing temporalities.(4) When we turn to
the emergent Greek capital, then it was one of those ``cities whose greatness emerges
from the interstices of their own ruins'' (Olalquiaga, 1991, page xxi). The ruins of
Athens offer contradictory topoi. The fragility and decay belie their stability for, after
all, if a ruin decays it remains still a ruin (van Reijen, 1992, page 6). Moreover, Athens
was not the eternal city of Rome, where reuse and readaptation made a landscape of
continuity, even if the fragments were held together, as Freud had it, like a brecciated
rocknot layers but original elements recombined in a binding medium so that the
patterns do not belong to the parts (Burgin, 1996, page 178). The disjunctures of
classical and modern Greek identity, the lacuna of Turkish rule, the position of East
and West, the universality of classical ideals, and their specific times and places created
a jarring landscape.

Unruly sites and anti-museums

Clarice: ``The order of eras' succession has been lost; that a first Clarice existed is a
widespread belief, but there are no proofs to support it ... . Only this is known for
sure: a given number of objects is shifted within a given space, at times submerged
by a quantity of new objects, at times worn out and not replaced; the rule is to
shuffle them each time and try to assemble them.''
Calvino (1997, page 108)

(4) The dialectical image of the ruin was an image of frozen agitation (van Reijen, 1992, page 5),

containing within itself a temporality as did the aesthetic afterimage Benjamin saw in Proust.
These unstable representations echo Deleuze's attempts to think through the difficulty of
representing flowing time.
172 M Crang, P S Travlou

It is not merely that narratives are written onto the city transforming it into a
meaningful text, but that the action of sites prompt and start narratives. We wish to
argue that rethinking the relationships thus far gives rise to three important points.
First, the opposition of space and time is recast. No longer is time opposed to stasis,
but homogeneous times and spaces are opposed to pluriform times and spaces. Second,
and consequently, space becomes not simply a container for preserving memories but
an opaque and not entirely knowable medium. Third, stories in the city become
spatially as much as temporally driven.
De Certeau (1984, page 33) echoes Bergson's concern for practice rather than
representation, but he also opens up a spatiality that is not confined to the inert and
fixed, but contains vectors and velocitieswhat he calls ``space as practised place''. The
inscription of history forms a `proper' place where meanings are controlled, but this
forms only a `sieve-order' where there is ``a universe of places haunted by ... dreamed
sites'' (1985, page 139). These dreamed sites echo the `subterranean landscapes' of
Proust (de Certeau, 1983, page 30), with disorderly memories acting as an `anti-
museum' where the unruly ``verbal relics of which narrative is made up (fragments of
forgotten stories and opaque gestures) are juxtaposed in a collage in which their
relationships are not thought out and [do not] therefore form a symbolic whole''
(1983, page 143). Whereas for Bergson the realm of memory is oceanic and conscious-
ness unifies that expanse, de Certeau (1992, page 12) adopts the Freudian version of the
past irrupting into the conscious to fracture it.
Indeed Freud's own account of his visit to the Acropolis indicates the contra-
dictory place it was for him. At a first level his response was shock at encountering
the reality of something he had learnt from stories as a child, and had never expected
actually to visit. Freud exclaimed: ``So all this really does exist, just as we learnt at
school'' (Gourgouris, 1996, page 122). Like Flaubert's, and many tourists', his is a
bathetic encounter with the previously imagined object. However, it casts further
light on the Western experience of Athens. The ruined Acropolis stood as a (material)
metonym of the past (imagined, virtual) Hellenic civilisation, or created, in Freudian
terms, a derealisation: ``signifying both the unreality of the experience in the light of
the preconception and the evident unreality of the preconception in view of the
experience'' (Gourgouris, 1996, page 123). The very historicity of the Acropolis posed
a problem for Flaubert and Freud. For it was the ideality of classical Athens that
guaranteed the historicity of Western civilisation by being, unchanging, eternal, and
outside the cycle of history; Western self-understanding demanded the ``displacement
of Hellenes from a historical entity to an ontological condition'' (page 127). The
broken pillars form the symbol of a retroactive fantasy of a past not just anchoring
it but also undermining it.
De Certeau's anti-museum describes the unsettling of components through expan-
sion, contraction, and surprise association. The almost infinitely postponed Athenian
transit system is known as `metaphorai', he notes, connecting travel with the word for
memory. It is sudden turns and connections among things encountered en route that
drive memory. Instead of attention-to-life focusing memory, the irruption of memory is
the disruption of coherence. De Certeau thus challenges places of memory as ordering
and accumulating knowledge. He adapts an Aristotelian frame, moving us from
identitiary time (chronos) and nonplace (chora) to inhabited place (topos) and time as
eventfulness (kairos) (see Ramo, 1999, pages 314 ^ 317). Time as kairos means, instead
of acting as storage points for time, topoi offer a detour by way of the past (de Cer-
teau, 1984, page 79). This ability to `turn' ideas he links to knowledge as the classical
Greek metis, which ``counts on accumulated time, which is in its favor, to overcome a
hostile composition of place'' (page 80).
The city and topologies of memory 173

Table 1. De Certeau's schema of invisible cities of time and memory (source: de Certeau, 1984,
page 85).

Place (A) Memory (B) Kairos (C) Effects (D)

Time + +
Operation + +
Visibility + + +

Knowledge draws on the places among which it moves without possessing them;
displacing and re-placing each rather than assembling a total system. The process thus
links space and time, the visible and invisible in the practice of memory (table 1).
The visible places of the city are brought into contact with an invisible order. In Athens,
the visible order of the city and the invisible and remembered city of the classics were in
friction. The transformative `moment' is kairos (stage C) which links memory and place.
Places are not so much stores of memory as opportunities. The action of memory is
like a cuckoo, laying eggs in others' places. Space is practised place and is mediated via
memory. Like Bergson then, this is a vision of transformative time, yet one that ascribes
a far greater role to sites of memory, and explicitly disagrees with the ordered landscape
of the ``art of memory'' (de Certeau, 1984, page 89). Memory is alterity within the action
and life of the city. In the meanderings and jumps that space allows through time, it is
not a guarantee of stability but rather of uncomfortable provocations.

Conclusions: Athens vecu?

When we think, then, of Athens we need to see the spatiality of collective memory as
more than simply swapping space and time. Following Lyotard or Borges, the break-
down of intervals in time and distance in space produces not simply synchronicity but
the virtual presence of the past through particular sites in a pluritemporal landscape
not in the sense of a continuous historical narrative but as discordant moments
sustained through a mosaic of sites where qualitatively different times interrupt
spatialised juxtastructures. These do not form a singular time flowing forwards, but
instead offer multiple temporalities. The classical Athenian past is not dead and gone
but presentagain, not in the sense that it acts or causes outcomes (as theories of
cultural inheritance might have it) but in still being available as a resource to be taken
up and through which present actions can occur.
The existence of juxtaposed temporalities within the city is illustrated in Bonhomme
and Derrida's book Athenes: A l'Ombre de l'Acropole (1996). Derrida's gaze creates a
landscape of three different temporal morphemes: first, there is the actual ruinous city;
second, the city as photographed in the 1970s by Jean-Francois Bonhomme; and third,
the photographed city as analysed by Derrida. His central interpretative triangle is his
own refracted gaze on the Acropolis through one picture by Bonhomme. His narrative
successively imposes one morpheme upon another. In this way Derrida speaks through
photography to time itself, drawing the time before the shutter opened and the time
afterwards together. Space thus becomes bound in terms of presence and absence, where
the three juxtaposed times are made present in the Athenian landscape through an act
of disppearance. Metaphorically speaking, the texture of the city depends upon ruins,
and thus destruction and death. For Derrida, Athens is a city which is due, and owes its
dues, to death (``une ville due a la mort''):
``not only once, but twice or even three times, depending on different temporalities:
The mourning for Athens of antiquityarchaeological or mythological, no doubt
the mourning for the disappearing Athens, exhibiting the corpse of its ruins
also the mourning for Athens photographed by the photographer who knows
174 M Crang, P S Travlou

that tomorrow Athens condemned to fade away will vanish ... . Finally, the third
mourninganticipated: he [the photographer] knows there are also other photo-
graphs capturing spectacles still visible at present, during the publication of this
book, but ought to vanish tomorrow'' (Bonhomme and Derrida, 1996, page 18).
The deconstructive reading suggests that the Athenian landscape ``becomes erected
by its very own ruin'' (Wigley, 1993, page 43). The present landscape of Athens is
produced out of a process of construction through destruction, through three deaths
or, as Derrida would have it, through ``three `presences' of the vanished'' (``trios
`presences' de la disparition'') (Bonhomme and Derrida, 1996, page 18). The city fabric
forms a `hauntology' rather than a solid grounding. The present space of Athens is the
past of the city as a ``return'' (``revenant'') (Wigley, 1993; Derrida, 1994). Derrida's
`spectral analysis', after all, involves the return of a ghost. In this case the spectre
over Europe is not only classical Athens but Ottoman Athens, the Oriental waypost,
and the present and modern Athens, obscuring the `origin' of Western civilisation; the
three `presences of absence' offer an allegory of the threefold return of the past in the
thrice-folded physical and symbolic landscape of Athens. The city produces ruins that
bring the past into the present and the future.
The effect of these multiple times in place is to disrupt any sense of linear flow.
Attempting to evoke this complex temporal situation Serres has described the effect
thus:
``And I see coming towards me the linear generation of one of those fluctuations
that was formerly part of the middle and is now at the head of the series, because
the others vanished without successors. ... I am immersed, certainly, in another
present, where the same mixture forms again. We understand that we recognize
only the traces of sequences that descend from the past. We now recognize as
true only what belongs to this retrograde movement. And yet most often these
are only fluctuations like others. ... It concerns the time of which we are not
masters. Is it that time that undoes the boxes in simple succession, as seen from
my observation site?'' (1991, page 30).
Instead of a sense of an original, Serres suggests we acknowledge that: ``Historical time
is in search of its zero point. That point seems inaccessible it is a point of accumu-
lation; another point always interpolates itself iteratively, in front of it. One city
demands another city, one history requires another; but we do not really know how
time flows'' (1991, page 39). We have a spawning of myth and repetition. As a result, he
suggests that in considering Mediterranean cities: ``Before imagining time, let's try to
imagine places. The search for the origin covers places as the oxen cover and re-cover
the meadow with their tracks. We have read the places where cities are sown around
the sea. Does the origin go through all these cities, is each one of them originary?''
(1991, page 58). If we are to think of envelopes of time ^ space, we should see them not
as smooth or discrete but as knotted or folded (``a desmology [Greek knot or tie], a
discourse of bonds, ligaments and ligatures'' [page 79]).
We have tried to suggest the ways in which different times are imbricated in places.
Coupling these knotted, nondirectional times with the haunted landscapes of Proust
and Derrida leads us oddly to return to Bergson who pointed to a continual circling of
virtual and actual, memory and matter, wrapping each other in ever-expanding circuits
(Rodowick, 1997, page 90). Indeed, Deleuze argues that the cycling of virtual Being
and actual Becoming, memory and action leads to a double movement of creation and
erasure (1989, page 46). The difference between the real and imaginary becomes indis-
cernible, so that although the poles remain distinct, the actual moment is an inevitable
fusion. Or, as Deleuze puts it, ``distinct, but indiscernible, such are the actual and the
virtual which are in constant exchange'' (1989, page 70; Rodowick, 1997, page 94).
The city and topologies of memory 175

Places mix times into the present, mixing orders of virtual and actual. Equally, with the
different times coexisting, `places' are not unitary spaces and times but include sub-
terranean landscapes of fragmented spaces. Rather than being an immensity of past
from which we select, we have moments irrupting through places to bring the past into
contact with the present. Places do not offer unification or stability. Instead they are a
point of fracturing where difference enters the urban order. Places of memory stand
inserted simultaneously in a past order and the present, and are thus doubly located
through (at least) two different sets of coordinates. In doing this they offer cracks in the
surface of the present where time can be otherwise. We hope we have thus excavated
some of the ways in which spatial simultaneity need not mean temporal homogeneity.
Places in the urban fabric do not form either a predictable layering of past time nor are
they easily flattened into a synchronic arrayrather the reciprocal influence of time on
space, and vice versa, creates complex temporality and spatiality.
Acknowledgements. We would like to thank the many audiences who have helped us clarify
various parts of this paper, and suggested ways for it to develop. Likewise, two detailed and
constructive sets of comments from referees were invaluable. They are all innocent of the
resulting shape but we hope it answers their queries. Penny Travlou also wishes to acknowledge
the ESRC research studentship she held during the writing of this piece.
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