Architecture And Everything Except The Helsinki

Attention conservation notice: Raashid Riza at Beyond Borders wrote a post called “Architecture, School and the mini politics that may transcend“. I began writing a comment that turned into a very long response which quickly stopped being a response and became a two-thousand word essay and -well, here we are. If your eyes are already glazing over, you may safely skip the rest of this one. Thank you for playing.

Where necessary, I will quote from Riza’s essay and snip for brevity, like so:
> Architecture [...] has long been used as a tool to demarcate political
> and geographical boundaries, and even as a brand image in many ways than one.

See also: architectures of control, a phrase originally coined by Lawrence Lessig.

Architectures of control are any planned system with which people interact, where the system requires certain behaviours and forbids others in accordance with the politics built into the system by the designer, which may be at odds with the politics of the user.

That means systems that are not in the best interest of the user, but in the interest of the designer instead.

That means systems in which the user does not have control, but the designer does.

That means physical artefacts, software, buildings, cities, ideologies, controlling either the environment without or the unreal estate within, or both. Some are obvious and controversial (DVD region coding, DRM, the Kindle, Vista). Some are equally obvious but less controversial, such as Sri Lanka’s Sinhala-Buddhist morality laws: e.g., no meat or alcohol sold on full moon days. And, of course, standard-issue factory-model schools everywhere.

Architectures of control are therefore distinct from technologies-designed-with-intent in general, in the sense that they are political, and they have agendas distinct from their ostensible purpose.

There are architectures of control everywhere, and by this I do not imply any sort of conspiracy theory, but rather a rat’s nest of competing architectures in software and hardware, physical and psychological. Some are literally designed in a lab by people with an agenda (e.g., DRM), others are evolved designs reflecting the politics of generations of designers (e.g., schools).

All these architectures act on us when we encounter them, herd us to their desired -and often contradictory- conclusions. And of course, we are not trapped. We can circumvent any design eventually, if we want to. A comparatively benign technology-with-intent, like roads? We could cross our cities over walls and across rooftops. An architecture-of-control like digital rights management? We could boycott DRM products and pirate our music.

But to go against the current is tiring. Regardless of what extent we would allow these technologies of persuasion to shape us and our choices, the technologies exist and have their own designs upon us, and so the war becomes one of attrition.

Back to Riza’s essay:

> The several century or so old schools in Sri Lanka are a perfect epitome of this
> same iconism, and all others binding factors. What makes a school boy or girl
> coming from one of these old schools in Colombo, Kandy, Galle, Jaffna or any
> other major town in Sri Lanka be so loyal to his/her alma mater and all that she
> stands for is its architecture and elegance apart from many other reasons. The
> aesthetics and the elegance of the buildings inculcate in them a certain amount
> of Pride and belonging and sub consciously brainwashes them to be bound by that
> phenomenon.

Note the (subconscious?) capitalization in “pride” -presumably for emphasis. Note that the “brainwashing” here is considered good and desirable. I’ve heard that before in this town, from people who I will charitably call majoritarian cultural conservatives -people who think that “brainwashing” is a problem not in itself, but only when the Wrong People are using it on our children. It’s perfectly acceptable to brainwash your own children because they are your property. (The child of Buddhist parents is of course a Buddhist from birth.)

See also: the Carey College motto, which I see often while commuting: SERVE AND OBEY.

I like that motto. It has but one virtue: simplicity. There’s no Latin to confuse the issue. By way of comparison, take the Royal College motto: DISCE AUT DISCEDE, which means “either learn or leave”. In fact, let’s unpack that one a little more. What would eventually become Royal College was founded in Colombo by Joseph Marsh in 1835. St. Paul’s School in London was founded in 1509 and as late as 1731 we are told:

“St. Paul’s School is situated on the east side of St. Paul’s Churchyard, being a handsome fabric built with brick and stone, founded by John Collet [...] Upon every window of the school was written, by the founder’s direction: AUT DOCE, AUT DISCE, AUT DISCEDE–i.e., Either teach, learn, or begone.”
(from “London in 1731: Containing A Description Of The City Of London;
Both In Regard To Its Extent, Buildings, Government, Trade, Etc.” written by one “Don Manoel Gonzales”, apparently an assumed name, and first published in 1745/6.)

Now, I don’t know if the Royal College motto is directly inspired by the older St. Paul’s motto, St. Paul’s being well established even then -Samuel Pepys and John Milton were among its students in the 17th century- or whether it was just a popular motto. If a homage, then why did Marsh turn “teach, learn or leave” into “learn or leave“? Perhaps discomfort at something being demanded of the teacher as well as the student; perhaps simply a need to stress the important part, which is of course neither the “teach” nor the “learn“, but the “or leave“. This is what it means, just barely beneath the surface: my way or the highway. It means: obedience is the first rule.

And that’s why I like the Carey College motto better. SERVE AND OBEY. Really, what else needs be said? Let that be the motto of every school, and even the dullest student should finally understand their place in the scheme of things.

> All school children from these conserved buildings leave the
> building in sorrow and determination to serve her in every possible way, even if
> they do not serve at least they intend to do so.
>
> The building and the elegance that oozes from it and the same functional aspects
> of the building itself is instrumental in moulding the psyche and thought
> process of the student, and the growth of a child in such a building for 13 or
> so consecutive years instils in him or her a sense of security and strength that
> he takes out for long years to come.

Moulding the psyche, indeed! A cheap shot, I know, but too apt to be ignored.

The opening “All” tells us that either the writer assumes his own experience to be universal or does not consider this question of universality -or otherwise- to be important -a point hardly worth contesting, but a point that tells us something about the writer. There’s always a lot going on behind a false “we”.

School -the very concept of it, the ideology pervading it- is an architecture of control. Any school, not just the “old schools” in the “major towns”, is a factory for mass-producing worker-consumers.

See also: The Seven-Lesson Schoolteacher by John Taylor Gatto.

I am not saying that all schools inevitably produce mindless worker-consumer drones. This is obviously not the case. I am saying that this is the purpose of school: the political purpose which places the designers at odds with the users, which turns the technology of schooling into an architecture of control.

The classic response to this is, of course, how will our children learn, if not for school? How will they live in this world without learning? What of their education? (Also known as the Well Then Fine So What’s Your Great Idea response.)

Whether education happens in schools or not depends entirely on how you define “education”. As commonly used, the word conflates at least three very different meanings or functions, each of which serves a different master.

If by “education” you mean “vocational training”, then the answer is “maybe”. This is about making a living, and being part of the great enterprise of work, production and consumption. When people bemoan the standards of education in schooling, quite often this is what they mean: that schools are not training people for life in the real world, for the market; that schools should teach people the things they need to get a job.

If you mean “societal conditioning”, then the answer is “yes”. This seems to be working wonderfully well, to the point where adult human beings can look back at their schooldays with nothing but nostalgia. School is then very efficiently teaching people their place; teaching them to SERVE AND OBEY. Teaching you that the first rule is obedience, or else you’re welcome to pick the “or leave” option and get yourself a new job.

And finally, if you mean something else -something to do with truth, the nature of the world and self, something to do with reflecting on difficult questions and making hard choices, something to do with life and learning how to live it- then the answer is “no”. This is not the purpose of school -that it does sometimes happen, even in school, is irrelevant. People who would be educated in this sense must become educated in spite of school, not because of it.

See also: Hunger in America, Sad Stories of the Death of Kings and/or The Gift of Fire, two short essays and one book by Richard Mitchell.

The other two senses of “education” -training and conditioning- are the functions of school. The buildings, who cares about the buildings, no matter how much elegance they may ooze? Riza, being a student of architecture and presumably caring more about the buildings than I do, has an argument about how the physical architecture of the buildings is intimately connected with people’s nostalgic memories of school. This leads him to say that:

> If an old prestigious school in Colombo or elsewhere was demolished and a high
> tech multi million dollar new building was set up to carry on the very same
> functions of the old building It would do so (in other words, to cut the
> umbilical chord), but with a lot of different essences attached to it. There may
> not be the usual pranks, the mischievous laughter, the strict disciplinarians
> and the friendly school peon, but it would be replaced with Robotic students,
> teachers with a mechanical mindset, and an environment that philosophizes a
> whole different set of values. The latter mentioned are not necessarily negative
> attributes, but rather attributes that are in many ways than one devoid of an
> element that makes school life so fundamental for the growth of a student.

To which I can only say: don’t worry, your teachers will tell you that school is not the buildings, no matter how ancient and proud they are, but that it’s the school spirit that matters, and it will persevere through the challenges of modernity. Unfortunately, they are perfectly correct.

The motto saga has an amusing appendix. Winchester College, founded in 1382, has an inscription on the wall of a 17th-century building which reads AUT DISCE AUT DISCEDE MANET SORS TERTIA CAEDI, which I am beginning to think may have been the original form of the motto.

It means: “Either learn or leave, or a third choice remains, be flogged.”

Coercion

Reading AlterNet on “Cooperative vs. coercive power“:

In Arendt’s view, Schell writes, ”power did not reside, as is usually said, in officials who issue commands but in citizens who follow them.” Instead of seeing power as the ability to assert one’s will even in the face of opposition, ”Arendt answered, with Hume, Burke, Gandhi, and Havel, that in a deeper sense power is in the hands of those who obey the commands.” Even Clausewitz, let us recall, was of this opinion, for he understood that military victories were useless unless the population of the vanquished army then obeyed the will of the victor.

Schell doesn’t uncritically accept Arendt’s definition of power, suggesting instead that power ”based on support” be called cooperative power and power ”based on force” be called coercive power. ”Both kinds of power are real. Both make things happen” and ”to the degree that a people is forced, it is not free.”

You can’t really appreciate the insight Schell provides unless you consider the unquestioned assumption in all this war talk that coercive power is the only kind of power that exists, as expressed in the claim: ”If we cut-and-run from Iraq, it will be seen as a sign of weakness.”

Of course, Gonsalves is talking here about America. But really, when it comes to terrorism and war, we’ve been having the same arguments right here for twenty years.

Electing a new people

I left this as a comment here (or it got eaten by WordPress, whatever) about the relevantly snide Brecht quote: if the government isn’t satisfied with the people, why doesn’t it elect a new people?

A few minutes later I got to thinking about how often I see that quote around now. It’s practically a meme, born out of the fatigue of the governed. The arch tone of the quote (well, that’s how I hear it in my head) is a response to the schoolmarmishness of the government’s new Morality Laws. I’m talking about Sri Lanka here -that’s where I live- but really, this goes for everyone. Is there any government that did not at some point enact Morality Laws? Thou shalt not watch television after ten p.m. Thou shalt not smoke in public places. Thou shalt not buy booze on full moon days, nor shalt thou buy meat. (Or is that simply about the “public display of meat”, rather than the actual purchase thereof?)

Maybe there are more of them. Those are the only ones I can remember.

I liked fatigue of the governed. As a phrase it evokes in me an instant recoil. I dislike the notion of being the governed. Too much like being herded -but surely if we have a government, they must govern, and who is that is governed if not us? It just becomes particularly irritating when your government acts like a governess.

But irritation is not the appropriate reaction of the Morality Laws. Or rather, I don’t think there is an appropriate reaction to the Morality Laws, except silence. I know silence has a bad reputation in democracy, but think about it: in a representative democracy the default state of a citizen is silence. It takes energy and effort to make noise, and a great deal of noise before you begin to approach even the possibilities of making change. Why? Because the democracy is representative: my political power isn’t here with me, but deferred, or abdicated to the government. So if I want something to be different, I must aim at persuading them to do what I want -there were historically practical reasons for this model, of course. The government can use this aggregated power to make decisions on our behalf, to undertake projects that individuals or small groups would find more difficult. That is, in fact, the function (and a workable definition) of the government. But it remains true nevertheless that by this abdication I have given up my existence as a political entity and now must petition the government who represent me in order to achieve political action.

Or is it true? I never actually abdicated this power that I know of -it was done for me at birth, automatically, subliminally, involuntarily. And for everyone born into a representative democracy. Mostly we don’t complain about this, even when we’re older and understand what happened, because a representative democracy is a much better place to live than many alternatives.

If this “abdicated power” is a fiction for the sake of convenience, what sort of political power is still here with me, innate and not surgically removable? And would answering that question perhaps help us think of a model of governance improving on representative democracy? And if we were to think of such a model, would we have to petition the government to let us have it? Or is that a trick question?