Dresden, Germany. Inauguration day: pictures of people happily walking over a newly constructed bridge in their city. No cars on the road yet, but from on the next day this new piece of urban infrastructure would make life in the city easier. No more detours to cross the river, but shorter commutes, less pollution, and less time wasted in traffic. People seem to proudly take ownership of a new element of the city, which they had been awaiting for a long time. Everyone happy?
Not everyone. The city is Dresden, a city of myths. Myths made up of the stories of baroque beauty, of self-provoked utter destruction, of ideological tabula rasa after the war, and of conservative reconstruction after reunification. Nothing much is left of the once coherent cityscape that had inspired painters and poets three centuries ago. Dresden is now a puzzle of its own history. But the city still lives its myths and claims of bygone fame.
Today, a city’s claim to fame is to achieve the status of a UNESCO world heritage site. Dresden played this card, perhaps in desperation, in hubris, in denial of its real situation. With the city in pieces, Dresden could not present to UNESCO anything intact other than the terrain along the river Elbe, a few frilly castles, neatly terraced vineyards, wide green riverbanks, and a collection of bridges from all periods of time. All of this was defined as a cultural landscape, a new catchword in the heritage scene, describing a non-finite assemblage of cultural and natural elements. Dresden’s claim found a positive response, and the city’s riverscape was labelled as a world heritage site. Despite all the lost beauty it could portrait itself as part of the selected few, the unique, and the authentic cities of the world.
But then the dream collapsed. The city wanted to build yet another bridge over the river. Something it had done every so often in its history. Building bridges was actually part of the process of creating the kind of cultural landscape that was now so praised. But the city was no longer free to act as it thought was right. Not as a world heritage site. UNESCO objected to the building of the bridge. A referendum had to be called. The people of Dresden had to decide: world heritage status, or a bridge. The people wanted the bridge, no matter what. And UNESCO consequently renounced the world heritage status. What had gone wrong?
In hindsight, one can say that the utterly scarred city wanted recognition for the beauty it had long lost, then played a fake card to achieve what it could not get otherwise, and got away with it for a while until reality hit in and the city needed real improvement rather than imaginary fame. In the end the people wanted the bridge more than the label. The connection counted more than conceit. Superficial city branding can be a poisonous potion for any environment that is alive and seeks development.Dresden, Germany. Inauguration day: pictures of people happily walking over a newly constructed bridge in their city. No cars on the road yet, but from on the next day this new piece of urban infrastructure would make life in the city easier. No more detours to cross the river, but shorter commutes, less pollution, and less time wasted in traffic. People seem to proudly take ownership of a new element of the city, which they had been awaiting for a long time. Everyone happy?
Not everyone. The city is Dresden, a city of myths. Myths made up of the stories of baroque beauty, of self-provoked utter destruction, of ideological tabula rasa after the war, and of conservative reconstruction after reunification. Nothing much is left of the once coherent cityscape that had inspired painters and poets three centuries ago. Dresden is now a puzzle of its own history. But the city still lives its myths and claims of bygone fame.
Today, a city’s claim to fame is to achieve the status of a UNESCO world heritage site. Dresden played this card, perhaps in desperation, in hubris, in denial of its real situation. With the city in pieces, Dresden could not present to UNESCO anything intact other than the terrain along the river Elbe, a few frilly castles, neatly terraced vineyards, wide green riverbanks, and a collection of bridges from all periods of time. All of this was defined as a cultural landscape, a new catchword in the heritage scene, describing a non-finite assemblage of cultural and natural elements. Dresden’s claim found a positive response, and the city’s riverscape was labelled as a world heritage site. Despite all the lost beauty it could portrait itself as part of the selected few, the unique, and the authentic cities of the world.
But then the dream collapsed. The city wanted to build yet another bridge over the river. Something it had done every so often in its history. Building bridges was actually part of the process of creating the kind of cultural landscape that was now so praised. But the city was no longer free to act as it thought was right. Not as a world heritage site. UNESCO objected to the building of the bridge. A referendum had to be called. The people of Dresden had to decide: world heritage status, or a bridge. The people wanted the bridge, no matter what. And UNESCO consequently renounced the world heritage status. What had gone wrong?
In hindsight, one can say that the utterly scarred city wanted recognition for the beauty it had long lost, then played a fake card to achieve what it could not get otherwise, and got away with it for a while until reality hit in and the city needed real improvement rather than imaginary fame. In the end the people wanted the bridge more than the label. The connection counted more than conceit. Superficial city branding can be a poisonous potion for any environment that is alive and seeks development.