The politics of restoration

Architectural Review, The, Oct, 1994 by Stephen Chance

The turquoise domes of Samarkand and Bukhara, in the former Soviet republic of Uzbekistan, are among the world's most evocative architectural symbols. Yet to preserve such great buildings, political stability must be maintained in the emerging nation. This stability can be better upheld if the monuments also support the economy -- by tourism -- which in turn carries an integral threat to the buildings themselves. In this context the recognised tension between conservation and restoration takes on an added complexity and urgency.

Sir Banister Fletcher's A History of Architecture has an evocative photograph of the Shah-i-Zinda necropolis in Samarkand. This 'extraordinary palimpsest of the architectural styles of Central Asia' is pictured on a deserted outcrop in sunlight with deep shadows.[1] Pictures in Banister Fletcher rarely show the paraphernalia of commerce that detracts from the experience of visiting architecture now the focus of tourism. But a recent visit to Samarkand found the Shah-i-Zinda almost deserted. Only a few pilgrims were paying a respectful visit to the row of tombs, and praying in the mosque. The green and cobalt tiles, and the fading brickwork, were a crumbling ruin of picturesque charm. Each patchy, fluted dome had a feathery bloom of grass and weeds. The mud-yellow walls were cracked, and the intricate tiled inscription work fragmentary, testifying to the passage of time.

In stark contrast the Registan -- Samarkand's most famous ensemble although also deserted, had been restored to stunning polychromatic splendour. It soon became apparent, however, that the Registan's skin of new tilework was a thin wallpaper, already peeling off in strips, with a team of builders on site re-papering over the cracks.

In common with other Central Asian regions of the former Soviet Union, Uzbekistan, lying halfway between the Caspian Sea and western China's Mountains of Heaven, is trying to define a national identity. Politically, it is effectively a one-party state. The Uzbek president puts national stability before the introduction of democracy. With the chaotic aftermath of the breakdown of the Soviet Union, and in particular the war in former Yugoslavia, some Uzbeks are inclined to agree with this approach. Uzbekistan's economic aid from the former Soviet Union has dried up so it is looking for other means to support its fragile economy, in which inflation has risen in an alarming fashion. Uzbekistan's economy is based on a belt of fertile land dependent on massive irrigation from the country's main rivers, which have provided the basis for a settled civilisation since 1500 BC. Today the irrigation underpins the production of Uzbekistan's main cash crop -- intensively farmed cotton. However, this is part of a growing environmental disaster since the main rivers drain into the Aral Sea, once the world's fourth largest lake. It is now less than half its previous size and desperately polluted -- 'a soup of pesticides and fertilisers'.[2]

Another problem is that irrigation raises the water table and brings salts to the surface. Gradually this make the land infertile. This is a repetition of the pattern which the original post-Mesopotamian civilisation suffered irrigation, increased cultivation, population growth, raised water table, salts, infertility, underproduction, starvation and political collapse.[3]

Uzbekistan is looking to tourism to assist its economy. By any standards the country has an astonishing collection of ancient architectural monuments. The main centres are the cities of Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva. Even the names of these places evoke a semi-mythical aura. In order to capitalise on these riches a rapid programme of restoration work is being carried out, although the quality of these works is questionable. The first problem is the condition of the buildings themselves. Earthquake damage and the ravages of post-Stalin Sovietisation have taken their toll, but what at remains is fundamentally threatened by the same problem that affects the agriculture -- rising damp. Despite the occasional thatch damp-proof course, the water table has risen so that salts and chemical fertilisers are drawn up into the brickwork. Extremes of temperature exacerbate the problem (it is baking hot in summer and can freeze in winter). Salts crystallise under the surface, exploding the outside skin, which is often the elaborately patterned ceramic work that characterises the most famous buildings.[4]

A second concern is the nature of the restoration work. The perception that it is necessary to 'enhance' the ruins has led to the virtual refacing of some of the buildings with a completely new outer skin of tilework, without solving the underlying problem of the rising damp.

Samarkand's Registan seems to get restored about once every three years. The complex looks stunning. The brilliant tilework gleams, painstakingly renewed. However, under one pishtak, or main portico, the builders are at work in a nest of scaffolding. In the rear yard new domes are being pre-cast on steel ring beams and then pre-tiled before being craned up to the roof. In places the outer skin exfoliates like peeling paint. The construction is not always traditional and authenticity is blurred. It is hard to say whether work is old or new and in view of the failure of some of the previous re-skinning, the longevity of the results must be questionable.