From Ruin to Ruin

The location of the ruin is: Latitude: 42.354620, Longitude: -71.113792

At this location, there are two kinds of reed. Phragmites americanus – American Common Reed, native reed local to North America. And Phragmites australis (European Common Reed) – The latter has been introduced in the late 18th and early 19th century to the US. Possibly through ships' ballast. In 200 years, this reed has largely outcompeted the native plant. While they look similar, the traveler is denser and more aggressive in its growth.

This building is standing on what once was the Quinobequin, which means the meandering river. Everything between Mass Ave and the current riverbank is built on what used to be a natural tidal marsh. A place where American Common Reed would have grown among other vegetation.

At the location of the ruins, not far from here up the river, just after MIT ends, there is a park. This park used to be a tree-lined river mouth a long time ago. Todays artificial park hosts over 150 birds. It has a swimming pool, a soccer field, a viewing dock – and a 16,000-square-foot reed field.

This reed field has not always been there. 10 years ago, this field carried beautiful sunflowers and local plants. Reed travels first by boat, then by air – into the park. One plant carries hundreds to thousands of seeds. A single seed is enough to start an epidemic. Carried with the wind. And suddenly: everything is suffocated. A massive invasion of reed is reaching into the sky. The gentle sound of the reed moving with the wind. Hiding a quiet death.

In 2017 the Mass Audubon Society and the Magazine Beach Partners took charge of the reed by organizing a large community event to dig up the field. They thought they succeeded, but the roots go deep. At least 7 feet. It’s an absolute monoculture. The hungry roots monopolize limited water resources and interrupt natural wet-dry cycles.

After the cut, the reed grows back. Even thicker. It is now an island on land, still swaying gently in the wind. It suffocates all other plants and is too dense for most animals. Some birds have adapted, but at what cost? A local bird watcher tells me that treating this patch has become a two-million-dollar project. The whole field would need to be worked on for several years. Cutting down, pulling roots, continuously drowning, and drying the field.

In the past months, I have been working in this field. With the help of my peers, we have cut down a third of the area and transformed it into columns. Each phragmite got hand sawed into 29-inch-long sections and assembled into column drums. I then stacked and arranged them into larger columns to resurrect and mark a ruin in reverse. The unearthed area has yielded barely 8 columns. These ruins are a sign of a compressed nature that will soon fully decompose back into the field.

Columns are symbols of the desire for permanence and power. We know the famous Greek temples, and there are many around here as well. My columns are anti-permanent; their decomposition system remains intact, and the few local animals have already begun working with it.

In 1967, sculptor Robert Smithson said: Many construction sites are the opposite of the 'romantic ruin' because the buildings don't fall into ruin after they are built, but rather rise into ruin before or while they are built. He called these “Ruins in reverse”. Not the romantic kind, but the kind that points to a dystopian future.

The European Common Reed has invaded the local former wetlands. The reed field is already a ruin of what was once there – it destroyed the native ecosystem. I have now transformed the destroyer into an architectural form of human ambition and its decay. From ecological ruin, to architectural ruin. From ruin, to ruin.