From Ruin to Ruin

The location of the ruins is: 42.354620, -71.113792.

In Cambridge, Massachusetts, there are two kinds of reed: Phragmites americanus, known as American Common Reed, a native reed local to North America, and Phragmites Australis, kown as European Common Reed. The latter was introduced in the late 18th and early 19th centuries in 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^{[ 1 ]} stands on land that was once the territory of the Quinobequin, meaning “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 grew among other vegetation.

At the location of the ruins, up the river, not far from here, just after MIT ends, there is a park. A long time ago, this park was a tree-lined river mouth. Todays artificial park hosts over 150 birds, 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 sunflowers and local plants. Then Reed traveled 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 by the wind. And suddenly, everything is suffocated. A massive invasion of reeds is reaching into the sky, spreading 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 were deeper. Roots at at least 7 feet^{[ 2 ]} depth supporting this absolute monoculture. These hungry roots monopolize limited water resources and interrupt natural wet-dry cycles.

After a cut, the reed grows back at an even thicker rate. It is now an island on land—an island 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 amounted to a two-million-dollar project. The whole field would need to be worked on for several years to come. Cutting down, pulling roots, recursively 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 reed made columns. Each phragmite was hand sawed into 29-inch-long^{[ 3 ]} 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 symbolize a kind of compressed nature that will soon fully decompose back into the field.

These columns are symbols of the desire for permanence and power. We know the famous Greek temples, and there are many around MIT as well. My columns are anti-permanent; their decomposition system remains intact, and I witnesses the few local animals already beginning to work 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 destroying 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.