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ARCHAEOLOGICAHEREDITAS

Monographs of the Institute of Archaeology of the Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński University in WarsawVolume published in cooperation with the Institute of Art History of the University of Warsaw

Warsaw 2017

10Preventive conservation of the human environment 6.Architecture as an element of the landscape

edited by Weronika Kobylińska-Bunsch, Zbigniew Kobyliński and Louis Daniel Nebelsick

Archaeologica HereditasWorks of the Institute of Archaeology of the Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński in Warsaw

Editorial Board:Editor-in-chief: Zbigniew Kobyliński

Members of the Board: Tadeusz Gołgowski, Jacek Lech, Przemysław UrbańczykSecretary of the Board: Magdalena Żurek

Editorial Board’s address:1/2 Wóycickiego St., Building 23, PL 01-938 Warsaw, Poland

tel. +48 22 569 68 17, e-mail: [email protected]

Technical editing and proofreading: Zbigniew KobylińskiLayout: Bartłomiej Gruszka

Cover design: Katja Niklas and Ula Zalejska-SmoleńLinguistic consultation: Louis Daniel Nebelsick and Wojciech Brzeziński

Cover picture: part of the imperial garden Summer Palace in Beijing, China; photo by Weronika Kobylińska-Bunsch

Publication recommended for print by Professors Martin Gojda and Andrzej Pieńkos

© Copyright by Fundacja Res Publica Multiethnica, Warszawa 2017 and Instytut Archeologii Uniwersytetu Kardynała Stefana Wyszyńskiego, Warszawa 2017

ISBN 978-83-946496-4-7ISBN 978-83-948352-2-4

ISSN 2451-0521

Publisher:Res Publica Multiethnica Foundation

44 Cypryjska St.PL 02-761 Warsaw, Poland

http://res-publica-multiethnica.pl/

CONTENTS

ArchAeologicAHereditas 10

5 Preface Weronika Kobylińska-Bunsch, Zbigniew Kobyliński and Louis Daniel Nebelsick

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7 Environmental preventive conservation Andrzej Tomaszewski

11 The idea of preventive conservation of human environment Zbigniew Kobyliński and Weronika Kobylińska-Bunsch

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15 Preventive conservation of the human environment: architecture as an element of the landscape Lazare Eloundou Assomo

17 The role of the architecture in the creation, enhancement and preservation of cultural landscapes Stefano De Caro

21 World Heritage SITES for DIALOGUE: heritage for intercultural dialogue, through travel, “Life Beyond Tourism” Paolo Del Bianco

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23 Role of cultural sustainability of a tribe in developing a timeless cultural landscape: a case study of the Apatani tribe Barsha Amarendra, Bishnu Tamuli and Amarendra Kumar Das

37 The corporate and cultural: honoring the monumental in Kansas City, Missouri Cynthia M. Ammerman

47 Damaged landscape of ancient Palmyra and its recovery Marek Barański

57 The art of (architectural) reconstruction at archaeological sites in situ within the context of cultural landscapes Ewa M. Charowska

73 Lessons from landscape, landscape archetypes Urszula Forczek-Brataniec, Ana Luengo and Tony Williams

83 The city for people – the image of post-industrial sites in modern city Joanna Gruszczyńska

95 Sustainability by management: a comparative policy study of the World Heritage cities of Amsterdam, Edinburgh and Querétaro Eva Gutscoven, Ana Pereira Roders and Koen Van Balen

105 Polychromy in architecture as a manifestation of the link between man and environment Tetiana Kazantseva

119 Capturing architecture – the poetic vision of cultural heritage in the inter-war Polish pictorial photography Weronika Kobylińska-Bunsch

127 Landscape with ruins: preservation and presentation of archaeological relics of architecture Zbigniew Kobyliński

153 Educating architects: the problem with agricultural buildings Diederik de Koning

163 Historic gardens and climate change. Conclusions and perspectives Heiner Krellig

177 The monastic landscape – carrier of memory and potential catalyst in conservation and adaptive reuse processes of material and imma-terial heritage Karen Lens and Nikolaas Vande Keere

187 The missing landscape of Yuanmingyuan: preservation and revitalisation of a Chinese imperial garden Mingqian Liu

195 Seeking the traces of a former mon--astic landscape in the vicinity of Samos Abbey (Galicia, Spain) Estefanía López Salas

213 Landscape and national identity in Portugal Fernando Magalhães

225 The city that penetrates the sky Romano Martini and Cristiano Luchetti

231 Siting penal heritage: a history of Wellington’s prison landscape Christine McCarthy

243 Phantom heritage: Thingstätten and “sacred” landscapes of the Third Reich Louis Daniel Nebelsick

265 21st Century Garden with exhibition pavilion in Royal Łazienki Museum in Warsaw Ewa Paszkiewicz

283 The meanings of ruins for the history of the cultural landscape on the example of the remains of the castle complex at Wyszyna Kamil Rabiega

303 Dissolving materiality: ruins and plant relicts in the landscape parks by Denis McClair in Volhynia Petro Rychkov and Nataliya Lushnikova

323 Memory of the landscape: revela-tion through architecture and built environment at the Çamalti Saltern Işılay Tiarnagh Sheridan

333 Pre-Hispanic walkscapes in Medellín, Colombia Juan Alejandro Saldarriaga Sierra

345 The invisible and endangered land-scape: the case of the margins of the Cascavel Stream in Goiânia, Brazil Carinna Soares de Sousa and Almir Francisco Reis

361 Diamond mines shaping the South African landscapes Aleksandra Stępniewska

369 (Un)wanted heritage in the cityscape – arguments for destruc-tion or reuse. The case of the city of Kaunas Ingrida Veliutė

379 The Nordic Pavilion projects at the 2016 Venice Biennale. Scandinavian approach to architectural landscape Anna Wiśnicka

389 Architecture in the cultural land--scape of the Prądnik Valley Dominik Ziarkowski

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403 Notes on authors

Siting penal heritage: a history of Wellington’s prison landscape

Christine McCarthy

ArchAeologicAHereditas 10231–242

Introduction

This paper is interested in considering the issues and com-plexities of recognising and interpreting the heritage of pe-nal sites. It begins with an overview of eighteenth-century and nineteenth-century British attitudes to prison siting, because this context sets the background for the penal history of New Zealand as a British colony. The paper then presents a detailed history of prison sites and siting up to World War I in Wellington, New Zealand’s capital city. The paper concludes reflecting on potential issues for heritage in relation to this material, which challenges a simple no-tion of prisons as contained on discrete sites, but instead proposes, for Wellington at least, that prison heritage per-meates the very structure and literal materiality of the city.

English penal history

Prisons prior to the late eighteenth-century were rarely specifically-designed, but this was also a time when im-prisonment was rarely used as a punishment. Instead death, corporal punishment, fines and transportation were more common, with a lock-up’s prime purpose being for remand – accommodating the accused before trial. Prisons – with the possible exception of dungeons – were largely an ad hoc architecture.

Dungeons are associated with the dark and sites below ground. They clearly had geographic locations, but were equally powerful, symbolic and cultural ide-as of place. As Michel Foucault notes, the functions of the dungeon are „to enclose, to deprive of light and to hide”.1 The Tullianum prison or Mamertine in Rome (70–40 BC) is one example, and the design of the twelfth-century prison room in the Benedictine priory, Ewenny, Glamorganshire in England shows how the design of interior architecture can create a geospatial dis-orienta-tion and dis-location of site and place, through enforced darkness.2 The removal of conventional mechanisms of spatial orientation and identification of place renders

1 Foucault 1995: 200.2 Johnston 2000: 7, fig 1, 23, fig 13.

this isolation and detachment comprehensive. Norman Johnston refers to the tradition of anchorites who „were installed during a solemn church service that included parts of the burial service, as the anchorite was literally bricked into his or her little prison and henceforth con-sidered dead to the world, the cell like a sepulcher”.3 The oubliettes („from the French oublier, „to forget,” „over-look,” or „neglect””), referred to lower parts of a cas-tle „into which prisoners were thrown to their deaths”.4 These architectures present an obliteration of existence and an architectural reference point for when incarcera-tion more commonly became a substitute for execution.

Prisons prior to the eighteenth-century were also of-ten associated with defence, resulting in their location in the gates in city walls, such as Newgate in London. The more usual adaption or use of buildings designed for oth-er purposes can also be seen in, for example, the early sixteenth-century Bridewell Palace (1515–1523) which be-come Bridewell Prison and Hospital (1553/1556).5 This use of „found” building inflicted a penal function driven by lo-cation (proximity to: the crime, the courthouse, the sher-iff), creating an early architecture of incarceration appar-ently ignorant of penal intentions. As Robin Evans writes of Newgate: „[m]id-eighteenth-century Newgate certainly expressed the nature of imprisonment, but architecture was not the means of expression [...] Nor was the interior arrangement calculated to give specific shape to prison life [...] it was not [...] established [that] the prison [... was] distinct from other buildings”.6 The heritage of prisons at this time hence resided in the occupation of space rather than a singular notion of design or a simple notion of site.

Early prisons also exhibited a culture of permeability of, and integration with, cities. This is perhaps due to the tradition of prisons largely deriving from debtors gaols, with inmates being required to pay turnkeys and other staff for prison facilities and so reliant on connections to family and friends and the ability to beg from the public

3 Johnston 2000: 18.4 Johnston 2000: 9. It must be noted that Johnston appears scepti-

cal that oubliettes were a widespread phenomenon.5 Evans 1982: 48–51.6 Evans 1982: 2.

232 ArchAeologicA Hereditas • 10

Christine McCarthy

to generate income.7 In contrast to today, prisons were publicly accessible places. The tendency to execute or transport those convicted of violent crimes also deter-mined the type of prisoner incarcerated and no doubt the pragmatics of gaol operation.

Eighteenth-century England saw a number of events which changed these approaches to siting and prisons. A number of prison reformers, including John Howard, advocated for a more consistent and coherent approach to prison processes and design in order to ensure less ar-bitrary treatment of prisoners, to improve physical prison conditions, and to counter the prevalence of gaol fever, thought to be due to inadequate ventilation.8 His design for a County Gaol in 1777 showed permeable structures to increase ventilation, all surrounded by an impermeable boundary wall.9 The 1769 redesign of Newgate confirmed the prison’s close proximity to the Sessions House and pulled the site of execution inwards from Tyburn, located outside the city walls, to in front of the new prison,10 thus conflating the sites of incarceration and execution. New-gate’s redesign aimed to increase ventilation, but this was compromised due to a desire for the prison to also intimi-date and discourage crime, drawing on the impenetrable and intimidating architectural iconography of Medieval fortresses and castles, which psychologically distanced the site from the mundane aspects of the city it was lo-cated within.11 Reforms also increasingly removed the informal aspects of prison life, including limiting visiting practices. This thickened the barrier between the public and prisoners, architecturally, philosophically and concep-tually, isolating the prison, withdrawing it from civic life.

Simultaneously, an increasing number of prisoners needed to be accommodated in England because of the 1775 American War of Independence, which put a temporary end to transportation.12 The Thames conse-quently began to accommodate prisons in abeyance in prison hulks13 as convict ships no longer had a destina-tion to take prisoners to. This increased the pressure to build new prisons in England and a national architectural competition was held.14 The two sites for the Male and Female Penitentiaries were south of London at Wands-worth Fields and Battersea Rise, respectively.15 The extant drawings from John Soane’s entry show an im-aginary, but idyllic rural site for his prison, seemingly sup-porting Howard’s advocation for building prisons in the countryside, „perhaps on the rise of a hill to get the full force of the wind, and [...] close to a running stream”.16

7 Evans 1982: 26–28. 8 Evans 1982: 96–97. 9 Evans 1982: 114–115.10 Evans 1982: 108.11 Evans 1982: 109, 251; Brodie et al. 1999: 5.12 Brodie et al. 1999: 7.13 Evans 1982: 119, 247; Newbold 2007: 16.14 Bender 1987: 207; Brodie et al. 1999: 7.15 Evans 1982: 121.16 Evans 1982: 113.

Early Wellington prisons

By 1840, when New Zealand was colonised, the history of prison siting had shifted away from the dark, liminal „no place” of the dungeon, anchorite and the oubliette, and an ad hoc adaption of found buildings and a per-meable relationship to a city location. While the English eighteenth-century saw an increasing trend for the im-age of the prison to be ideologically (and temporally) distinct from contemporary urban life with its recourse to a medieval architecture of battlements, torture and defence, the unsettling nature of colonisation inflicted a less secure beginning for the first New Zealand prisons. This paper will focus on prisons built in what is now New Zealand’s capital city (since 1865): Wellington, which was „colonised” by the New Zealand Company when the Tory sailed into Te Whanganui a Tara (the Great Harbour of Tara) in September 1839.17 The Tory’s arrival in Port Ni-cholson was near contemporary with the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi in 1840, which conventionally marks New Zealand’s birth and co-incided with the building of perhaps the most influential prison of all time: Pen-tonville Model Prison (1840–42) on the outskirts of London. The New Zealand Company’s founder, Edward Gibbon Wakefield, had forged his plan for colonisation while imprisoned in Newgate in the late 1820s (May 1827–1830).18 Consequently aspects of site and prisons have a particular resonance in the history of Wellington.

Wellington’s first British settlement of Britannia on the Hutt River was planned to include two prisons near two corners (forts) of the city wall and cemeteries. Cem-eteries, city boundaries and prisons are all marginal sites. Both cemeteries and prisons mark literal and concep-tual boundaries between life and death; the city wall is equally a frontier. In practice, the first Wellingon gaol would end up being: „[a] wooden company building on the Petone foreshore [... co-opted] as a lockup for those awaiting trial”.19 With the remove of the settlement to Pipitea and Te Aro, Wellington’s next gaol (the first at Lambton Harbour) was a whare (hut) on the beach (Fig. 1).20 It was described in the Colonist as a „miserable building,”21 its siting pragmatic and incidental, along with most of the nondescript buildings of the settlement hud-dled on the water’s edge of Port Nicholson.

To this point in history, the siting of Wellington’s gaols resulted from a pragmatic ad hoc use of existing build-ings, which defied the anticipated locations of prisons in well-intentioned town plans. The next phase in Wel-lington’s development would see gaols moved away from the foreshore – the centre of trade and the city – and be

17 Smith 2005: 44.18 Temple 2002: 117; Fairburn 2014.19 Methven 2011: 11.20 In May 1843 an account of a prison referred to „the beach imme-

diately opposite the gaol„ and „a boat lying within a few yards of the gate of the prison„; Anon. 1843c: 244.

21 Anon. 1843c: 244.

233Preventive conservation of the human environment 6 • architecture as an element of the landscape

Christine McCarthy Siting penal heritage: a history of Wellington’s prison landscape

built instead on urban peripheries on prominent hilltop locations, in the tradition of military installations. The relationship between barracks and gaol would become more intimate with the later use of prison labour in de-fence works. This early time period also saw the intro-duction of the transportation of prisoners to Tasmania (1840–1853)22 and the use of prison hulks in Wellington harbour to supplement incarceration on land.

Mount Cook, prison hulks, and The Terrace Gaol

In 1843 a proposal to build a more substantial prison in the image of London’s Pentonville commenced. The pris-on was located close to the urban limit on Mount Cook, but still within the settlement, conceptually similar to the penal location proposed for Britannia. Mount Cook was a prominent site, and perceptually still defines a limit be-tween Wellington’s inner city and the suburbs. Its sum-mit was higher than it is today, and in the 1840s the hill’s prominence generated controversy as to its appropriate-ness as a site for the gaol. In early 1843, the building had begun,23 and by May 1843, the Nelson Examiner and New Zealand Chronicle reported that the gaol: „stands in a very prominent position, and will be made as strong as bricks and mortar can make it”.24 Once built, the gaol’s siting was publicly criticised:

“In placing the gaol in its present position utility and beauty have equally been defied [...] The gaol on the spot it now occupies, must ever be an eye sore; we would therefore suggest to our fellow settlers the pro-priety of urging his Excellency, on his return, to sanction its removal. [...] Every mind possessed of a feeling for the beautiful, must be outraged by the mode in which Mount Cook has been appropriated, and the sight can-not fail to be extremely offensive to his Excellency. [...] Only a small portion of the gaol is erected, and we are confident if the colonists would ensure the Government against loss arising from the removal of the gaol, the nui-sance would be got rid of”.25

Protests of „defied” utility preferred a site closer to the nearby military barracks, while the testing of beauty and the call to „fellow settlers” suggests specific ideas of appropriate civic identity, but it is not clear whether it is the aesthetic or functional image of the building which offends. The dilemma of the prison as a public building is its siting, and the appropriate degree of publicity its location incurs. Ben Schrader describes Wellington Gaol as „Wellington’s first public building”,26 a situation ampli-fying, no doubt, tensions of civic pride and disgust. The

22 Pratt 1992: 74.23 Anon. 1843a: 2; Anon. 1843b: 2; Anon. 1843e: 1.24 Anon. 1843d: 255.25 Anon. 1844: 2.26 Schrader 2016: 124.

gaol’s partial replication of London’s Pentonville,27 situ-ated a British image of authority and architecture within New Zealand’s juvenile adoption of an English penal system. New Zealand was unlike England in other ways. Its geology is seismically vulnerable and the inevitable occurred with the Marlborough earthquake in October 1848. The Mount Cook prison was significantly damaged, with one judge stating that: „the earthquakes of October had completely destroyed the Wellington gaol – which was, perhaps, the best in the Colony”.28 By the 1850s a small wooden building on the site – built as an asy-lum – had been co-opted as a prison.29 It was known to be overcrowded and under-ventilated.30

Wellington Gaol (The Terrace)

The poor state of the timber prison prompted Gover-nor George Grey to order that a „Gaol [...] on the hill immediately above the Public Cemetery at Thorndon„ be built.31 The geospatial relationship established in the Britannia town plan of a triad of urban edge, cemetery and prison was reinstated in this decision. In February 1852 tenders were sought,32 but the site had shifted from above Thorndon to above Te Aro, „on the sections front-ing Woolcombe and Ingistre Streets”,33 but it was still lo-cated at the city edge, near a cemetery and – like Mount Cook – on a hill (Fig 1). The gaol was built by December 1853, and made of Mount Cook brick – the ground on which the former Pentonville lookalike had stood.34 Ac-cording to the Wellington Independent, the new building presented „a most ornamental exterior” clad with „ex-pensive stone from Sydney – giving it an appearance of strength which it did not possess”.35 Apparently, „[l ocal residents were to complain that the gaol reserve had the best views in Wellington,” and the site was considered to have unlimited capacity for enlargement.36 Constraints on the prison’s capacity though, and lack of work for inmates to do inside the prison, supported prisoner’s employment in public works (such as „improving public streets and drains” and „breaking stones for roads, pub-lic roads and public institutions”)37 or making bricks at Mount Cook. As John Pratt observes: „the daily march of the convicts away from the prison alleviated problems of control and management within it [...] confinement within the prison was not feasible since there was no

27 Pratt 1992: 242.28 Anon. 1849b: 2.29 A. 1852: 2.30 Anon. 1852b: 2.31 Anon. 1851a: 3; Anon. 1851b: 3; Anon. 1851c: 2; Anon. 1852c: 2–3. 32 Anon. 1852a: 4.33 Anon. 1852d: 2.34 Anon. 1853: 3; Methven 2011: 24.35 Anon. 1859a: 5; Anon. 1859b: 3.36 Anon. 1866b: 6; Methven 2011: 23.37 New Zealand Blue Book 1844, quoted by Pratt 1992: 79.


Christine McCarthy

work for the convicts and little means of keeping order and control there”.38 He also observes that: „it was ex-pedient to allow the prisoners out to work because of the poor conditions within the prisons [...] Outdoor work relieved pressure on prison conditions; prison conditions necessitated outdoor work”.39

It is thus through a need for hard labour, and the in-adequate prison architecture, that Wellington Gaol on The Terrace effected a permeable boundary and strong connections with its immediately surrounding urban site. The prison was not simply an edifice on the hill distant from the community that it was located near to. Pratt also notes New Zealand’s colonial economic reliance on prison labour distinguished its penal system from Brit-ain’s „in New Zealand the utility of public works was rec-ognised as early as 1839 [...] labour in the colony was scarce”.40 He also emphasises the recognised value of „the public display of punishment”.41

Prison hulks

By 1854 then, Wellington had seen the construction of two purpose-built prisons. These early years had also witnessed the transportation of Māori prisoners to Van Dieman’s Land (Tasmania) (1840–1854), and the use of boats as prison hulks. These hulks appear to have been primarily used for Māori prisoners, especially for prison-ers of war in the 1860s and 1870s during New Zealand’s civil wars.

In Wellington, the „three-masted schooner Manukau”42 was converted into a prison bulk in 1865,43 following the

38 Pratt 1992: 82.39 Pratt 1992: 794.40 Pratt 1992: 78–79.41 Pratt 1992: 79.42 Anon. 1866c: 4.43 Anon. 1865b: 5.

controversial imprisonment of prisoners of war from Rangiriri in 1864 in the hulk Marion in Auckland harbour, which the principal military Medical Officer described as „a most unfitting prison [...] some of [... the prisoners] were there contracting the seeds of disease, which, if they did not die in confinement, must shorten their lives when released”.44 The Manukau was used to imprison two Hau-hau prisoners, transported from Napier in early Septem-ber 1865.45 By January 1866 the boat accommodated 64 Māori prisoners of war in Wellington harbour.46 On Satur-day 20 January 1866, 53 Māori prisoners notoriously es-caped from the prison hulk in Wellington harbour,47 and, shortly after this, the Manukau was converted to a coal transporter.48

Despite this, prison hulks continued to be used. In 1869, 95 Pakakohi men (from Taranaki) were imprisoned on a hulk in Wellington harbour „while awaiting trial by the Supreme Court”.49 Ten years later, in 1879, the an-ticipation of insufficient room in the Wellington Gaol, as a result of the government transporting Māori prisoners arrested during the ploughing campaigns to Wellington, prompted the suggestion of possibly using „a prison hulk [...] moored in the harbour”50 to accommodate them.51

The mobility of boats appears to have been part of the appeal. A proposal to temporarily use a prison hulk as a central penal establishment was included in the 1868 report of the Royal Commission on Prisons: „That as a temporary expedient the convicts of worst charac-ter and those under longest sentences should be drafted from the various local gaols, into a ship or ships to be

44 Grey 1864: 7–8.45 Anon. 1865a: 4.46 Anon. 1866d: 2.47 Anon. 1866e: 2; Anon. 1866a: 2.48 Anon. 1866c: 4.49 McLean 1870: 31.50 Anon. 1879a: 2.51 Anon. 1879b: 2.

Fig. 1. Map of Wellington with prison loca-tions (graphics by C. McCarthy)



occupied as hulks, and to be posted at some place or places where work of great public utility can be done at once, near the sea and under circumstances affording little facility for escape”.52

The Royal Commission recognised that the combined capacity of transport and penal accommodation could maximise the benefit of cheap penal labour.

Mount Cook II

Despite its ornamental facade of strength and Sydney stone, the Terrace Gaol was frequently escaped from (another engagement with context!) and by mid 1885 a proposal to build a new prison on Mount Cook in order to replace the Terrace Gaol, had been initiated.53 Again the prison imported its architecture from elsewhere, the building being modelled on Manchester County Gaol.54 Building had commenced by 1889–189055 but came to a standstill by 1894, despite recognition of „the building [... being] urgently required to replace the Terrace Gaol”. The earlier 1843 controversy over siting re-emerged, with one commentator stating that:

“the building attracts the attention of every visitor coming up the harbour, and the following question is commonly asked: „What big brick edifice is that in course of erection on that noble eminence?” When the stranger hears that it is Mount Cook Prison he naturally feels a kind of pity, if he be a man of taste, for a people who could stand patiently by and permit such a magnificent site to be devoted to such a purpose”.56

The distinction between the physical building and its offending architectural „purpose” is made explicit when the same writer praises the building (it is „admirably executed”57) and the convict labourers. By 1901 a deci-sion had been made not to use Mount Cook as a prison.58 The building stood as a striking edifice and landmark un-til its demolition in the 1930s. It was used as a barracks but never consistently as a gaol.

Point Halswell and tree-planting camps, etc.

The decision to rebuild on Mount Cook co-incided with the conversion of Point Halswell’s barracks on the Mi-ramar Pennisula into a temporary prison (c. 1889–90).59 The site was one of a number of coastal defence stations built following anxiety of a Russian attack following the

52 Royal Commission on Prisons 1868: 4.53 Hume 1889: 3, [19], [22]; Richardson 1885: 19.54 Anon. 1887: 3.55 Hume 1889: 3, [22], 1890: 4, [22]–[23].56 Anon. 1887: 3.57 Anon. 1887: 3.58 Hume 1894: 3–4, [22]; Garvey, quoted by Hume 1901: 13.59 Hume 1891: 3, [20].

Crimean War. Point Halswell’s penal history began as a public works project using prison labour for fortifica-tion work.60 This work also supported the view of Arthur Hume (Inspector of Prisons) of the benefits of prison-ers working in isolated locations because it placed: „the prisoners [...] away from public gaze, and where their friends are unable to interfere with them or tempt them with prohibited articles. The militia quarters also make suitable and healthy temporary prisons”.61 The healthy character of the site was re-iterated in the Wellington Gaoler’s report of 1901 when he stated that the rooms at Point Halswell were „healthy in the extreme; in fact, the varied places of employment and the site of the Prison combine to make the place a sort of sanatorium”.62

Near contemporary with the conversion of Point Halswell into a temporary prison, the Prisons Branch of the Department of Justice began trialling work camps, with the Milford Sound camp,63 following England’s lead. The rationale for this was to place:

the better-conducted long-sentenced prisoners on some Government works in an isolated place, to minimise the risk of contamination, and at the same time to enable the prisoners to fit themselves for ordinary labour on completing their sen-tences. It has been found that severe labour on public works is most beneficial in teaching criminals habits of industry, and training them to such employments as digging, road-making, quarrying, stone-dressing, building, and brickmaking – work of a kind that cannot be carried on in separate confinement. It is found that employment of this nature is most easily obtained by prisoners on their release, since men are taken on for rough work without the strict inquiries as to previous character which are usually made in other cases.64

The isolated work camp also supported the contem-porary idea of separation as key to a successful penal system:

The separation of criminals from each other lies at the very basis of the best systems, both as a means of reformation and deterrence. If there is any one thing on which prison reformers agree, it is that prisoners should associate as little as possible with each other. Aside from its deterrent effect, separate im-prisonment has the advantage of removing any fear of a pris-oner becoming any more depraved than he already is; and he is far more likely, when left to his own reflections, to be improved by exhortations from good men than he would be among a lot of congenial companions. It must be clearly understood that the cellular system here advocated does not mean „solitary” confinement, but merely separation from evil companions.65

60 Hume 1889: 4, [23], 1890: 4, [22]–[23].61 Hume 1894: 3, [21].62 Garvey, quoted by Hume 1901: 12–13.63 Hume 1891: 3, [21].64 Hume 1891: 3, [21].65 Hume 1894: 4, [23].


Christine McCarthy

The fortification work at Point Halswell was supple-mented with tree-planting in 1904, following the success of the tree-planting prison at Waiotapu (1901), in order to improve the appearance of „the bare, wind-swept hillsides of the Defence Reserve at Point Halswell”.66 By 1913, the Minister of Justice directed that tree-planting (mainly of pines) would extend „to the neighbourhood of Wellington,” resulting in planting covering more of the Miramar Peninsular.67 By 1915 over 160,000 trees had been planted.68 Hume was of the view that a only specific type of prisoner was suited to the tree-planting camps, with ramifications for prison siting:

Some men are safe only under lock and key and behind a fourteen-foot boundary-wall. The class of prisoner required for tree-planting or similar work in the country is the man who is determined to shorten his term of imprisonment by good conduct and industry, whose last thought is to escape, and who therefore needs little supervision.69

By 1911, increasing emphasis was put on the need for careful selection of which prisoners should be chosen for the tree-planting camps, suggesting that some men were only able to function in a town prison:

Some men are unfitted by reasons of age, health, or strength; others, though quite amenable to the discipline of a town prison, become intractable when sent to work in the open. Some have been sent whose crimes were of a serious nature; in these cases it has been evident that their offences were the result of drink, and were but slightly related to the sober state of their minds. Working in healthy and invigorating surroundings, these men have done good work, behaved well, and profited considerably by the nature of their imprisonment. It only shows that in selecting men for the camps each case has to be considered individually, and no general rule applicable to all cases can be laid down. In the camps only a minor propor-tion have served previous sentences, and we have made it a rule not to send men who have been tree-planting during a previous sentence.70

The location of the site hence became conflated with the character and psychology of groups of prisoners, a shift from previous systems of classification separating sex, age and type of offence. Parallel with the develop-ment of Point Halswell’s public works programmes, calls were being made for more accommodation for women prisoners at The Terrace Gaol, which strengthened fol-

66 Hume 1901: 3, [26]; Hay and Matthews, quoted by Jordan 1913: 7; Scanlon, quoted by Jordan 1913: 16.

67 Hay and Matthews, quoted by Jordan 1913: 7; Scanlon, quoted by Jordan 1914: 9.

68 Jordan 1915: 12.69 Hume 1902: 3, [25].70 Hay and Kayll, quoted by Waldegrave 1911: 2–3.

lowing the completion of a new men’s wing.71 The inad-equacy of The Terrace in terms of accommodation for warders’ was simultaneously raised, largely because „ten married officers reside in different parts of the city, and if required in an emergency (such as fire) it would be difficult to summon them to render assistance”.72 These problems with the adequacy and capacity of The Terrace site were resolved with the establishment of a perma-nent prison at Point Halswell and the conversion of the Wi Tako work camp in the Hutt Valley into a men’s prison.

The April 1915 decision during WWI to establish „a small permanent prison at Point Halswell” was to enable Mount Cook and the Terrace Prisons to be closed, but the site also had specific advantages, enabling the supply of the prison with vegetables.73 By June 1919 the proposal to transfer the women prisoners from the Terrace Gaol to Point Halswell was influenced by both the deteriorated conditions at The Terrace („which is rapidly becoming unfit for human habitation”), and because „[t] he Point Halswell site has proved itself to be one of the most healthy in the Dominion [...] and [its new buildings will] enable the Department to carry out a much-needed scheme of classification that will be beneficial alike to the prisoners and the State”.74 C. Matthews, Controller General of Prisons, similarly observed that: „[t]he site is a splendid one, and when the women prisoners enter into occupation their accommodation and their surroundings will exceed in comfort, healthfulness, and convenience anything of the kind we have had previously”.75 As if to exemplify this Arcadian vision of prison, in addition to gar-dens supplying the prison, pigs were raised „with gratify-ing financial results”, and „[t]he milk-supply for the Wel-lington prisons [... was] also been obtained from the Point Halswell Prison”.76 Yet the site itself was also a reason for the prison to be conceived, from early on (1919), to be „of a semi-temporary character owing to the objection that has been raised to the continuance of a permanent prison at the entrance to Wellington harbour”.77 Like the discom-fort with the Mount Cook site because of its civic promi-nence, in an age of nautical travel, the harbour entry was also a civic gateway and a questionable site for a prison.

Wi Tako

The decision c. 1901 not to use the new prison at Mount Cook as a replacement for The Terrace Gaol, prompted re-thinking about extensive rebuilding of The Terrace Gaol

71 Garvey, quoted by Hume 1904: 9; Garvey, quoted by Hume 1905: 11; Hume 1906: 3, [22]; Armstrong, quoted by Hume 1909: 11.

72 Armstrong, quoted by Hume 1907: 11. 73 Methven 2011: 107; Jordan 1915: 2; Wilford 1918: 19.74 Hawkins, quoted by Wilford 1919: 10; Methven 2011: 116.75 Matthews, quoted by Coates 1920: 6.76 Hawkins, quoted by Wilford 1919: 11.77 Matthews, quoted by Coates 1920: 6.



or relocating the prison.78 Hume highlighted the sugges-tion of Wellington’s Gaoler that: „an agricultural prison, with a brick-, tile-, and pipe-making branch in connection therewith, is well worthy of consideration”.79 The sugges-tion co-incided with the establishment of a tree-planting prison at Waiotapu in 1900.80 P.S. Garvey, Wellington’s Gaoler, favoured an agricultural prison because „prisoners would be instructed in that branch of work, the knowl-edge they would acquire there could certainly be turned to account on their release”.81 By 1909 the inadequacies of the Terrace Gaol prompted further interest in a new prison which was recommended by Hume to be: „built in the country, surrounded by plenty of land, which would give employment to long-sentenced prisoners who are found unsuitable for transfer to tree-planting prisons”.82

This interest in moving to a country site was given further impetus c. 1911 with stated opposition of prison gangs being seen walking Wellington streets. Frank Hay, the Inspector of Prisons at the time, noted in his 1911 report that, despite the value of the work done by pris-oners at the Mount Cook brick-making works, „the gang of prisoners with attendant warders marching to and from work through the public streets afford an unedify-ing spectacle”, as a reason for abandoning The Terrace Gaol from whence the prisoners walked, for a prison built „to an approved plan on a more suitable site”.83 The previous appeal of prison labour as a vital part of the supply of colonial infrastructure had, by the early twentieth-century, became considered inappropriate for the more mature city. Pratt reports of „fights between sympathetic onlookers, attempting to offer such pallia-tives as drink and tobacco, and the guards attempting to prevent them. On other occasions the guards would fire in public on prisoners trying to escape [...] even chase them through the streets with fixed bayonets”.84 Further pressure on The Terrace Gaol site came with the need to provide exercise-yards within the prison grounds.85 The initial solution to the perceived „problem” of prisoners „marching [...] through the streets” was to provide prison housing at the Mount Cook brick-works, removing the need for prisoners to march to work.86 By 1915, the Wel-lington Gaoler was able to state:

For over thirty years it had been the daily practice to march some 75 or 90 prisoners from the Terrace Prison to the Mount Cook Brickworks under the escort of an armed guard. In order to avoid this an unused brick building has been altered and

78 Hume 1901: 2 [20].79 Hume 1901: 3 [25].80 Hume 1901: 3 [26].81 Garvey, quoted by Hume 1901: 13.82 Hume 1909: 1, [1]; also Armstrong, quoted by Hume 1909: 11.83 Hay, quoted by Jordan 1912: 7.84 Pratt 1992: 115–116.85 Hay and Matthews, quoted by Jordan 1913: 5.86 Jordan 1915: 2.

added to in such a manner as to provide really good accommo-dation for 41 prisoners and the necessary officers. The building is now occupied, and the marching of prisoners through the streets has ceased.87

Similarly the small permanent prison established at Point Halswell, along with a new prison at Wi Tako, ena-bled the closure of both Mount Cook and The Terrace.88 At Mount Cook, prison labour cleared the site, terraced the slopes – in preparation for its post-prison existence, and did „other work that is contemplated with a view to preparing the ground for other purposes”, and achieving, in the mind of the Inspector of Prisons, „a beauty-spot and not an eyesore”.89 As Peter Cook has noted, this work and the earlier series of excavations have reduced the height of Mount Cook’s summit by about 25 metres,90 and in this instance, the excavation soil was used to ame-liorate the land form of an adjacent site.91

It was this context that made way for the proposal for a permanent prison in June 1919 at Wi Tako work camp in Trentham.92 Again prison labour was key in the clear-ing, and levelling of the site, and the provision of facilities such as a spring water reservoir.93 With the closing of Mount Cook a replacement brickworks was also estab-lished at Wi Tako as there was good quality clay „in abun-dance,” nearby transport infrastructure, and a scarcity of brick meaning demand for a commercial brick-making operation.94 The kiln was made of Mount Cook bricks.95

Seemingly coming full circle, the military associa-tion with Mount Cook was echoed in Wi Tako, given its proximity to Trentham military camp, and its assistance in establishing the new prison; the Superintendent mak-ing special mention in his 1919 report of his „thanks for the help they have rendered us”.96 It is with Wi Tako and the removal of the male prisoners to the Hutt Valley that Wellington began to effect its desired penal strategy fa-cilitating distance and separation from the general pub-lic. It was the beginning of our penal history as substan-tively cast invisible.

Conclusion

This history of Wellington prisons is a history of sites and siting which express the city’s relationship to its criminal

87 Jordan 1915: 12.88 Jordan 1915: 2; Matthews, quoted by Coates 1920: 6.89 Matthews, quoted by Jordan 1915: 6.90 Cooke 2006: 1.91 Jordan 1916: 3.92 Methven 2011: 116.93 Coates 1920: 19.94 Hawkins, quoted by Coates 1920: 12; Matthews, quoted by Coates

1920: 7.95 Matthews, quoted by Coates 1920: 7.96 Coates 1920: 19.


Christine McCarthy

and other citizens. It documents a geographical move-ment outward, from the early pragmatics of makeshift proximity (in the town and to the courthouse), towards isolation and distance. Early locations on hilltops maxim-ised opportunities for being seen – but not seeing; the design of cells most often limiting any view out.97 This was a more clumsy architecture than Foucault’s elegant rendering of the Panopticon.98 The impression of an in-stitution overlooking and looking down on the city, rein-forced the established iconography of the prison as phys-ically intimidating and threatening through psychological distancing. The position of the gallows atop Mount Cook „immediately outside the wall of the gaol [...] looking towards Lambton Harbour”99 in elevated view, and the encircling prison wall both represented aspects of intimi-dation but also two extremes of vision.

But the relationship of these prisons to site was more complex than a conventional siting. Brick prisons were literally made from Wellington’s earth, prisoners shaped and prepared sites, and repaired and built prisons that they might inhabit. Ironically prison labour excavations at Mount Cook would reduce the iconic power and domi-nance of the prison site in the cityscape, as the hill’s sum-mit was progressly lowered, the fill flattening the sur-rounding landscape and prison labour used to demolish prison buildings. Prisoners also effected extensive site transformations and through tree-planting they trans-formed the function and landscape of Miramar Pennin-sular. Escapes, chain-gangs and off-site prison staff were other connections which crossed the prison walls into the townscape.

There are no longer working prisons within or close to the city, with the city’s two prisons Rimutaka (formerly Wi Tako) and Arohata distant to most Wellingtonians. Distance is a concept heritage theory is currently bat-tling. Ideas of relevance, proximity, lived experience and identity are increasingly popular.100 These are perhaps doubly so within the context of landscape cultural her-itage because, as O’Keeffe observes: „we now see our-selves and others as situated inside landscapes, forming and reforming them”.101 Claval similarly notes that „land-scape remains an important medium through which to interrogate the construction of identity and the politici-zation of space”.102 The key question for heritage today is how do we get close to it.

When the experience of prison is a minority one, which is increasingly withheld from view, is it possible to meaningfully engage a city’s prison history beyond con-ventional modes of site interpretation and knowledge about, as distinct from knowledge within? Perhaps then

97 Evans 1982: 354. 98 Foucault 1995: 200–203. 99 Anon. 1849a: 2.100 O’Keeffe 2007: 3.101 O’Keeffe 2007: 4.102 Claval 2007: 85.

it is not personal connection that heritage should nec-essarily be aiming for. Vakhitova’s assertion that „[t]he emphasis in the conservation [...] has moved [...] towards the social processes that shape cultural landscapes [...] to an appreciation of the socio-economic and environmen-tal values of cultural heritage”,103 suggests a responsibil-ity to understand the consequences of our past penal history and interrogate both its validity and the policy positions we hold now.

At one level the story of Wellington’s prisons is one of specific sites and their removal from the city. At another it is about city-making. The reality of the colonial town was one of insufficient labour, preventing Wellington’s prison history being restricted to prison sites, and plac-ing convicts squarely within public view as, from early on, prison labour was used for public works. Wellington-specific examples included work on the Point Halswell fortifications, and later at Shelly Bay and Dorset Point (c. 1890 – c. 1904), building Mount Cook prison (c. 1890), making drain pipes, roofing tiles and bricks used in public works, including The Terrace Gaol and Parliament Build-ings (1890 – c. 1916), and shaping the land through level-ling (e.g., Alexandra Barracks), scrub-cutting, excavation, road-making, and building infrastructure such as that linked to water-supply, and electricity.104 The criminal shaping of urban space and provision of infrastructure has not been fully written about, but city roads built or worked on by prisoners included: Hill St., Taranaki St., Mulgrave St., Kumutoto St., Abel Smith St., Nairn St., Vivian St., Tasman St., Canal Reserve Rd (Kent and Cam-bridge Tces), Adelaide Rd, Brougham St., and Buckle St.105 The draining of the Basin Reserve and the building of the Tasman Street wall with prison labour bricks (Fig 2) are perhaps the only well-known artefacts of prison labour.

The historic presence of incarcerated men hence si-lently permeates our city. While the prison bricks have some public remembrance – a wall built of them has heritage protection, knowledge of the physical extent and heritage of their impact on the landscape is limited. Mount Cook is now the site of the National War Memo-rial and a university (Fig 3). Its war-related heritage is being heavily invested in, prompted by WWI anniversa-ries. The Terrace Gaol site now accommodates school children, Point Halswell was abandoned when it was re-

103 Vakhitova 2105: 217–218.104 Hume 1890: 4, [22]–[23], 1891: 3, [20], 1894: 3, [21], 1902: 3 [23];

Garvey, quoted by Hume 1903: 11; Garvey quoted by Hume 1904: 9; Garvey, quoted by Hume 1905: 11; Garvey, quoted by Hume 1906: 10; Armstrong, quoted by Hume 1907: 11; Armstrong, quot-ed by Hume 1908: 12; Armstrong, quoted by Hume 1909: 11; Mil-lington, quoted by Waldegrave 1910: 11; Hay and Kayll, quoted by Waldegrave 1911: 2; Millington, quoted by Waldegrave 1911: 11; Scanlon, quoted by Jordan 1912: 15; Scanlon, quoted by Jordan 1914: 9; Jordan 1915: 12; Matthews, quoted by Jordan 1915: 6; Jordan 1916: 3, 11; Matthews, quoted by Hanan 1917: 4; Hanan 1917: 15–16; Wilford 1919: 20.

105 Anon. 1866: 6; Anon. 1868a: 5; Anon. 1868b: 4; Anon. 1869: 3; Anon. 1872: 3.



Fig. 2. Bricks marked with the arrow indicat-ing that they were made by prisoners at Mount Cook in a wall on Tasman St., Wellington (photo by C. McCarthy)

Fig. 3. Mount Cook today (photo by C. McCarthy)


Christine McCarthy

alised to be proximate to an ammunition dump,106 and is now an informal equestrian practice paddock (Fig. 4). The prison hulk, theoretically mobile and displaced from the ground, was also a mechanism of cultural and physi-cal distance, yet the harbour that prison hulks once an-chored in is now a prime site of recreation, trade and transport.

There is a banality to how we currently neglect these sites and their interrelationships with each other and the city. Laurajane Smith might argue that the neglect and amnesia that characterises current public knowl-edge of, and interest in, these sites means that they are no longer culturally-relevant and so are not heritage – which she defines as „an active vibrant cultural process

106 Newbold 2007: 201.

of creating bonds through shared experiences and acts of creation”.107 But this ignorance belies the instrumentality and penal ideology which Wellington initially resisted – through variations of pragmaticism, under-resourcing and inadequate architecture – but which is integral to the very idea of prisons.108 The continuing underpinning of heritage as sought after, celebratory, and positively relevant may limit the complexity of our cultural en-gagement with the past. The history of penal landscapes suggests that distance and invisibility, while uneasy to acknowledge in conventional, interpretative and other mechanisms of recognition, is not unimportant for an understanding of urban heritage.

107 Smith 2006: 307–308.108 Foucault (1995: 236) notes that the first principle of the re-

formed prison was isolation.

A.1852. To the Editor of the “Wellington Independent”. Wel-

lington Independent, 31 July: 2.Anonymous1843a. Meeting of Council: Wednesday, Feb. 22. New Zealand

Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser, 24 February: 2.

1843b. New Zealand Colonist: Friday, January 20, 1843. New Zealand Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser, 20 January: 2.

1843c. Port Nicholson. Nelson Examiner and New Zealand Chronicle, 6 May: 244.

1843d. Port Nicholson. Nelson Examiner and New Zealand Chronicle, 27 May: 255.

1843e. Wellington Gaol. To Contractors [Tender]. New Zea-land Gazette and Wellington Spectator, 4 February: 1.

1844. Barracks. New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Specta-tor, 10 February: 2.

1849a. Execution. Maori Messenger: Te Karerre Maori, 24 May: 2.

1849b. The Grand Jury presentments, and Mr. Justice Chap-man’s replies. Wellington Independent, 13 June: 2.

1851a. Legislative Council: Friday, July 25, 1851. Wellington Independent, 30 July: 3.

1851b. Original correspondence. Wellington Independent, 2 August: 3.

1851c. The „Wellington Independent„. Wellington Independ-ent, 8 February: 2.

1852a. Colonial Secretary’s Office, Wellington [Tenders]. Wel-lington Independent, 11 February: 4.

1852b. The „Wellington Independent„. Wellington Independ-ent, 31 July: 2.

References:

Fig. 4. The site of Point Halswell Prison today (photo by C. McCarthy)



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Notes on authors

ArchAeologicAHereditas 10403–404

Barsha Amarendra – BA, architect; Visvesvaraya National Institute of Technology, Nagpur, India.

Cynthia Ammerman – historian and preservation strate-gist; director of the Polis: Cultural Planning, LLC in Kansas City, Missouri, and of the Cass County Historical Society in Harrisonville, Missouri, USA.

Lazare Eloundou Assomo – Deputy Director of UNESCO’s World Heritage Center, Paris, France.

Marek Barański – Dr eng., architect, conservator of histo-ric monuments; Kielce University of Technology, Faculty of Building Engineering and Architecture, Kielce, Poland.

Ewa M. Charowska – Dr eng., architect, historian and historic preservationist; independent scholar working in Toronto, Canada.

Paolo Del Bianco – President of the Romualdo Del Bian-co Foundation, Florence, Italy.

Stefano De Caro – Dr, archaeologist; Director-General of ICCROM, former Director-General of Antiquities with the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Activities, Rome, Italy.

Urszula Forczek-Brataniec – Dr; lecturer at Cracow Uni-versity of Technology, Cracow, Poland. Secretary General of the European Region of the International Federation of Landscape Architects.

Joanna Gruszczyńska – MSc. Eng. Arch., architect; doc-toral student at the Warsaw University of Technology, Faculty of Architecture, Warsaw, Poland.

Eva Gutscoven – MSc; architect and conservator working in Belgium.

Tetiana Kazantseva – Dr, Associate Professor; Depart-ment of Design and Architecture Basics, Institute of Architecture, Lviv Polytechnic National University, Lviv, Ukraine.

Weronika Kobylińska-Bunsch – MA, art historian; doc-toral student at the Institute of Art History, University of Warsaw, Warsaw, Poland.

Zbigniew Kobyliński – Professor Dr habil., archaeologist and manager of cultural heritage; director of the Institu-te of Archaeology of the Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński Uni-versity in Warsaw, Poland.

Diederik de Koning – MA, architect and environmental and infractructural planner; PhD candidate at the Delft University of Technology, Faculty of Architecture and the Built Environment, Borders and Territories Research Gro-up, Delft, the Netherlands.

Heiner Krellig – Dr, art historian, independent scholar, working in Berlin, Germany and Venice, Italy.

Amarendra Kumar Das – Professor; Department of De-sign, Indian Institute of Technology Guwahati, India.

Karen Lens – MA, architect; doctoral student at Hasselt University, Belgium.

Mingqian Liu – MA, historian of art and architecture; PhD student at the Department of Architecture, Texas A&M University, USA.

Estefanía López Salas – Dr, architect and restorator; Professor at the School of Architecture, University of A Coruña, Spain.

Cristiano Luchetti – Assistant Professor; American Uni-versity of Sharjah, United Arab Emirates.

Ana Luengo – MA, MSc, PhD, landscape architect; former President of the European Region of the International Federation of Landscape Architects –IFLA EUROPE.

Nataliya Lushnikova – Dr Eng., Associate Professor; Na-tional University of Water and Environmental Engineering, Institute of Civil Engineering and Architecture, Department of Architecture and Environmental Design, Rivne, Ukraine.

404

Notes on authors

ArchAeologicA Hereditas • 10

Fernando Magalhães – PhD, anthropologist; Interdisci-plinary Venter of Social Sciences (CICS.NOVA), Polytech-nic Institute of Leiria’s School of Education and Social Sciences, Leiria, Portugal.

Romano Martini – PhD, theoretician of law and politics; Adjunct Professor at Niccolo Cusano University, Rome, Italy.

Christine McCarthy – PhD, architect and art historian; senior lecturer at the Victoria University, Wellington, New Zealand.

Louis Daniel Nebelsick – Dr habil., archaeologist; Profes-sor at the Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński University in War-saw, Poland.

Ewa Paszkiewicz – MA; main scenographer at The Royal Łazienki Museum in Warsaw.

Ana Pereira Roders – Dr, architect and urban planner; Associate Professor in Heritage and Sustainability at the Eindhoven University of Technology, the Netherlands.

Kamil Rabiega – MA, archaeologist; PhD student in the Institute of Archaeology, Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński Uni-versity in Warsaw, Poland.

Almir Francisco Reis – Dr, urban planner; Professor at the Federal University of Santa Catarina in Florianópolis, Brazil.

Petro Rychkov – Dr, architect; Professor at the Lublin University of Technology, Faculty of Civil Engineering and Architecture, Department of Conservation of Built Heritage, Lublin, Poland.

Juan Alejandro Saldarriaga Sierra – Dr, cultural geogra-pher; teacher at the Faculty of Architecture of the Natio-nal University of Colombia in Medellin, Colombia.

Carinna Soares de Sousa – BA, architect and urban de-signer; MA student in urban planning at the Federal Uni-versity of Santa Catarina in Florianópolis, Brazil.

Aleksandra Stępniewska – MA student of architecture at the University of Social Sciences in Warsaw, Poland.

Bishnu Tamuli – Doctoral student at the Department of Design, Indian Institute of Technology Guwahati, India.

Işılay Tiarnagh Sheridan – BA, MSc, architect; research assistant at the İzmir Institute of Technology in Faculty of Architecture, Izmir, Turkey.

Andrzej Tomaszewski (1934-2010) – Professor dr habil., historian of art and culture, architect, urban planner, in-vestigator of Medieval architecture and art; director of ICCROM (1988-1992), General Conservator of Poland (1995-1999).

Koen Van Balen – Professor at the Catholic University of Leuven and director of the Raymond Lemaire Internatio-nal Centre for Conservation, Belgium.

Nikolaas Vande Keere – MA, civil engineer architect; Professor in charge of the design studio of the Interna-tional Master of Interior Architecture on Adaptive Reuse at the Hasselt University, Belgium.

Ingrida Veliutė – Dr; lecturer at the Vytautas Magnus University Faculty of Arts and member of ICOMOS Lithu-ania.

Tony Williams – former President of the Irish Landscape Institute and President of The European Region of the International Federation of Landscape Architects.

Anna Wiśnicka – Dr, design historian; teacher at the In-stitute of Art History of the Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński University in Warsaw, Poland.

Dominik Ziarkowski – Dr, art historian; Cracow Universi-ty of Economics. Chair of Tourism, Cracow, Poland.

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