A thesis submitted to the Faculty of Humanities of Universiteit van Amsterdam
in partial fulfillment of
the requirements for the degree of
Master of Archaeology Landscape and Heritage
June 30, 2018
by Jocelyn Torrez
Supervisor: Prof. Dr. James Symonds Second Reader: Prof. Dr. Gert-Jan Burgers
Acknowledgments
It is with gratitude that I thank Prof. Dr. James Symonds for being willing to supervise me and for providing me with a basis of literature and suggestions for undertaking this research. Apart from that, his kind and optimistic remarks made the completion of this thesis always seem within reach.
I also wish to thank Prof. Dr. Gert-Jan Burgers for taking an interest in my topic and agreeing to be a second reader. Lastly I should thank my friend Julian Kassteen of the Urban Geography program for helping me to locate and translate things in the city archives for this investigation.
Abstract
Adaptive reuse is not a new phenomenon, as people have repeatedly changed the elements of their built environment for newer purposes all throughout history. Nowadays adaptive reuse is ever more on the agenda for cities to simultaneously adapt their environments in order to meet their current needs, revitalize their neighborhoods, and preserve their heritage. It is also an increasingly practical option when it comes to religious built heritage since church going and religious affiliation is on the decline across the Western world. At this point in time, many churches in the city of Amsterdam are no longer used for primarily religious purposes, and this report will examine the various courses of action that have been taken in order to keep them going. This thesis seeks to explore the ways in which urban churches can remain functional in a secular city and what this means for the original identities. With a theoretical framework employing adaptive reuse, authenticity, identity, collective memory, as well as classical sociological theory this report will research three case studies of adapted church buildings in Amsterdam. In each instance of reuse that was studied, the religious identities remained ever present, appearing to be independent of the dissimilarities in their new and contemporary functions. In each case there is still an interest and a desire for the care and commemoration of the religious heritage despite their new multifunctional uses. Their diverse histories and competing identities have contributed to making them the plural spaces that they remain to be in their present uses.
TABLE OF CONTENTS 1. Introduction 8 1.1. Problem Statement 8 1.2. Research Question 10 1.3. Scientific Relevance 10 1.4. Social Relevance 11 1.5. Organization 11 2. Literature Review 12 2.1. Adaptive Reuse 12
2.1.1. History of Adaptive Reuse Theory 13
2.1.2. User-led vs. Heritage-led Reuse 15
2.1.3. Why Adaptive Reuse? 17
2.2. Authenticity 19
2.3. Identity 22
2.3.1. Critical Identity Theories 23
2.3.2. Religious Places and Identity 25
2.4. Collective Memory 26
2.4.1. Church and Embodiment of Memory 27
3. Case Description 30
3.1. Church in the Netherlands 30
3.1.1. Revolt 32
3.2. Secularization 36
3.2.1. Historical Trends 38
3.2.2. Geographical Perspective 39
3.2.3. Social Perspective 40
3.2.4. Counter-movements 41
3.3. Dutch Heritage Perspective 41
3.3.1. Evolution of Heritage Management 42
3.3.2. Three Approaches to Heritage 45
3.3.3. Religious Heritage Planning 47
3.3.4. Separation between Church and State 49
4. Methodology 51
4.1. Research Strategy and Design 51
4.2. Case Study Selection 52
4.3. Data Sources and Collection 53
5. Case Studies 56
5.1. Oude Kerk 56
5.2. Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder 64
5.3. Kapel ter Heilige Stede 73
6. Analysis 88
7. Conclusions 90
1. Introduction
1.1. Problem Statement
Throughout history, people have repeatedly changed elements of their built environment and reused heritage for newer purposes once they have become inappropriate or unnecessary in their original functions. Change is an inevitable part of the urban landscape and as spaces grow and develop there are always going to be changes made to the environment in order to accommodate them. Adaptive reuse is the process of developing historic buildings to meet new uses while still preserving aspects of their original fabric and design. Adaptive reuse is an increasingly attractive option for cities to simultaneously adapt to their environment to meet contemporary needs, revitalize neighborhoods, and preserve their heritage. This comes with a multitude of advantages including but not limited to environmental, economical, and socio-cultural benefits for the local communities.
This brings us to historic churches, who people tend to value greatly not only for religious reasons but also for their historical and cultural values they associate them with. But as organized church membership is on the decline across the Western world, so is the need for churches, creating an issue of redundant and unused churches in the urban landscape that heritage managers must find ways to rectify (Velthuis and Spennemann 2007). Fewer and fewer people across the Western world attend church regularly or even affiliate themselves with any church, thus church buildings are falling vacant and their congregations are not always able to continue to maintain them. In the Netherlands an average of 27 Catholic and 33 Protestant churches are closing annually (de Beyer and Takke 2012). Unused churches are often victim to vandalism and decay if they are not demolished or sold straight away, but a church’s demolition or decay can have negative impacts on the local community regardless of individual religious beliefs (Latham 2000). The demolition of a church is not only painful for both the
local community and religious congregations, but it is often also the cause of conflict between the different stakeholders (Overbeeke 2015), implying that the continuity of these church buildings is the preferred outcome. It must also be emphasized that “a growing secularization/modernization of society has so far
not led to a growing inability or decreasing desire to take care of the
churches,” (Lindblad & Löfgren 2016: 17). In other words, just because a growing part of the population is no longer affiliated with any church does not mean that they want to let them go.
Adapting old churches for new uses is in no way a new phenomenon; one can easily spot a number of reused churches just by taking a short walk through Amsterdam’s city center. One might also argue that the churches command high real estate value based on their proximity to the center and that is even more of a reason to find an economically feasible use for them. The center of Amsterdam is a historic landmark in itself and so adaptively reusing their churches buildings helps to mediate the problem of redundant churches while additionally preserving the heritage and the landscape.
One important thing to consider is the way in which archaeological heritage is integrated with urban planning. This is a pressing issue in many European countries, particularly in the Netherlands, due to its very dense population and high amounts of construction activity, and so national demographics as well as geographic situations must be considered in terms of the options that the country has for its heritage (Van den Dries 2011). With a total population of over 17 million and population density just over 500 inhabitants per km2 (CBS 2018) there is certainly “much more pressure on the land and, consequently, on archaeological resources,” (van den Dries 2011: 600). As of April 2018, the population of Amsterdam was at 859,103 (CBS 2018) but at the same time it receives nearly 14 million tourists per year (Onderzoek, Informatie en Statistiek 2018). Furthermore, tourism to the city is increasing at such a rate that the difference between ‘low season’ and ‘peak season’ is gradually becoming
obscured (Onderzoek, Informatie en Statistiek 2018). The purpose of this thesis is to explore the adaptive reuse of Amsterdam’s most cherished churches taking into account current social trends, historical foundations, and matters of urban development and heritage.
1.2. Research Question
The main purpose of this thesis is to explore the ways in cases of Amsterdam’s religious heritage have remained persistent for centuries. At this point in time, many churches in the city are no longer used regularly for religious purposes, so this report will examine the courses of action that had to be taken in order to keep them going. This is achieved by considering the cultural biographies of important churches in the landscape over time, how they came to be, and the identities and memories they have constructed and reconstructed over time up to the present day. The following questions will be addressed: How can urban churches remain functional in a time where church going is continuously decreasing? How have local populations utilized the church in order to put forth their beliefs, create identities, and make impressions on the landscape? What are the consequences of adaptive reuse on the original identities?
1.3. Scientific Relevance
This thesis contributes to the scientific field in the sense that it builds upon existing literature on the conservation and restoration debate. This also builds upon secularization trends, using classical sociological theory. Trends pertaining to secularization are not an isolated phenomenon for this case alone, but they are widespread and have lasting repercussions in the makeup of society. This report also pertains to existing literature on modernization, capitalization, and the roots of Protestantism, contributing to the debate around the modernization of civilization, the advancement of capitalism and how religion has had changing roles in a changing society.
1.4. Social Relevance
This thesis is socially relevant as it pertains to matters of identity, culture, and heritage which are not objective and must also be examined through a social lens. This also deals with heritage practices, forms of preservation and reuse, and ways to make heritage inclusive and accessible to the community, whether or not they are affiliated with any church. Furthermore, this report addresses social value systems, and the various stakeholders involved in the matters of heritage and urban development.
1.5. Organization
This thesis is divided into seven main chapters with references listed at the end. Chapter one is the introduction and provides an overview of the study, the problem statement, the research questions, and the relevance of the research. Chapter two presents a literature review summarizing the existing literature on the theory behind adaptive reuse and other matters that are related and impacted by the process of adaptive reuse including authenticity, identity, and collective memory. Chapter three is the case description which provides a review of the literature that is most pertinent to the case that will be studied, including the evolution of church in the Netherlands, Secularization, Dutch heritage perspectives, and matters of government funding for churches in the context of separation between church and state. Chapter four is the chapter on the methodology that was employed in this study, starting with the research strategy and design, the selection of case studies, and the data sources and collection. Chapter five presents the findings of the three case studies chosen. Chapter six is the analysis of the finds from the previous case studies. Finally, chapter seven concludes this report connecting the presented cases with the evidence and the theoretical framework, and a discussion of emerging themes.
2. Literature Review
2.1. Adaptive Reuse
“The past is ever remade. Heritage cannot be stored in a vault or an attic; the true steward adds his own stamp to his predecessors’. It is our felt duty to augment what we bequeath; the legacy must gain new resonance while in our care. Only a heritage ever reanimated stays
relevant.” (Lowenthal 1998: 19)
While buildings are constructed with intended functions, it is often the case that they outlive their original purpose (Dubois 2002). One option to respond to this is adaptive reuse. A building’s reuse may refer to renewed use in the original function, or reuse of the original material (Asselbergs 1996). The process of adaptive reuse gives the building a new purpose when it is no longer fulfilling its original function (Debets 1985). A change in function for a building often entails that there will be some additional changes to the structure or interior as well, making the adaptive reuse process a fitting alternative for development projects as well (Asselbergs 1996).
Adaptive reuse has also been referred to as ‘creative reuse’ (Latham 2000) indicating that the scope has extended beyond architects and developers to also include the public in these matters, a user-led form of intervention that will be discussed later in this chapter. Repairing and restoring buildings for their extended usage may occur for numerous reasons including contemporary need for sustainable development, need for cost efficiency, and the benefits of retaining architectural heritage, all of which demonstrate the increasing importance of broadening the scope for uses of heritage in order to measure up to the needs of a rapidly changing society (Plevoets and Cleempoel 2013). We will define adaptive reuse as any work or intervention that is done which changes to the capacity, function, or performance of a building to meet new conditions or requirements (Yung & Chan 2012).
2.1.1. History of Adaptive Reuse Theory
Adaptive reuse is not a recent phenomenon. Some cite the French Revolution as a turning point in the history of building conservation (Plevoets and Cleempoel 2013), as the National Assembly in 1789 ordered all properties of the church including land, buildings, and art to be confiscated and either sold or kept as state property. This was followed by the creation of an inventory for national properties that were deemed useful for the pubic education of the nation, and eventually led to what was known as the 19th century ‘restoration movement’; a
national movement that viewed historic buildings as national monuments and that sought for extensive restoration of architectural heritage adhering to the original style. Influential architects in England such as George Gilbert Scott, as well as Pierre Cuypers in the Netherlands followed such a restoration approach. A critic of this restoration approach, John Ruskin advocated for a conservation approach which rejected the destructive nature of bringing architecture back to life in ‘restoration’ and instead opted for a more romantic philosophy in which buildings are allowed to exist on their own terms and where marks of aging and decay contributed to the overall beauty.
20th century art historian Alois Riegl framed these prevailing theoretical
perspectives within a value system. He distinguished the restoration movement which sought to remove traces of natural decay as based in art-value and historic-value, as opposed to the anti-restoration movement whose appreciation of monuments lied exclusively in age-value, and sought to display incompleteness and decay as a testament to the past (Plevoets and Cleempoel 2013). Understanding both opposing views, Riegl was inclined to a restorative approach to adaptive reuse, in which preference was to use-value without compromising age-value, so that old buildings still in use must be maintained in order to accommodate and not endanger anyone. Much like Riegl, author Boito criticized both the restoration and conservation approaches, arguing that the former one forfeits material authenticity, while the latter one favors for decay
which was impractical. Searching for a way to handle the two extremes Boito proposed methods for adapting buildings while being transparent in what was old and new.
While the notion of heritage was previously confined to antique and medieval architecture, an increasing awareness of architecture from other historical periods and their worthiness of preservation emerged after World War II (Plevoets and Cleempoel 2013). As notions of heritage became broader and implied that more buildings would require conserving, the notion of conservation had to reconsider adaptive reuse as a method of conservation practice. This can be seen in the 1964 Venice Charter that states “the conservation of monuments is always facilitated by making use of them for some socially useful purpose” (ICOMOS 1964).
Plevoets and Cleempoel (2013) argue that in adaptive reuse there are four discernible schools of thought in today’s context: typological, technical, programmatic, and strategic; each school of thought emphasizing a different key issue. The typological approach is practical, concerning the typology of buildings and how that is related to the range of activities it could possibly be used for. The technical approach is also practical in nature, as issues of sustainability are at the forefront as well as the need for spaces to meet functional, financial, and technical needs. The programmatic approach focuses on the social aspect that is less tangible, and is concerned with the ways in which adapted buildings fit into society and their role. Lastly, the strategic approach argues that reuse is not only concerned with form but also meaning. In this sense it is essential to consider the way the meanings of the past are dealt with, drawing on the notion of the palimpsest (Plevoets and Cleempoel 2013).
2.1.2. User-led vs. Heritage-led Reuse
Built heritage may also be transformed in order to meet different needs in a user-led process, in what may be referred to ‘vernacular adaptation’ (Plevoets and Sowińska-Heim 2018). User-led interventions have been going on throughout history, for instance the 6th century refugees who settled on, around, and in the ruins of the ancient Diocletian Palace and created a palimpsest of different periods in the historic city center of Split. Spontaneous user-led transformations meant that features of buildings were seen as resources that could be informally preserved, adapted or removed altogether. The notion of heritage in the 19th
century however generated heritage-led transformations, which signified restoration or conservation. But there remains a tension between conservation and the continuity of use by inhabitants, and perhaps we should rethink heritage conservation that comes at the “expense of the continuity of the living tradition, which is embedded in the use, maintenance, and pragmatic user-led adaptation of the site (Plevoets and Sowińska-Heim 2018: 2).
Plevoets and Sowińska-Heim (2018) demonstrate the power of user-led initiatives in the example of Kunsthaus Tacheles, a shopping center built in 1907 in Berlin which went bankrupt within a year of its opening. An electric company later used the building in 1928, but by 1934 it was occupied by Nazis as an office space, and eventually it suffered extensive bomb damage from World War II. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, artists and squatters transformed the ruins into an informal art center inclusive with a movie theater, art studios, cafe, exhibition space, and used the open spaces for a garden and event venue (Plevoets and Sowińska-Heim 2018).
Similarly, Amsterdam’s former shipyard the NDSM-werf, which closed down in the 80s, became prone to squatters in the 90s and 2000s. The municipality however found a way to institutionalize this vernacular initiative with the creation of Broedplaatsen (breeding places). It was a joint initiative by the municipality and squatter movements that facilitated the adaptive reuse of abandoned buildings while at the same time preserving the alternative cultural scene in the city. The idea behind the Broedplaatsen policy was to give squatters who could contribute something to society, for example artists, a cheap place to rent in a strategy that at the same time revitalized the area at a relatively low cost for the municipality itself. Critics of Broedplaatsen argued that it commercializes areas and is a catalyst for gentrification (Plevoets and Sowińska-Heim 2018). While the NDSM was protected as a monument since 2007 and has become a popular area known for its creative scene since the last decade, a new phase for the NDSM is already underway with plans for the construction of 1300 new residences by the year 2025; a development which will undoubtedly have an affect on the local identity of the area, and raise questions about which values of the site are worthy of being preserved.
2.1.3. Why Adaptive Reuse?
“We can use the past fruitfully only when we realize that to inherit is also to transform. What our predecessors have left us deserves respect, but a patrimony simply preserved becomes an intolerable burden; the past is best used by being domesticated - and by our accepting and rejoicing that we do so.” (Lowenthal 1985: 412)
There are a multitude of reasons for the adaptive reuse of architectural heritage. As noted by Gartska (2012), adaptive reuse is an excellent choice for its environmental, economic, and socio-cultural benefits. Environmentally speaking, the reuse of built heritage reduces the amount of contaminants caused during the demolition of buildings, making it better for the environment (Gartska 2012). Furthermore, reuse of a building also entails that modern improvements will take
place that not only increase the building’s life span ergonomically but also economically and more sustainably (Latham 2000). Economically speaking, the reduced construction time that is required for adaptive reuse projects, when compared with the time it takes to fully demolish and rebuild, also has its financial implications for developers, making it an attractive option. Reusing historic buildings, and especially those that were once places of worship is also socio-culturally beneficial. According to Latham (2000: 6), religious built heritage has “a past firmly rooted in the community”. These buildings tend to hold certain value in society for may reasons that extend beyond their original religious purposes, including their architectural significance and aesthetic appeal (Velthuis and Spennemann 2007), so their continuity is both significant and beneficial for the local community.
Despite the multitude of reasons for reuse that may be, it can be understood that reuse would most likely not occur without some desire of the local community to save it (Latham 2000), and thus its socio-cultural benefits become evident. “Re-using churches ensure[s] their survival” (Saifi and Yüceer 2012: 750). Saifi and Yüceer (2012) examine the reuse of architectural religious heritage when the original users have been displaced, as a result of ethnic conflict between the Greek and Turkish communities in Cyprus. During periods of conflict, heritage sites are often targets of destruction, which strips them of both their physical and social value. However the buildings that remain intact may retain their autonomy through the maintenance of new users. In this conflict and post-conflict context, church reuse is possible due to the absence of the original community whose religion and ethnicity differ from that of the new users. Saifi and Yüceer (2012) differentiate this from other European as well as American transformations of religious heritage, which tend to occur due to contemporary needs. But regardless of these differences, the demonstrated communal effort to conserve the religious heritage even in the absence of the original occupants reveals a keen sensitivity towards the original users, which has a rather unifying effect that the authors interpret as representative of peace.
2.2. Authenticity
The concept of authenticity has time and again been a part of debate within archaeology and heritage, as attention is always given to determining an object’s age and genuineness. In a 1936 essay, Walter Benjamin coined the term “aura”, explaining that authenticity resides in the aura of the original work, which evokes a superiority to any imitation. To Benjamin, the aura of an authentic object is elusive and cannot be defined, having to do with the genius of the artist and the age embedded in the work. In this sense, no matter how good a copy is, its aura can never be reproduced. Likewise, when we view something as authentic it almost immediately becomes significant and special (Lindholm 2008). This notion raises questions for adaptive reuse however, and especially with the increased possibilities in technical conservation techniques as well as digital innovations for reconstruction and visualization.
We must also not forget that the way built heritage is displayed in the present is very much an integral part of what we perceive as authenticity. Regardless of how extensive the renovations an object has gone through to remain standing, we perceive this as the authentic version because it is simply the way we have always remembered it, which is not necessarily the same as when the original users came to know it. How do we cope with authenticity when we consider that the choices being made with regard to heritage sites are decided by ‘experts,’ curators and managers? And how then do we consider our encounters with museums, that are man-made and offered for money like in any other business? Nowadays the changing and contested notions of authenticity have led to an increased variety in what museums can offer us and an increase in the types of narratives they can tell with these objects. Museums are still important authorities in authenticity and what we will see is that one fate of the historic churches that are no longer in religious use is to become a museum of some sort.
Pine and Gilmore (2007) state that there are three levels to consider regarding authenticity: artifacts, edifices and encounters. They argue that museums must move towards an authenticity of experience over an authenticity of material. While we can judge the material fabric as authentic or inauthentic, we do not have inauthentic experiences because our experiences are derived from our reactions to what is around us. Experiences are always authentic to who we are, past experiences, and other factors. Some questions we might have to ask then: “Is it true to itself?” and “Is it what it says it is?” (Pine and Gilmore 2007).
Jones (2009) argues that the dichotomy between materialist and constructivist approaches to authenticity hinder our understanding of the concept and how it helps us relate to heritage. A materialist approach conceives authenticity as an objective, measurable attribute, while the constructivist approach envisions authenticity as a subjective, cultural construct. In terms of heritage conservation authenticity is often related to the idea of the original and has long been identified in relation to the origin, fabric, and intention of its maker (Jones 2009). Moreover, the emphasis on originality applies to subsequent renovations, as later repairs may interfere with original materials and may not adhere to original techniques. As discussed in the previous section on re-use, the 19th century saw
a movement advocating for extensive restoration followed by ‘preservation as found’, but ultimately with the Venice Charter (ICOMOS 1964) a materialist approach to authenticity was reinforced into heritage policy.
It was not until the Nara Document on Authenticity (ICOMOS 1994) that previous approaches to authenticity were challenged by indigenous and non-western perspectives. Studies have suggested that the concept of authenticity is distinctive to the Western world and it should come as no surprise that the concept of authenticity endorsed by the World Heritage Convention has always been tailored to Western monumental heritage (Lindholm 2008). But Western notions of authenticity and conservation were directly challenged by Buddhist monuments in Japan which were frequently dismantled in their entirety and
renovated without any original materials, resulting in the Nara Document advocating for a more relative notion of authenticity in which fixed criteria could no longer apply. Literature on heritage management now tends to follow the idea that authenticity is a cultural construct and therefore relative, depending on the observer and the context in which it is (Jones 2009).
Jones (2009) argues that the networks between objects, people, and places are central to how we experience authenticity. Much like the idea of aura that evokes some elusive quality, our relationships with the past and present invoke an inherent sense of genuineness or authenticity (Jones 2009). In this sense authenticity resides in our feeling of making contact with past lived experiences of which are embodied in the materiality of the object (Jones 2009). Heritage institutions and museums who give us contact with authenticated objects “allow us to appropriate their authenticity, incorporating the magical proof of existence into what we call our personal experience,” (Handler 1986, cited in Jones 2009). But Jones asserts that this appropriation is less dependent on the museums and institutions’ authentication of the objects and more dependent upon people’s ability to establish a relationship with the past networks (Jones 2009). Because even after objects have been authenticated by heritage institutions and museums, the worries about authenticity still permeate through the ways in which we conserve, display, and use the objects which could arguably still diminish or compromise their authenticity.
One may interpret heritage conservation as a paradox of “securing the past while changing it,” (Jones and Yarrow 2013: 7). Scholarship has drawn attention to the notions that buildings and monuments are stable objects and alternatively that their conservation is a constant process of being made and re-made (Jones and Yarrow 2013). We must consider that buildings and monuments undergo maintenance and repairs to stabilize their structure and bring them back to working order, but these efforts ultimately transform their original form and fabric. So then to what length will we compromise authenticity for the sake of
‘saving’ something? Jones and Yarrow (2013:13) also note how the idea of authenticity is so ingrained in the process of documentation such that interventions are recorded with acute detail. By recording what has been replaced or lost, a paper trail is generated “thereby allowing future generations to read authenticity.” But then how is the authenticity regarded with such great significance while simultaneously conducting interventions? Jones and Yarrow (2013) conclude that authenticity is not a latent property of historic buildings and monuments but rather a distributed property that manifests itself in the interaction between people and objects. It is in this way that the number of paradoxes that heritage conservation entails are then negotiated. Historic churches that survive for centuries in the urban landscape have undergone various levels of conservation and intervention, but still we may be less inclined to consider them as inauthentic; they are restored to look the way imagine they have always been and so its authenticity is negotiated in terms of familiarity and connection. It can thus be said that “the users of heritage are active in their appropriations, accommodations or negotiations with it,” (Smith 2006).
2.3. Identity
In the words of Laurajane Smith (2006), “in engaging with heritage, people are constructing a sense of their own identities.” Accepting that heritage is inextricably linked with matters of identity, we can observe how elements in any city from monuments to street names can reveal quite a bit about the city’s intricate history. This has far reaching implications as the “control of heritage, and thus cultural identity, is […] a vital resource in political negotiations,” (Smith 2004: 26) and raises questions about the appropriation and manipulation of heritage for misguided purposes. In this way places or sites are not mere backdrops but also a fundamental part of identity. Furthermore, changes to the built environment, big or small, can affect the way that a place is used and interacted with, and thus change the place’s identity altogether.
A study on value assessment of heritage in the south of the Netherlands by Coeterier (2002) determined four criteria for the evaluation for historic buildings: form, function, knowledge, and familiarity. Historic value is an important environmental quality for people both directly or indirectly; “directly, historic value is one of the fundamental qualities in environmental perception identified in Dutch research," (Coeterier 2002: 111), while indirectly historic value can manifest itself in more convoluted ways. In-depth interviews were held among residents of the study area and non-residents who lived in adjacent regions. Despite the fact that non-residents did not live where the heritage sites in question were, neither group differed in their evaluations of heritage (except in the sense of emotional ties), which indicated their general valuing of the heritage regardless of their proximity to it. The study also showed that all respondents expressed an interest in being involved in decision making with regard to the fate of historic buildings in their neighborhoods. For the respondents, value went far beyond the building’s historical quality. Historic buildings were determined to have existential value at three discrete levels. The first level was the enhancing
of place identity, personal identity and group identity, as the built heritage
fosters the ‘genius loci’, or spirit and character of the place. The second level was the contribution to identity in the form of memories, feelings of pride, attachment, belonging, and imparting an ‘environmental anchor’ for people. The third level was that historic buildings enhance a sense of community and
collective identity as they uphold the identity of the town.
2.3.1. Critical Identity Theories
As communicated by Hauge (2006: 46), “identity is created both internally in the mind, and through the body’s interaction with the outside world - there is no place without self, and no self without place.” Hauge (2006) goes on to discuss three central theories for explaining the influence of architecture and the physical environment upon identity: 1) place-identity theory, 2) social identity
theory, and 3) identity process theory. Place-identity theory has contributed to the disciplines of psychology and the social sciences with an emphasis on the ways the physical environment can influence identity and perception of the self.
Place-identity theory was coined in by Proshanky, Fabian, and Kaminoff (1983) to signify the way an individual incorporates a place into their larger concept of self based on direct experiences with the physical environment. A drawback to this definition is that is does not account for the social aspects of identity creation or the collective nature of identity. Social identity theory as well as identity process theory have been more successful in explaining the relationship that lies between place and identity in that they understand it to be enduring yet susceptible to change.
Social identity theory is more adaptable, and the notion of place is seen in terms of a membership of a group that provides identity. People often construct their perception of self with regard to social categories which become part of their self-concept, and define themselves by the groups to which they belong. In this way place is associated with other people, a way of life, or even a social status and this can be relevant to other disciplines (Hauge 2006: 47).
Identity process theory also emerged in the 1980s and was more dynamic in definition, as both a structure and a process. Identity process theory views identity as a social product of of memory, consciousness, and organized interpretation. In the identity process model there is no distinction between personal or social. “Places represent personal memories because places are located in the socio-historical matrix of intergroup relations, they represent social memories, shared histories,” (Hague 2006: 47). This model also considers places as impermanent and instilled with meanings that are constantly renegotiated, resulting in constantly changing contributions to identity. For the sake of this paper, identity process theory is the most effective in examining the adaptive re-use of religious built heritage since the changes in church function
over time are most certainly tethered to changing attitudes regarding religion, heritage, and identity.
2.3.2. Religious Places and Identity
Mazumdar and Mazumdar (2004) study the ways in which religion fosters place attachment. Countless anthropologists, geographers, sociologists, and environmental psychologists have all looked at ‘significant places’ in one way or another, and what we can say based on previous studies is that ‘significant places’ provide stability and security, act as anchors, symbolic life lines, and fields of care (Mazumdar and Mazumdar 2004). Significant places are invested with meaning beyond just their physical fabric, such that any attempts to alter them are met by strong and collective sentiments of resistance (Mazumdar and Mazumdar 2004). While place attachment literature tends to focus on secular places, we must also acknowledge that religion plays a very significant role in people’s lives and also in city and social life (Mazumdar and Mazumdar 2004). Since the focal point of medieval European cities is often the grand cathedrals who overlook the city, they have long been indicative of the prominence of religion to urban life. Therefore it is only right to consider the profound influence that religion has on the relationship between people and place.
Religious places are often the focus of extraordinary place attachment to the point that the place becomes a collective possession of the group, for example “Jerusalem for the Jews, Mecca for the Muslims, Banaras for the Hindus, Rome for the Catholics, Amritsar for the Sikhs, Bodh Gaya for the Buddhists. [These] are all examples of collective religious possessions,” (Mazumdar & Mazumdar, 2004). Sacred places are also the sites for participating in important ceremonies and rites, interacting with significant people such as priests or rabbis, and for being within a community of other believers. They have become associated with significant life events such as marriage or funeral ceremonies. “For the
overwhelming majority of the religious in any population, engagement in some form of ritualized traffic with sacred symbols is the major mechanism by which they come not only to encounter a world view but actually to adopt it, to internalize it as part of their personality,” Geertz (1968:100). The act of attending church requires members to visit the place and experience its physical qualities regularly, thus becoming an integral part of identity. Religious places therefore aid in the learning of identity based on teaching through prayer, ritual, stories, symbols, and experience with the place.
2.4. Collective Memory
Collective memory is very much related to themes of identity. People tend to draw from individual and collective memory when seeking their own identities. Collective memory may be understood as related to the landscape, in that “the point is not the material environment itself but the meanings attached to that environment as archived in collective memory,” (Mellon 2008: 60). While some landscapes and landmarks provide stability in their permanence, some meanings attached to landscapes or landmarks may be contested or in fluctuation. By choosing what to commemorate and how, we are active in the shaping of the collective memory.
While people may identify strongly with the larger collectivity for example of national identity, different people may have different senses about what the national identity signifies. But it can be argued that the underlying intention of heritage is to achieve social cohesion in the form of national or local identities and collective memory. It would be difficult to identify a monument that was not the result of the politicization of built heritage in some way. Therefore the built heritage of any particular place may not necessarily be a comprehensive rendition of the community’s history or character. This also raises questions regarding distinct groups inhabiting the landscape, as few places are inhabited
by one group exclusively, and with differing groups coexisting, differing interpretations of the built heritage will unfold.
“It is inevitable that people will look around themselves for recognition of who they are and who they aspire to be as a collective in the physical environment. It is also inevitable that changes in the social, political, and economic orders will inspire effort to transform that physical environment to maintain an element of congruence with senses of identity and aspiration. What is not inevitable however, is that such effort will necessarily be sensitive or inclusive.” (Mellon 2008: 66)
In Boyer’s The City of Collective Memory (1996), she suggests that “the city as a work of art” was the prevailing understanding two hundred years ago, characterized by monarchs or public authorities who used public space as an effort to impress viewers while imprinting the legitimacy of their sovereignty. This was later replaced by “the city as panorama,” the feeling of the city as a movement. What Boyer describes as the current situation is “the city as spectacle,” in which the lines between public and private have been blurred and the market supersedes the aspirations of the city. Boyer is critical of urban planning, in that the practice willfully turns a blind eye to the sometimes problematic nature of the past as well as the actual diversity that makes up the urban environment’s constituents. Instead it seems to favor only the most congenial elements subsequently limiting the urban environment’s ability to always be a reliable source for collective memory.
2.4.1. Church and Embodiment of Memory
According to Clark (2007: 60), “the purpose of architecture includes the visual preservation of memory,”, and “places of worship are usually the most famous, the strongest, the most beautiful buildings any town has to offer,” (Visser 2015: 1). Collective memories are embodied within church buildings. The monumental style and the ecclesiastical look that is essentially gothic, is a symbol of
Christianity in a modern city, serving as both a reminder of Christian purpose and Christian presence. Christianity is expressed and deepened through regular practice, gathering, and ritual determined by a calendar and shared by the community.
“Outside the building a congregation is without physical definition. Memory connects the building with the congregation over time and through generations […] the congregation enjoys collective experiences that create a shared memory of events.” (Clark 2007: 63)
The relationship between the congregation and the church building is very often based on its continuity, thus its construction, maintenance, and renovation are yet further expressions of faith and devotion.
Church buildings often served as a proclamation of moral and spiritual wealth of the community and moreover, the construction of new church buildings was a representation of the community’s improved status. The moral tenor, religious devotion, and economic stature of the town is also represented in the location and grandeur of the church (Clark 2007). Because church buildings have historically been used as a means for the community to present themselves to the world, they are part of the community’s understanding of itself and a focal point of collective identity.
Objects that evoke memory are easily ingrained with significance. Church buildings are an example of memory which has been externalized in order to overcome the chances of forgetting (Clark 2007). While these collective memories are usually situated together, the context of church closure throws this equilibrium of memory into disarray, often resulting in conflict (Clark 2007). The closure of a church sets into motion a process of reorganization and reprioritization of memory patterns and associations (Clark 2007).
“Secular community memory is awakened as the building becomes something in need to rescue, separated from religious practice and relegated to the status of heritage,“ (Clark 2007: 77).
However with church closure comes a ceremony of continuity in the passing down of religious objects to other congregations, such that the understanding of continuity must be broadened. And in the event that a church building is rescued from demolition and restored, agency is given to collective memory, deeming the church as representative of the local community (Clark 2007). Adaptive reuse is another way to ‘save’ the historic church, but once belief is gone then the question is, what really is being preserved and to what end?
3. Case Description
3.1. Church in the Netherlands
This section is meant to provide a brief history of religious development in the Netherlands with a focus on Amsterdam, as religion was a crucial part of the early development of the city. This section will also highlight some key events that were crucial to the religious identity that still have lasting implications on the religious landscape of the Netherlands today.
As Gawronski (2012) outlines the urban history of Amsterdam, the first traces of habitation took place dating back to the last quarter of the 12th century. Consequently, the city was built around five hamlets that grew together around the mouth of the Amstel, one of them being Kerkzijde (church side) which was on the northeast bank. There stood a wooden chapel on a mound, which was a significant part of the early urbanization. This chapel was the precursor and core of the Oude Kerk (Gawronski 2012).
Amsterdam’s first urban development plan in 1390 was set in motion by the creation of the city hall in the central square which is now part of Dam Square. The establishment of city hall placed governmental power right at the heart of the city. These new developments lead to expansions of the Oude Kerk and also the city council taking the lead on founding the Nieuwe Kerk in 1408. In those times, a town in Medieval Holland with more than one parish church was rare (Gawronski 2012), but this serves to illustrate how religion, city development, and the government were intertwined from the very early beginnings, and how the significance of the urban center as both a governmental and economic hub was taken a step further to have a religious function as well. The church represented the entire city as both the clergy and the city government sought new ways of collective worship, and citizens and political elites had increasingly more contact with the parish church (Gawronski 2012).
In 1389 Het Begijnhof developed as a complex of houses around a courtyard on the Spui for pious women called ‘Beguines’. This development led to the emergence of monasteries which was yet another indication of the city’s bourgeoning religious prosperity (Gawronski 2012). With the support of the economic elite, the first monasteries were founded in Amsterdam, one of the first being the Oude Nonnenklooster (The Old Nunnery) in 1393 located at what is now the Oudemanhuispoort. To further illustrate Amsterdam’s religious developments, by 1425 there were fourteen additional monasteries; they often started out as regular houses and gradually grew into more extensive complexes with their own communal chapels, dormitories, dining areas, as well as their own bakeries, gardens and stables for livestock (Gawronski 2012). The new convents were primarily located in the east side of town, and took up quite a bit of the neighborhood, much of what is now the Red Light District. Amsterdam in the 1400s saw a great movement of religion and modern devotion, especially with the foundation of religious fraternities for the purposes of sharing religious values as well as for social control (Gawronski 2012). Religious fraternities were also associated with charity and hospitals, where this way the civic system and religion became even further connected.
By the early 16th century there were a total of twenty-one monasteries, most of
which were on the East side of the city and took up roughly 20% of the new urban area (Gawronski 2012). By this time however, monasteries in the city had begun to change and serve different functions. While previously they were socially oriented and meant to serve devotional purposes, the early 16th century
saw that some monasteries had begun to serve status and business purposes for the elite (Gawronski 2012). Gawronski notes that religion in 16th century
Amsterdam was not so much representative of a collective spiritual ideal as it once was, and religion had begun to become intertwined with both secular and commercial interests.
3.1.1. Revolt
Financial and moral abuses in the Catholic Church, among other things, began to put religious countermovements into motion. Medieval religious solidarity was challenged as Protestants and Calvinists advanced religious diversity. A series of religious conflicts led up to the Dutch Revolt including the Beeldenstorm, a Calvinist-led iconoclastic crusade in 1566. Ultimately the 1568 removal of Stadholder Willem van Oranje caused the Revolt against the Spanish Habsburg Empire which lasted 80 years, and came to an end in 1648 with the Peace of Münster, which affirmed Spain's acknowledgment of Dutch autonomy. Shipping
Sculpture with faces of both Christ and Mary damaged probably during the iconoclastic riots of 1566 or Alteration in 1578. Excavated at the convent of St. Gertruid, the mutilated sculpture was buried between the graves of the nuns. Image from Gawronski (2012)
and trade were severely influenced by the revolt however, which debilitated the city's economy. In 1572, cities in Holland and Zeeland declared war on their own governments and the economies of Holland, Zeeland, and Amsterdam were disrupted even further by the blockaded waterways and military actions by the rebels. Amsterdam was initially one of only a handful of cities to stay independent and loyal to the Catholic Church and king but that changed with the Alteration, as Amsterdam removed the Catholic government in favor of a Protestant one. This religious administration change was a defining moment for Amsterdam politically, socially and economically at which point shipping and trade were recovered and so was the city’s position as an economic center of northwestern Europe.
12 Amsterdam Reformed churches: 1. Oude Kerk; 2. Nieuwe Kerk; 3. Oudezijds Kapel; 4. Nieuwezijds Kapel; 5. Zuiderkerk; 6. Oosterkerk; 7. Noorderkerk; 8. Westerkerk; 9. Eilandskerk; 10. Amstelkerk; 11. Walenkerk; 12. Engels Presbyteriaanse Kerk. 1826 ca. t/m 1830. Image from Gemeente Amsterdam Stadsarchief
“How was it possible that so many had supported a Revolt that time and again had proved detrimental to their Church? Why had Catholics throughout the seventeen Netherlandish provinces stood by as iconoclasts destroyed their churches in 1566? How could Catholics in 1572 Holland and Zeeland have welcomed rebel armies into their cities, which proceeded to exile their priests, requisition all their places of worship and declare their religion illegal? Why had Catholics in Brabant and Flanders, from 1576 onwards, worked together with the likes of William of Orange, and why had they allowed Calvinists to turn a score of cities into Reformed theocracies?” (Pollmann 2011: 1)
It is important to consider that the revolt would not have been possible without the help of the Catholics who were the majority and what this says about religious identity. Even while worship was banned and priests were exiled, Catholic believers were seemingly very passive and did very little to stop any of it (Pollmann 2011). Some argue that Dutch Catholics were indifferent believers, were not very devoted, or perhaps were drifting to the Protestant position themselves, but this does not explain the subsequent Catholic revival (Pollmann 2011). Although Protestant actors appear to be the clear agents of religious change in these events, we must not dismiss the agency of Catholic believers and their choices in order to fully understand the meaning of religious change.
3.1.2. Alteration
In 1578, Amsterdam’s local government experienced a revolution called the Alteration. The Catholic city chamber was ousted from office and power was with the Protestants. Aside from vandalism at the Oude Kerk, the Nieuwe Kerk, the Kapel ter Heilige Stede among others, the takeover was not violent. “In hindsight, it was not really a spontaneous revolution with religious Protestant motives, it was far more organized and had an undeniable tinge of economic reform, as seen by the new government's immediate act of awarding seats to entrepreneurs who were active in trade,” (Gawronski 2016). When the Protestant
Representations of hidden Roman Catholic churches and institutions in Amsterdam by J.L. van Beek and C. van Waardt 1829 ca. t/m 1830 ca. Image from Gemeente Amsterdam Stadsarchief
organization assumed control, urban business was flooded with merchants. It is significant that the Catholic city council was replaced by a new group whose main goal was trade.
Catholic worship was banned by 1581 and if priests were caught giving mass they faced the possibility of arrest, fines, or expulsion. Many people remained Catholic, but they practiced in schuilkerken, hidden churches, which were typically located in homes. Between 1625-1700 there were upwards of 25 clandestine churches and they remained in use throughout the 18th century. No
one was forced to join the Reformed church and people were granted freedom of conscience. Perhaps a reason for the moderate stance towards Catholics was the need to keep the support of the Catholic majority for the war effort and also the desire of the ruling elites’ to retain Calvinist social control (Pollmann 2011). After the city council was removed in 1795, urban religious limitations were lifted and Catholics could publicly practice again. A Catholic church replaced the hidden church the Duif (Dove) on the Prinsengracht as early as 1796 and after that more new or renovated churches began to appear in the city.
3.2. Secularization
To introduce the subject of secularization, I will attempt to build on the classical sociological theory of Max Weber and Emile Durkheim. It is my belief that their contributions are useful in understanding the connection that lies between individuals and society that will allow us to critically examine modern social problems and social change.
Durkheim (1893) looked as social structure and cohesion, asserting that the religious ties that once bonded society in a ‘mechanical’ form of solidarity can no longer be assumed. Rather, in a modern society, ‘organic’ solidarity will emerge out of people’s divisions, and thus different forms of common beliefs will operate to bond the collective. In Weber’s The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of
society. In Weber’s line of thinking there are three key processes associated with modernity and the rise of capitalism: rationalization, secularization, and disenchantment. He defines rationalization as the process of replacing traditional values of society with beliefs that are more rational. Secularization is the process when religion begins to lose its authority, as a byproduct of rationalization and modernization. And disenchantment is the opposition of traditional systems in a process of cultural rationalization and scientific advancement. For Weber the spirit of capitalism is the rational pursuit for economic gain, and the Protestant ethic is the Protestant rejection of the Roman Catholic church’s assurances of salvation, by looking for other signs.
Secularization may be defined on multiple levels of society (Knippenberg 1998): on a macro level it is the diminishing importance of religion in society, and on a micro or individual level as the diminishing reference to the supernatural or sacred. Non-denomination may be defined as not belonging to any church, generally following the process of secularization (Knippenberg 1998).
According to a 2016 study, 62.2% of the city of Amsterdam claims to have no religious affiliation, which is a lot higher than the figures are nationwide (CBS 2016). From an international perspective, one of the most secularized countries in Western Europe is the Netherlands. Based on the 1991 study, belief in God in the Netherlands was at 50%, and in Norway it was 53%, while church membership in the Netherlands was 44% and in Norway it was 94%. The disparity has a lot to do with church registration traditions. In Scandinavian countries, newborns are automatically registered to the Lutheran church, which is the State Church, so while church membership may be high, the same cannot be said for belief (Knippenberg 1998). This makes for a good comparison with the Netherlands where church belonging is a conscious choice. Embedded in a history of Catholic and Protestant conflict, the Netherlands has tackled religious diversity for centuries, thus requiring a certain sense of religious consciousness (Knippenberg 1998).
3.2.1. Historical Trends
Knippenberg (1998) studied non-denomination in the Netherlands based on religious census data, starting from the first religious census that took place in 1809. In 1809 only 295 persons of the 2.2 million population indicated that they were not members of a church. Seventy years later, non-church members rose to 12,000 persons out of a population of 4 million in 1879. In 1930, 100,000 persons registered as non-church members out of a 1.1 million population. Non-denomination continued to rise, and from 1960s on, non-Non-denomination increased much more quickly. To explain these increases, many tend to focus on the modernization of society; in modern society economic, political, and cultural life was more served by institutions, leading to the church’s loss of societal function.
From the 1930s to about the 1960s secularization slowed but did not come to a halt. Dutch society saw a period of verzuiling, which translates literally to pillarization, and was characterized by the segmentation of society based on culture in which elites from each pillar cooperated politically. The four pillars making up the Dutch state were Roman Catholic, (Orthodox-) Protestant, Socialist, and lastly general or liberal which was composed of persons not belonging to the previous categories.
“Living in a verzuilde (pillarized) society meant that a Catholic married a Catholic boy or girl, sent his/her children to a Catholic school, listened to the programs of a Catholic broadcasting corporation, read a Catholic newspaper, rented a house from a Catholic housing association, was a member of a Catholic trade union, got Catholic medical attendance, voted for a Catholic political party, and was buried ultimately on a Catholic cemetery by a Catholic undertaker. The same holds true for a (Orthodox-) Protestant and, to a lesser extent, for a socialist.” (Knippernberg 1998: 211)
However, the 1960s saw a considerable increase in secularization that resulted in prompting the ontzuiling, or depillarization. Geographic mobility, media, and higher education, resulted in a society that was becoming more individualized
and critical of traditional values. However, Knippenberg (1998) notes that while mass resignation from the Catholic Church occurred in the 1960s, resignation from the left wing of the Dutch Reformed of the Dutch Protestant church had already begun in the end of the 19th century. Meanwhile, the right wing of the
Dutch Reformed church, as well as the Orthodox Calvinist church that seceded from the Dutch Protestant church in the 19th century, underwent less resignation.
3.2.2. Geographical Perspective
The different denominations had a particular geographic distribution, which can be traced back to the end of the 16th century to the 80-year Revolt against the
Spanish. During the revolt there was a twelve-year cease-fire from 1609-1621 in which the military frontline determined a border between Protestants and Catholics. The Spanish troops controlled the area south of the frontline, and all Protestants in that area were forced to become Catholic or leave, pushing many Protestants from the South of the Netherlands up to the North and making the southeastern part of the country almost homogeneously Catholic.
In the North however there was freedom of religion, although Catholics were not meant to practice openly and the Dutch Reformed Church’s predecessor the Calvinist Church had a privileged position (Knippenberg 1998). The geographic distribution of church denominations thus bears great impact on geographic resignations from the church that are becoming increasingly evident. Because church resignation was primarily a Protestant phenomenon until well into the 20th century, this also meant that it occurred primarily in the northern and
3.2.3. Social Perspective
Radicalism and resignation within the Dutch Reformed Church were also stimulated by social conflicts, primarily between liberals and fundamentalists (Knippenberg 1998). While the upper class tended to be more liberal, the lower class was more orthodox. These differences only pushed people further into separate denominations: orthodox-Protestantism on the right versus socialism
Roman Catholic Dutch Reformed
Protestant Church in the Netherlands (PKN) Reformed Churches
or ultimate non-denominationalism on the left. The northern and northwestern parts of the Netherlands, especially in the larger cities, tended to be the more socialist and liberal parts of the country as well, and by the 1970s often more than half of the populations in theses cities did not belong to any church (Knippenberg 1998). As mentioned previously, ontzuilng or depilllarization that had truly gained traction in the 1960s among Catholics, revealed itself further as non-denomination was already well underway among Protestants by this time.
3.2.4. Counter-movements
Although secularization has been the ongoing trend as discussed above, there are a few “counter-movements” namely, immigration to the Netherlands by people of non-Christian religious backgrounds and also a religious revival in the Protestant community. Despite the increased secularization in the 1960s experienced by Christian denominations, this period also saw an influx of foreign immigrants predominantly from Muslim countries such as Turkey and Morocco, and many others (Knippernberg 1998). The religious revival, known as the ‘evangelical movement’ gained strength in the 1950s and could be interpreted as a response to the widespread secularization that was ongoing. Knippenberg (1998) describes the Dutch evangelical movement as “characterized by a Calvinist orthodoxy, being averse to modern ideas, that interfere with the absolute authority of the Bible,” however their recruitment is not of non-denominationalists and consists primarily of people who already belong to the Orthodox-Protestant church (Knippenberg 1998: 218).
3.3. Dutch Heritage Perspective
While there have been initiatives towards a European heritage and identity, each European nation state has their own perspectives and means of dealing with archaeology and heritage. The Dutch system is decentralized changing the hierarchy between national, provincial, and local systems. As it is now, local
municipal authorities have the most influence regarding archaeological investigation and heritage, taking charge of decision-making and responsibility that was once in the hands of universities or the cultural heritage agency. While local authorities are tasked with the zoning plans for archaeological research prior to development and construction as well as the protection of sites, the Dutch system also had to open its doors to private companies in order to keep up with the rate of development.
Kristiansen (2009) describes the Dutch archaeological approach as a capitalist model as opposed to a socialist model, and compares it to the archaeological system of the UK, but van den Dries (2011) is critical of this analysis, explaining that although there are stakeholders involved, private parties who want to carry out development projects must still be approved by the municipalities and thus the local authorities are in control of the situation. van den Dries (2011) also argues that the Dutch system gives preference to the local community over the academic community. The Dutch system of dealing with archaeology and heritage is often seen as a success story in implementing legislation and putting it into practice. The Netherlands along with the UK, according to Willems and van de Dries (2007) probably have some of the most extensive standards and guidelines in terms of quality management, but we must also look at this in the context of two countries where commercial activity is also largely represented.
3.3.1. Evolution of Heritage Management
“Hundreds of churches and monasteries are being demolished or sold to healthcare companies or property developers, inner city industrial sites are being investigated to see what potential they hold for the city, military barracks are being transformed into residential developments, military sites are being ‘given back’ to nature, old border control facilities are being reused for recreational purposes and urban post offices are closing. These radical transformations have put heritage management and the design disciplines on the alert. What is the ideal balance between permanence and change?” (Janssen, Luiten, Renes, & Rouwendal, 2014: 16)
