What we need to keep

IN one of last Sunday's newspapers, a spokesman for An Taisce lamented the change of use for a house in Dublin's Parnell Square…

IN one of last Sunday's newspapers, a spokesman for An Taisce lamented the change of use for a house in Dublin's Parnell Square. "We should capitalise on the grandeur and charm of Georgian buildings," he was quoted as saying, "rather than turning them into apartments." In another paper on the same day, investors were advised that Japanese manufactured toys from the 1950s and 1960s are now well worth buying as collectors' items.

Nothing seems to link these two disparate items, but according to David Lowenthal's thesis, they are both representative of the current global obsession with heritage. It is certainly true that heritage is now a much employed term, often called into service by opposing forces because frequent usage has largely debased its meaning.

And yet the cult of heritage, particularly in its widespread application, is relatively new. The very notion scarcely existed before the late 18th century when the earliest advocates of the Romantic movement first began to find the past more alluring than their present. Lowenthal points out that when the original St Peter's in Rome was razed in the 16th century, no one felt the necessity to campaign for its retention. But by the middle of the last century, the mania for preservation had already become so great that after a day in the British Museum, Hawthorne could complain: "The world is accumulating too many materials for knowledge . . . we do not recognise for rubbish what is really rubbish."

What might he make of the present era, in which some 95 per cent of the world's museums date from the past fifty years? Lowenthal traces the origin of contemporary heritage enthusiasm to the early 1980s when what had been essentially a Western concern started to spread across the world, aided by the involvement of such bodies as UNESCO and the phenomenal growth of tourism. From being the interest of a small elite - members of An Taisce, it used to be said, were people who couldn't even pronounce the organisation's name correctly - heritage has spread its net and now usually describes almost anything which someone, somewhere believes worthy of preservation. "I do love pigs," says an English breeder, "but after all pigs are part of our heritage."

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Lowenthal excellently demonstrates just how extensive the heritage industry has become of late, running from old master paintings to pop paraphernalia. Heritage may now be invoked as a sacred totem overruling all other arguments; only the philistine, seemingly, would dare dispute its merits, since according to general consensus these are self evident.

"To neglect heritage is a cardinal sin," writes Lowenthal, "to invoke it a national duty." He repeats the joke which asks how many preservationists it takes to change a light bulb. For readers unfamiliar with this adage, the answer is four: one to change the bulb, one to document the event, and two to lament the passing of the old bulb. The heritage squad exists in a constant state of crisis, rushing from one job of salvation to the next, forever on the lookout for potential disasters. "Hurry. The bulldozers are coming," America's National Trust warned in 1970. "Historic buildings are falling. The best of our past is being sacrificed."

Heritage is usually preserved for the benefit of future generations but this can result in the kind of absurdities witnessed at Stonehenge and, increasingly, Newgrange. The former is now fenced off, inaccessible (an interpretive centre deemed to be just as satisfactory for visitors to the site) and heavily guarded against intruders during the summer solstice. The possibility of natural deterioration must be avoided if at all possible. Thus, for example, in one of the Tate Gallery's exhibitions at the moment, a label beside work by Joseph Beuys speaks of the artist's interest in change and decay, while the piece in question is preserved under glass and large signs warn that touching anything in the show: "even with clean hands" could cause damage.

While heritage was once essentially a private concern, today it has become a collective responsibility. "To own part of the nation's heritage is not an absolute liberty," pronounced an editorial in the Times in 1995: In part, this explains why everything, not just; the collections of newly impoverished aristocrats, may now be classified as heritage. All possessions are equally and indiscriminately judged deserving of attention and preservation, so, for example, the archives of each new American president surpass that of all his predecessors combined.

Lowenthal correctly makes much of the difference between heritage and history. Both are equally and irredeemably partisan, but to the dismay of most historians, heritage is much more overt in the display of its prejudices, more inclined to accentuate current interests and preoccupations than those of the past which is being "saved". As a rule heritage tends towards local or national bias is overly reliant on emotional appeal rather than reasoned argument, and, despite seeming to have no interests other than those of later generations, is actually deeply in thrall to the international tourist industry.

It is a pity this book spends so little time; investigating the origins of the present heritage movement; rapid technological change and mass migration over the course of the century are two reasons cited. Andy Lowenthal's desire to demonstrate the impressive scale of his sources leads to an unhelpful verbosity. But given the paucity of debate in this area - discounting all repetitive spats between preservationists and developers - any work which might assist in a discussion on the nature of heritage rather than unconsidered acceptance of its merits must be given a welcome.