Memorials in time

Whilst the general election was going on in Britain, I was in the USA. It just so happened-and this wasn't planned- that I was in Washington DC at the time of the unveiling of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, the latest of its monuments. Walking round this modernist shrine to one of this century's most remarkable men, set me thinking about the whole question of monuments. Why do people build them? What do they hope to achieve by means of them and how is this done? These are not idle questions for they go to the core of my work researching the meaning behind the pyramids of Egypt and other monuments from bygone ages. All of these structures were at one time new. The reason that we today still find them interesting is that it was the intention of their builders that they should carry a message to future generations-future civilizations even-about what their builders considered important.

When the pharaohs constructed the pyramids they doubtless wanted to impress their contemporaries but even more their descendants. They were not the only ones. It is recorded that when the Emperor Justinian saw for the first time his completed masterpiece, the cathedral of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, he remarked 'now Soloman I have surpassed thee'. This says something else about monuments: they, or rather their builders, are members of an exclusive club. Justinian's Hagia Sophia, one of the most remarkable buildings in the world, did indeed surpass the Temple of Soloman. It still sends out a powerful message to the world of the need to honour wisdom as the mother of civilization. So strong is the innate sense of quality about this building that even when Constantinople fell to the Turks in 1453, far from demolishing it as the ultimate symbol of the Christian faith, Sultan Mehmet II had it turned into a mosque. The values the building expressed being universal, the space it occupied continued to be considered holy. It's influence on the development of Ottoman civilization can be seen clearly in the nearby Blue Mosque, meaning that the values expressed by Soloman in his Jerusalem temple were still working their magic.

The new monument to Roosevelt, though not on the scale of a Byzantine cathedral or an Egyptian pyramid, also carries references to the past and a clear message for the future. Constructed for the most part out of rough-cut, red granite, it greatly resembles an Egyptian temple. This is no doubt deliberate, for it is arranged in the form of a series of open air rooms-one for each of his presidential terms-leading up to an 'inner sanctum' and his 'cult' statue. This temple to a modern hero tells the story, in symbolic fashion, of FDR's life, career, aspirations and achievements. Above all it proclaims his values. With inscribed quotes from his speeches, figurative bronze statues and symbolic water-falls, the monument delivers not only a lesson in twentieth century history but a lecture on civilisation.

That it is not always possible to stick rigidly to your stated values is emphasised by a nice touch in the third room, possibly the climax of the whole monument. At the end of a long inscription on a wall, a peon to pacifism, are the words: 'I hate war'. Yet by the wall are scattered blocks of the same granite, reminiscent of the collapsed facing stones of the Menkaura Pyramid. Two of these blocks carry the same exclamation: 'I hate war'. The lesson is clear to anyone with a knowledge of history. Franklin D. Roosevelt, though elected on an pacifist ticket, eventually found it necessary to take America into the Second World War to defend the ideals for which he believed the nation stood. He had to go against his own peace-loving principles in defence of civilization in Europe and that meant the death of a great many Americans. The scattered blocks on the ground represent his shattered dreams for peace. It was for me a powerful message and one that goes well beyond the usual platitudes and eulogies. What Justinian would have made of such a statement I don't know but it seems worthy of projecting into the future.

Back home in Britain, I realised we have all but given up on monuments other than the occasional statue or plaque. We overdosed on memorials in the aftermath of the Great War, when cenotaphs to fallen heroes sprang up in every town square and village green. Perhaps because we are thus constantly reminded of the enormous cost of freedom in terms of wasted lives, we are cynical about heroes and their values. I could not imagine us building a shrine in Hyde Park to Winston Churchill and his values, still less to Neville Chamberlain. In America there is no such cynicism and there new monuments still perform a function as foci for collective vision and reappraisal of the past. In this sense America speaks a language that Khufu and Justinian would have understood. Welcome to the club Franklin.

Article first published in "Quest" magazine Vol.1 issue 4.

© Adrian G. Gilbert 1997.