This collaborative project shares creative propositions for the future development of Devonport village on Auckland’s North Shore, from an overall masterplan and individual sites worked up in models and visualisations. Led by Devonport locals Julie Stout (Te Kāhui Whaihanga New Zealand Institute of Architects gold medal recipient) and architect Ken Davis, this exhibition features the work of 18 Architecture Masters students from the University of Auckland School of Architecture and Planning. Urban Adaptations – Devonport TomorrowWednesday 16 July – Sunday 27 July 2025 Exhibition opening: Wednesday 16 July at 3 Victoria Road, 6pm to 8pmVenue: Depot Artspace, 3 Victoria Road, DevonportUrban Adaptations – Devonport Tomorrow dovetails with the exhibition/installation Building (Under the Volcano) at the Whare Toi. This project is a collaboration between artist Richard Reddaway (Massey University College of Creative Arts), designer and architectural historian Kate Linzey (The Architectural Centre), and architect Matt Liggins and architecture students from the University of Auckland’s Bachelor of Architectural Studies. It explores suburban built environments and the genealogy of forms that constitute Te Hau Kapua Devonport to ponder relationships to the whenua, how we choose to create our homes and how different cultural understandings and expressions of home shape our suburban environment. Building (Under the Volcano)Monday 14 July – Saturday 19 July 2025The Depot’s Whare Toi, Kerr Street, Devonport   Public Programmes Architecture and urban development panel discussion, lectures and films at The Vic are planned over the duration of the exhibition (to be advised).

Barricades, as we know them today, are thought to date back to the European wars of religion. According to most historians, the first barricade went up in Paris in 1588; the word derives from the French barriques, or barrels, spontaneously put together. They have been assembled from the most diverse materials, from cobblestones, tyres, newspapers, dead horses and bags of ice (during Kyiv’s Euromaidan in 2013–14), to omnibuses and e‑scooters. Their tactical logic is close to that of guerrilla warfare: the authorities have to take the barricades in order to claim victory; all that those manning them have to do to prevail is to hold them.  The 19th century was the golden age for blocking narrow, labyrinthine streets. Paris had seen barricades go up nine times in the period before the Second Empire; during the July 1830 Revolution alone, 4,000 barricades had been erected (roughly one for every 200 Parisians). These barricades would not only stop, but also trap troops; people would then throw stones from windows or pour boiling water onto the streets. Georges‑Eugène Haussmann, Napoleon III’s prefect of Paris, famously created wide boulevards to make blocking by barricade more difficult and moving the military easier, and replaced cobblestones with macadam – a surface of crushed stone. As Flaubert observed in his Dictionary of Accepted Ideas: ‘Macadam: has cancelled revolutions. No more means to make barricades. Nevertheless rather inconvenient.’   Lead image: Barricades, as we know them today, are thought to have originated in early modern France. A colour engraving attributed to Achille‑Louis Martinet depicts the defence of a barricade during the 1830 July Revolution. Credit: Paris Musées / Musée Carnavalet – Histoire de Paris. Above: the socialist political thinker and activist Louis Auguste Blanqui – who was imprisoned by every regime that ruled France between 1815 and 1880 – drew instructions for how to build an effective barricade Under Napoleon III, Baron Haussmann widened Paris’s streets in his 1853–70 renovation of the city, making barricading more difficult Credit: Old Books Images / Alamy ‘On one hand, [the authorities] wanted to favour the circulation of ideas,’ reactionary intellectual Louis Veuillot observed apropos the ambiguous liberalism of the latter period of Napoleon III’s Second Empire. ‘On the other, to ensure the circulation of regiments.’ But ‘anti‑insurgency hardware’, as Justinien Tribillon has called it, also served to chase the working class out of the city centre: Haussmann’s projects amounted to a gigantic form of real-estate speculation, and the 1871 Paris Commune that followed constituted not just a short‑lived anarchist experiment featuring enormous barricades; it also signalled the return of the workers to the centre and, arguably, revenge for their dispossession.    By the mid‑19th century, observers questioned whether barricades still had practical meaning. Gottfried Semper’s barricade, constructed for the 1849 Dresden uprising, had proved unconquerable, but Friedrich Engels, one‑time ‘inspector of barricades’ in the Elberfeld insurrection of the same year, already suggested that the barricades’ primary meaning was now moral rather than military – a point to be echoed by Leon Trotsky in the subsequent century. Barricades symbolised bravery and the will to hold out among insurrectionists, and, not least, determination rather to destroy one’s possessions – and one’s neighbourhood – than put up with further oppression.   Not only self‑declared revolutionaries viewed things this way: the reformist Social Democrat leader Eduard Bernstein observed that ‘the barricade fight as a political weapon of the people has been completely eliminated due to changes in weapon technology and cities’ structures’. Bernstein was also picking up on the fact that, in the era of industrialisation, contention happened at least as much on the factory floor as on the streets. The strike, not the food riot or the defence of workers’ quartiers, became the paradigmatic form of conflict. Joshua Clover has pointed out in his 2016 book Riot. Strike. Riot: The New Era of Uprisings, that the price of labour, rather than the price of goods, caused people to confront the powerful. Blocking production grew more important than blocking the street. ‘The only weapons we have are our bodies, and we need to tuck them in places so wheels don’t turn’ Today, it is again blocking – not just people streaming along the streets in large marches – that is prominently associated with protests. Disrupting circulation is not only an important gesture in the face of climate emergency; blocking transport is a powerful form of protest in an economic system focused on logistics and just‑in‑time distribution. Members of Insulate Britain and Germany’s Last Generation super‑glue themselves to streets to stop car traffic to draw attention to the climate emergency; they have also attached themselves to airport runways. They form a human barricade of sorts, immobilising traffic by making themselves immovable.   Today’s protesters have made themselves consciously vulnerable. They in fact follow the advice of US civil rights’ Bayard Rustin who explained: ‘The only weapons we have are our bodies, and we need to tuck them in places so wheels don’t turn.’ Making oneself vulnerable might increase the chances of a majority of citizens seeing the importance of the cause which those engaged in civil disobedience are pursuing. Demonstrations – even large, unpredictable ones – are no longer sufficient. They draw too little attention and do not compel a reaction. Naomi Klein proposed the term ‘blockadia’ as ‘a roving transnational conflict zone’ in which people block extraction – be it open‑pit mines, fracking sites or tar sands pipelines – with their bodies. More often than not, these blockades are organised by local people opposing the fossil fuel industry, not environmental activists per se. Blockadia came to denote resistance to the Keystone XL pipeline as well as Canada’s First Nations‑led movement Idle No More. In cities, blocking can be accomplished with highly mobile structures. Like the barricade of the 19th century, they can be quickly assembled, yet are difficult to move; unlike old‑style barricades, they can also be quickly disassembled, removed and hidden (by those who have the engineering and architectural know‑how). Think of super tripods, intricate ‘protest beacons’ based on tensegrity principles, as well as inflatable cobblestones, pioneered by the artist‑activists of Tools for Action (and as analysed in Nick Newman’s recent volume Protest Architecture).   As recently as 1991, newly independent Latvia defended itself against Soviet tanks with the popular construction of barricades, in a series of confrontations that became known as the Barikādes Credit: Associated Press / Alamy Inversely, roadblocks can be used by police authorities to stop demonstrations and gatherings from taking place – protesters are seen removing such infrastructure in Dhaka during a general strike in 1999 Credit: REUTERS / Rafiqur Rahman / Bridgeman These inflatable objects are highly flexible, but can also be protective against police batons. They pose an awkward challenge to the authorities, who often end up looking ridiculous when dealing with them, and, as one of the inventors pointed out, they are guaranteed to create a media spectacle. This was also true of the 19th‑century barricade: people posed for pictures in front of them. As Wolfgang Scheppe, a curator of Architecture of the Barricade (currently on display at the Arsenale Institute for Politics of Representation in Venice), explains, these images helped the police to find Communards and mete out punishments after the end of the anarchist experiment. Much simpler structures can also be highly effective. In 2019, protesters in Hong Kong filled streets with little archways made from just three ordinary bricks: two standing upright, one resting on top. When touched, the falling top one would buttress the other two, and effectively block traffic. In line with their imperative of ‘be water’, protesters would retreat when the police appeared, but the ‘mini‑Stonehenges’ would remain and slow down the authorities. Today, elaborate architectures of protest, such as Extinction Rebellion’s ‘tensegrity towers’, are used to blockade roads and distribution networks – in this instance, Rupert Murdoch’s News UK printworks in Broxbourne, for the media group’s failure to report the climate emergency accurately Credit: Extinction Rebellion In June 2025, protests erupted in Los Angeles against the Trump administration’s deportation policies. Demonstrators barricaded downtown streets using various objects, including the pink public furniture designed by design firm Rios for Gloria Molina Grand Park. LAPD are seen advancing through tear gas Credit: Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times via Getty Images Roads which radicals might want to target are not just ones in major metropoles and fancy post‑industrial downtowns. Rather, they might block the arteries leading to ‘fulfilment centres’ and harbours with container shipping. The model is not only Occupy Wall Street, which had initially called for the erection of ‘peaceful barricades’, but also the Occupy that led to the Oakland port shutdown in 2011. In short, such roadblocks disrupt what Phil Neel has called a ‘hinterland’ that is often invisible, yet crucial for contemporary capitalism. More recently, Extinction Rebellion targeted Amazon distribution centres in three European countries in November 2021; in the UK, they aimed to disrupt half of all deliveries on a Black Friday.   Will such blockades just anger consumers who, after all, are not present but are impatiently waiting for packages at home? One of the hopes associated with the traditional barricade was always that they might create spaces where protesters, police and previously indifferent citizens get talking; French theorists even expected them to become ‘a machine to produce the people’. That could be why military technology has evolved so that the authorities do not have to get close to the barricade: tear gas was first deployed against those on barricades before it was used in the First World War; so‑called riot control vehicles can ever more easily crush barricades. The challenge, then, for anyone who wishes to block is also how to get in other people’s faces – in order to have a chance to convince them of their cause.        2025-06-11 Kristina Rapacki Share

In 2024, Egypt completed its 1,155km stretch of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway, a 10,228km‑long road connecting 10 African countries – Egypt, Sudan, South Sudan, Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana and South Africa.   The imaginary of ‘Cape to Cairo’ is not new. In 1874, editor of the Daily Telegraph Edwin Arnold proposed a plan to connect the African continent by rail, a project that came to be known as the Cape to Cairo Railway project. Cecil Rhodes expressed his support for the project, seeing it as a means to connect the various ‘possessions’ of the British Empire across Africa, facilitating the movement of troops and natural resources. This railway project was never completed, and in 1970 was overlaid by a very different attempt at connecting the Cape to Cairo, as part of the Trans‑African Highway network. This 56,683km‑long system of highways – some dating from the colonial era, some built as part of the 1970s project, and some only recently built – aimed to create lines of connection across the African continent, from north to south as well as east to west.  Here, postcolonial state power invested in ‘moving the continent’s people and economies from past to future’, as architectural historians Kenny Cupers and Prita Meier write in their 2020 essay ‘Infrastructure between Statehood and Selfhood: The Trans‑African Highway’. The highways were to be built with the support of Kenya’s president Jomo Kenyatta, Ghana’s president Kwame Nkrumah and Ghana’s director of social welfare Robert Gardiner, as well as the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa (UNECA). This project was part of a particular historical moment during which anticolonial ideas animated most of the African continent; alongside trade, this iteration of Cape to Cairo centred social and cultural connection between African peoples. But though largely socialist in ambition, the project nevertheless engaged modernist developmentalist logics that cemented capitalism.  Lead image: Over a century in the making, the final stretches of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway are being finished. Egypt completed the section within its borders last year and a section over the dry Merille River in Kenya was constructed in 2019. Credit: Allan Muturi / SOPA / ZUMA / Alamy. Above: The route from Cairo to Cape Town, outlined in red, belongs to the Trans‑African Highway network, which comprises nine routes, here in black The project failed to fully materialise at the time, but efforts to complete the Trans‑African Highway network have been revived in the last 20 years; large parts are now complete though some links remain unbuilt and many roads are unpaved or hazardous. The most recent attempts to realise this project coincide with a new continental free trade agreement, the agreement on African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA), established in 2019, to increase trade within the continent. The contemporary manifestation of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway – also known as Trans‑African Highway (TAH) 4 – is marked by deepening neoliberal politics. Represented as an opportunity to boost trade and exports, connecting Egypt to African markets that the Egyptian government view as ‘untapped’, the project invokes notions of trade steeped in extraction, reflecting the neoliberal logic underpinning contemporary Egyptian governance; today, the country’s political project, led by Abdel Fattah El Sisi, is oriented towards Egyptian dominance and extraction in relation to the rest of the continent.  Through an allusion to markets ripe for extraction, this language brings to the fore historical forms of domination that have shaped the connections between Egypt and the rest of the continent; previous iterations of connection across the continent often reproduced forms of domination stretching from the north of the African continent to the south, including the Trans‑Saharan slave trade routes across Africa that ended in various North African and Middle Eastern territories. These networks, beginning in the 8th century and lasting until the 20th, produced racialised hierarchies across the continent, shaping North Africa into a comparably privileged space proximate to ‘Arabness’. This was a racialised division based on a civilisational narrative that saw Arabs as superior, but more importantly a political economic division resulting from the slave trade routes that produced huge profits for North Africa and the Middle East. In the contemporary moment, these racialised hierarchies are bound up in political economic dependency on the Arab Gulf states, who are themselves dependent on resource extraction, land grabbing and privatisation across the entire African continent.  ‘The Cairo–Cape Town Highway connects Egypt to African markets viewed as “untapped”, invoking notions steeped in extraction’ However, this imaginary conjured by the Cairo–Cape Town Highway is countered by a network of streets scattered across Africa that traces the web of Egyptian Pan‑African solidarity across the continent. In Lusaka in Zambia, you might find yourself on Nasser Road, as you might in Mwanza in Tanzania or Luanda in Angola. In Mombasa in Kenya, you might be driving down Abdel Nasser Road; in Kampala in Uganda, you might find yourself at Nasser Road University; and in Tunis in Tunisia, you might end up on Gamal Abdel Nasser Street. These street names are a reference to Gamal Abdel Nasser, Egypt’s first postcolonial leader and president between 1956 and 1970.  Read against the contemporary Cairo–Cape Town Highway, these place names signal a different form of connection that brings to life Egyptian Pan‑Africanism, when solidarity was the hegemonic force connecting the continent, coming up against the notion of a natural or timeless ‘great divide’ within Africa. From the memoirs of Egyptian officials who were posted around Africa as conduits of solidarity, to the broadcasts of Radio Cairo that were heard across the continent, to the various conferences attended by anticolonial movements and postcolonial states, Egypt’s orientation towards Pan‑Africanism, beginning in the early 20th century and lasting until the 1970s, was both material and ideological. Figures and movements forged webs of solidarity with their African comrades, imagining an Africa that was united through shared commitments to ending colonialism and capitalist extraction.  The route between Cape Town in South Africa and Cairo in Egypt has long occupied the colonial imaginary. In 1930, Margaret Belcher and Ellen Budgell made the journey, sponsored by car brand Morris and oil company Shell Credit: Fox Photos / Getty The pair made use of the road built by British colonisers in the 19th century, and which forms the basis for the current Cairo–Cape Town Highway. The road was preceded by the 1874 Cape to Cairo Railway project, which connected the colonies of the British Empire Credit: Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division This network of eponymous streets represents attempts to inscribe anticolonial power into the materiality of the city. Street‑naming practices are one way in which the past comes into the present, ‘weaving history into the geographic fabric of everyday life’, as geographer Derek Alderman wrote in his 2002 essay ‘Street Names as Memorial Arenas’. In this vein, the renaming of streets during decolonisation marked a practice of contesting the production of colonial space. In the newly postcolonial city, renaming was a way of ‘claiming the city back’, Alderman continues. While these changes may appear discursive, it is their embedding in material spaces, through signs and maps, that make the names come to life; place names become a part of the everyday through sharing addresses or giving directions. This quality makes them powerful; consciously or unconsciously, they form part of how the spaces of the city are navigated.  These are traces that were once part of a dominant historical narrative; yet when they are encountered in the present, during a different historical moment, they no longer act as expressions of power but instead conjure up a moment that has long passed. A street in Lusaka named after an Egyptian general made more sense 60 years ago than it does today, yet contextualising it recovers a marginalised history of Egyptian Pan‑Africanism.  Markers such as street names or monuments are simultaneously markers of anticolonial struggle as well as expressions of state power – part of an attempt, by political projects such as Nasser’s, to exert their own dominance over cities, towns and villages. That such traces are expressions of both anticolonial hopes and postcolonial state power produces a sense of tension within them. For instance, Nasser’s postcolonial project in Egypt was a contradictory one; it gave life to anticolonial hopes – for instance by breaking away from European capitalism and embracing anticolonial geopolitics – while crushing many parts of the left through repression, censorship and imprisonment. Traces of Nasser found today inscribe both anticolonial promises – those that came to life and those that did not – while reproducing postcolonial power that in most instances ended in dictatorship.  Recent efforts to complete the route build on those of the post‑independence era – work on a section north of Nairobi started in 1968 Credit: Associated Press / Alamy The Trans‑African Highway network was conceived in 1970 in the spirit of Pan‑Africanism At that time, the routes did not extend into South Africa, which was in the grip of apartheid. The Trans‑African Highway initiative was motivated by a desire to improve trade and centre cultural links across the continent – an ambition that was even celebrated on postage stamps There have been long‑standing debates about the erasure of the radical anticolonial spirit from the more conservative postcolonial states that emerged; the promises and hopes of anticolonialism, not least among them socialism and a world free of white supremacy, remain largely unrealised. Instead, by the 1970s neoliberalism emerged as a new hegemonic project. The contemporary instantiation of Cape to Cairo highlights just how pervasive neoliberal logics continue to be, despite multiple global financial crises and the 2011 Egyptian revolution demanding ‘bread, freedom, social justice’.  But the network of streets named after anticolonial figures and events across the world is testament to the immense power and promise of anticolonial revolution. Most of the 20th century was characterised by anticolonial struggle, decolonisation and postcolonial nation‑building, as nations across the global south gained independence from European empire and founded their own political projects. Anticolonial traces, present in street and place names, point to the possibility of solidarity as a means of reorienting colonial geographies. They are a reminder that there have been other imaginings of Cape to Cairo, and that things can be – and have been – otherwise. 2025-06-13 Kristina Rapacki Share

Meet Martha Swope, the Legendary Broadway Photographer Who Captured Iconic Moments From Hundreds of Productions and Rehearsals She spent nearly 40 years taking theater and dance pictures, providing glimpses behind the scenes and creating images that the public couldn’t otherwise access Stephanie Rudig - Freelance Writer June 11, 2025 Photographer Martha Swope sitting on a floor covered with prints of her photos in 1987 Andrea Legge / © NYPL Martha Swope wanted to be a dancer. She moved from her home state of Texas to New York to attend the School of American Ballet, hoping to start a career in dance. Swope also happened to be an amateur photographer. So, in 1957, a fellow classmate invited her to bring her camera and document rehearsals for a little theater show he was working on. The classmate was director and choreographer Jerome Robbins, and the show was West Side Story. One of those rehearsal shots ended up in Life magazine, and Swope quickly started getting professional bookings. It’s notoriously tough to make it on Broadway, but through photography, Swope carved out a career capturing theater and dance. Over the course of nearly four decades, she photographed hundreds more rehearsals, productions and promotional studio shots. Unidentified male chorus members dancing during rehearsals for musical West Side Story in 1957 Martha Swope / © NYPL At a time when live performances were not often or easily captured, Swope’s photographs caught the animated moments and distilled the essence of a show into a single image: André De Shields clad in a jumpsuit as the title character in The Wiz, Patti LuPone with her arms raised overhead in Evita, the cast of Cats leaping in feline formations, a close-up of a forlorn Sheryl Lee Ralph in Dreamgirls and the row of dancers obscuring their faces with their headshots in A Chorus Line were all captured by Swope’s camera. She was also the house photographer for the New York City Ballet and the Martha Graham Dance Company and photographed other major dance companies such as the Ailey School. Her vision of the stage became fairly ubiquitous, with Playbill reporting that in the late 1970s, two-thirds of Broadway productions were photographed by Swope, meaning her work dominated theater and dance coverage. Carol Rosegg was early in her photography career when she heard that Swope was looking for an assistant. “I didn't frankly even know who she was,” Rosegg says. “Then the press agent who told me said, ‘Pick up any New York Times and you’ll find out.’” Swope’s background as a dancer likely equipped her to press the shutter at the exact right moment to capture movement, and to know when everyone on stage was precisely posed. She taught herself photography and early on used a Brownie camera, a simple box model made by Kodak. “She was what she described as ‘a dancer with a Brownie,’” says Barbara Stratyner, a historian of the performing arts who curated exhibitions of Swope’s work at the New York Public Library. An ensemble of dancers in rehearsal for the stage production Cats in 1982 Martha Swope / © NYPL “Dance was her first love,” Rosegg says. “She knew everything about dance. She would never use a photo of a dancer whose foot was wrong; the feet had to be perfect.” According to Rosegg, once the photo subjects knew she was shooting, “the anxiety level came down a little bit.” They knew that they’d look good in the resulting photos, and they likely trusted her intuition as a fellow dancer. Swope moved with the bearing of a dancer and often stood with her feet in ballet’s fourth position while she shot. She continued to take dance classes throughout her life, including at the prestigious Martha Graham School. Stratyner says, “As Graham got older, [Swope] was, I think, the only person who was allowed to photograph rehearsals, because Graham didn’t want rehearsals shown.” Photographic technology and the theater and dance landscapes evolved greatly over the course of Swope’s career. Rosegg points out that at the start of her own career, cameras didn’t even automatically advance the film after each shot. She explains the delicate nature of working with film, saying, “When you were shooting film, you actually had to compose, because you had 35 shots and then you had to change your film.” Swope also worked during a period of changing over from all black-and-white photos to a mixture of black-and-white and color photography. Rosegg notes that simultaneously, Swope would shoot black-and-white, and she herself would shoot color. Looking at Swope’s portfolio is also an examination of increasingly crisp photo production. Advances in photography made shooting in the dark or capturing subjects under blinding stage lights easier, and they allowed for better zooming in from afar. Martha Graham rehearses dancer Takako Asakawa and others in Heretic, a dance work choreographed by Graham, in 1986 Martha Swope / © NYPL It’s much more common nowadays to get a look behind the curtain of theater productions via social media. “The theater photographers of today need to supply so much content,” Rosegg says. “We didn’t have any of that, and getting to go backstage was kind of a big deal.” Photographers coming to document a rehearsal once might have been seen as an intrusion, but now, as Rosegg puts it, “everybody is desperate for you to come, and if you’re not there, they’re shooting it on their iPhone.” Even with exclusive behind-the-scenes access to the hottest tickets in town and the biggest stars of the day, Swope remained unpretentious. She lived and worked in a brownstone with her apartment above her studio, where the film was developed in a closet and the bathroom served as a darkroom. Rosegg recalls that a phone sat in the darkroom so they could be reached while printing, and she would be amazed at the big-name producers and theater glitterati who rang in while she was making prints in an unventilated space. From left to right: Paul Winfield, Ruby Dee, Marsha Jackson and Denzel Washington in the stage production Checkmates in 1988 Martha Swope / © NYPL Swope’s approachability extended to how she chose to preserve her work. She originally sold her body of work to Time Life, and, according to Stratyner, she was unhappy with the way the photos became relatively inaccessible. She took back the rights to her collection and donated it to the New York Public Library, where many photos can be accessed by researchers in person, and the entire array of photos is available online to the public in the Digital Collections. Searching “Martha Swope” yields over 50,000 items from more than 800 productions, featuring a huge variety of figures, from a white-suited John Travolta busting a disco move in Saturday Night Fever to Andrew Lloyd Webber with Nancy Reagan at a performance of Phantom of the Opera. Swope’s extensive career was recognized in 2004 with a special Tony Award, a Tony Honors for Excellence in Theater, which are given intermittently to notable figures in theater who operate outside of traditional awards categories. She also received a lifetime achievement award from the League of Professional Theater Women in 2007. Though she retired in 1994 and died in 2017, her work still reverberates through dance and Broadway history today. For decades, she captured the fleeting moments of theater that would otherwise never be seen by the public. And her passion was clear and straightforward. As she once told an interviewer: “I’m not interested in what’s going on on my side of the camera. I’m interested in what’s happening on the other side.” Get the latest Travel & Culture stories in your inbox.

This is today’s edition of The Download, our weekday newsletter that provides a daily dose of what’s going on in the world of technology. Manus has kick-started an AI agent boom in China Last year, China saw a boom in foundation models, the do-everything large language models that underpin the AI revolution. This year, the focus has shifted to AI agents—systems that are less about responding to users’ queries and more about autonomously accomplishing things for them.There are now a host of Chinese startups building these general-purpose digital tools, which can answer emails, browse the internet to plan vacations, and even design an interactive website. Many of these have emerged in just the last two months, following in the footsteps of Manus—a general AI agent that sparked weeks of social media frenzy for invite codes after its limited-release launch in early March.As the race to define what a useful AI agent looks like unfolds, a mix of ambitious startups and entrenched tech giants are now testing how these tools might actually work in practice—and for whom. Read the full story. —Caiwei Chen Inside the race to find GPS alternatives Later this month, an inconspicuous 150-kilogram satellite is set to launch into space aboard the SpaceX Transporter 14 mission. Once in orbit, it will test super-accurate next-generation satnav technology designed to make up for the shortcomings of the US Global Positioning System (GPS). Despite the system’s indispensable nature, the GPS signal is easily suppressed or disrupted by everything from space weather to 5G cell towers to phone-size jammers worth a few tens of dollars. The problem has been whispered about among experts for years, but it has really come to the fore in the last three years, since Russia invaded Ukraine.Now, startup Xona Space Systems wants to create a space-based system that would do what GPS does but better. Read the full story. —Tereza Pultarova Why doctors should look for ways to prescribe hope —Jessica Hamzelou This week, I’ve been thinking about the powerful connection between mind and body. Some new research suggests that people with heart conditions have better outcomes when they are more hopeful and optimistic. Hopelessness, on the other hand, is associated with a significantly higher risk of death. The findings build upon decades of fascinating research into the phenomenon of the placebo effect. Our beliefs and expectations about a medicine (or a sham treatment) can change the way it works. The placebo effect’s “evil twin,” the nocebo effect, is just as powerful—negative thinking has been linked to real symptoms. Researchers are still trying to understand the connection between body and mind, and how our thoughts can influence our physiology. In the meantime, many are developing ways to harness it in hospital settings. Is it possible for a doctor to prescribe hope? Read the full story. This article first appeared in The Checkup, MIT Technology Review’s weekly biotech newsletter. To receive it in your inbox every Thursday, and read articles like this first, sign up here. The must-reads I’ve combed the internet to find you today’s most fun/important/scary/fascinating stories about technology. 1 Elon Musk threatened to cut off NASA’s use of SpaceX’s Dragon spacecraftHis war of words with Donald Trump is dramatically escalating. (WP $)+ If Musk actually carried through with his threat, NASA would seriously struggle. (NYT $)+ Silicon Valley is starting to pick sides. (Wired $)+ It appears as though Musk has more to lose from their bruising breakup. (NY Mag $) 2 Apple and Alibaba’s AI rollout in China has been delayedIt’s the latest victim of Trump’s trade war. (FT $)+ The deal is supposed to support iPhones’ AI offerings in the country. (Reuters) 3 X’s new policy blocks the use of its posts to ‘fine-tune or train’ AI modelsUnless companies strike a deal with them, that is. (TechCrunch)+ The platform could end up striking agreements like Reddit and Google. (The Verge) 4 RJK Jr’s new hire is hunting for proof that vaccines cause autismVaccine skeptic David Geier is seeking access to a database he was previously barred from. (WSJ $)+ How measuring vaccine hesitancy could help health professionals tackle it. (MIT Technology Review) 5 Anthropic has launched a new service for the militaryClaude Gov is designed specifically for US defense and intelligence agencies. (The Verge)+ Generative AI is learning to spy for the US military. (MIT Technology Review) 6 There’s no guarantee your billion-dollar startup won’t failIn fact, one in five of them will. (Bloomberg $)+ Beware the rise of the AI coding startup. (Reuters) 7 Walmart’s drone deliveries are taking offIt’s expanding to 100 new US stories in the next year. (Wired $) 8 AI might be able to tell us how old the Dead Sea Scrolls really are Models suggest they’re even older than we previously thought. (The Economist $)+ How AI is helping historians better understand our past. (MIT Technology Review) 9 All-in-one super apps are a hit in the Gulf They’re following in China’s footsteps. (Rest of World) 10 Nintendo’s Switch 2 has revived the midnight launch eventFans queued for hours outside stores to get their hands on the new console. (Insider $)+ How the company managed to dodge Trump’s tariffs. (The Guardian) Quote of the day “Elon finally found a way to make Twitter fun again.” —Dan Pfeiffer, a host of the political podcast Pod Save America, jokes about Elon Musk and Donald Trump’s ongoing feud in a post on X. One more thing This rare earth metal shows us the future of our planet’s resources We’re in the middle of a potentially transformative moment. Metals discovered barely a century ago now underpin the technologies we’re relying on for cleaner energy, and not having enough of them could slow progress.  Take neodymium, one of the rare earth metals. It’s used in cryogenic coolers to reach ultra-low temperatures needed for devices like superconductors and in high-powered magnets that power everything from smartphones to wind turbines. And very soon, demand for it could outstrip supply. What happens then? And what does it reveal about issues across wider supply chains? Read our story to find out. —Casey Crownhart We can still have nice things A place for comfort, fun and distraction to brighten up your day. (Got any ideas? Drop me a line or skeet ’em at me.) + Sightings of Bigfoot just happen to correlate with black bear populations? I smell a conspiracy!+ Watch as these symbols magically transform into a pretty impressive Black Sabbath mural.+ Underwater rugby is taking off in the UK.+ Fed up of beige Gen Z trends, TikTok is bringing the 80s back.

Like a good pair of Basquiat Crocs, there are innumerable bad ways to license an artist’s work. So when Airstream looked to partner up on a project with the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, the aluminum-clad trailer brand could have just printed one of the architect’s famous patterns on a limited run of its vehicles and called it a day. It probably would have even sold well. But that is decidedly what Bob Wheeler, Airstream’s president and CEO, did not want to do.  “We said, ‘All right, let’s make sure that everything has a purpose and a function—that way it’s not just a pastiche, or some kind of lame attempt to mimic something,’” Wheeler recalls. “We didn’t want it to seem overdone or kitschy.” Instead, the brand embarked on a multiyear collaboration with the experts at Wright’s Taliesin West home and studio in Scottsdale, Arizona, and today the two are rolling out the 28-foot Airstream Frank Lloyd Wright Usonian Limited Edition Travel Trailer. With just 200 numbered vehicles that retail for $184,900 on offer, you—like me—might not be able to afford one at the moment, but they just might also restore your faith in the art of the artist collab at large.  [Photo: Airstream] BETTER LATE THAN NEVER Wheeler has a passion for midcentury design (as you might expect of Airstream’s CEO), so it tracks that he’d be a natural fan of Wright’s organic architecture. “Honestly, this has been a dream of mine for the last 20 years, which is about as long as I’ve been president of Airstream,” he says. “Why are Wright’s designs so celebrated today? It’s because they’re timeless. I think there are values there that incentivize someone to buy an Airstream that overlap in some meaningful ways.” Though Wright and Airstream founder Wally Byam were active at the same time and likely shared some of the same design fan base, there’s no record of them ever meeting. But a collaboration between the two ultimately proved inevitable when Wheeler reached out to Wright’s foundation in 2022. Foundation historian Sally Russell says her team wasn’t initially sure how robust a joint project could be. They eventually toured the Airstream factory in Ohio where the trailers are handmade using 3,000 rivets over the course of 350 hours, and saw how much customization was truly possible. Then she realized that it could be a great showcase of Wright’s work.  Beyond an Airstream’s signature aluminum exterior, Wheeler says the trailer is essentially a blank canvas. “And that’s where we can really flex some design muscle and allow others to do so.”  Russell says the foundation first explored whether to make the trailer feel like an adaptation of a specific Frank Lloyd Wright home. “The answer to that was no,” she says. “We didn’t want to try to re-create the Rosenbaum House and shove it into the size of a trailer. It didn’t make sense, because Frank Lloyd Wright certainly designed for each of his individual projects—he created something new, something that expressed the individual forms of the project, the needs of the client. So there was a great awareness of wanting to continue that legacy through the work that we did on the trailer.” The two teams ultimately homed in on the concept of Usonian design, a style that aimed to democratize design via small, affordable homes with a focus on efficient floor plans, functionality, and modularity.  In other words: an ideal fit for an Airstream. [Photo: Airstream] COLLAPSIBLE CHAIRS AND CLERESTORY WINDOWS When you approach the trailer, the connection to Wright is immediate on the custom front door featuring the Gordon leaf pattern, which the architect commissioned his apprentice Eugene Masselink to design in 1956. It’s a tip of the hat to nature, presumably an Airstreamer’s destination, and can be found subtly throughout the trailer in elements like sconces and cabinet pulls—but not too much, per the design mission at the outset. (“At one point we had a lot more of that Gordon leaf in there,” Wheeler notes. “We dialed that way back.”) With the push of a button, the bench seating converts into a king-size bed—one of Wheeler’s favorite elements. It is the largest bed in any Airstream, and is a first for the company, he says.  [Photo: Airstream] Another convertible element, in line with that focus on modularity, is the living space at the front of the trailer. Here, a dining table, desk, and seating inspired by the slant-back chairs that Wright used throughout his career collapse into a wall cabinet. Wheeler says Airstream used to deploy clever features like this in the midcentury era, before modern preferences trended toward built-in furniture. “So in some ways, this is a bit of a flashback to an earlier design in the ’50s, which is appropriate.” The teams also honored Wright’s focus on natural light, relocating Airstream’s usual overhead storage in favor of clerestory windows, which are prominent in Usonian homes. Meanwhile, the overall color palette comes from a 1955 Wright-curated Martin-Senour paint line. Russell says the team selected it for its harmonious blend with the natural settings where the trailer is likely headed, featuring ocher, red, and turquoise.  Ultimately, “It’s like a Frank Lloyd Wright home, where you walk into it, and it’s a completely different experience from any other building,” Russell says. “I hope that he would be very happy to see that design legacy continue, because he certainly did that with his own fellowship and the apprentices that he worked with.” [Photo: Airstream] USONIAN LIFE Starting today, the limited-edition, numbered trailers will be available for order at Airstream dealerships. Wheeler says the company was originally going to release just 100 of them, but got so much positive feedback from dealers and others that they doubled the run.  On the whole, the collaboration comes in the wake of a boom time for Airstream, which is owned by Thor Industries. Airstream experienced a surge during the pandemic, resulting in a 22% jump in sales in 2021 as people embraced remote work or realigned their relationship to the world.  “We’ve come back to earth now, and now we’re much more tied to actual market retail rates, which is what we know,” Wheeler says. In its third-quarter financials, Thor reported $2.89 billion in revenue (up 3.3% from previous year). While the company declined to provide Airstream-specific numbers, its overall North American towable RV division is up 9.1% from the same period in 2024. But there’s a problem afoot: The current administration’s tariffs, which Wheeler says made settling on the price for the Frank Lloyd Wright collaboration tricky. He adds that the company is struggling with shortages caused by the disruption in the supply chain, and high interest rates are also a problem.  [Photo: Airstream] “Look, we’re 94 years old,” he says. “We’ve been through more of these cycles than we can count, so we’re fine, and we’ll continue to trade on authenticity, quality, great service and support, a great dealer network, and a brand that really has become part of the fabric of the U.S. traveling adventure.”

Science & technology | ScrollytellingHow old are the Dead Sea Scrolls? An AI model can help Scientists are using it to estimate the age of ancient handwriting Sensitive subjectPhotograph: Israel Antiquities Authority/Shai Halevi Jun 5th 2025EVER SINCE the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered by Bedouin shepherds in the 1940s, debate has raged over their exact age. The scrolls, which contain the earliest surviving copies of books from the Hebrew Bible and other religious texts, mostly written in Aramaic and Hebrew, are thought to have been compiled sometime between 300BC and 200AD. Dating each of the 1,000-odd individual scrolls would help historians understand how literacy spread among ancient Jewish populations and the first Christians, and offer a valuable window into the genesis of the sacred texts. But scholars hoping to do so have had little but their own intuition to rely on.Explore moreThis article appeared in the Science & technology section of the print edition under the headline “Scrollytelling”From the June 7th 2025 editionDiscover stories from this section and more in the list of contents⇒Explore the editionReuse this content

The color of nostalgia Endangered classic Mac plastic color returns as 3D-printer filament Mac fan paid $900 to color-match iconic Apple beige-gray "Platinum" plastic for everyone. Benj Edwards – Jun 4, 2025 6:13 pm | 3 The Mac SE, released in 1987, was one of many classic Macs to use the "Platinum" color scheme. Credit: Apple / Polar Filament The Mac SE, released in 1987, was one of many classic Macs to use the "Platinum" color scheme. Credit: Apple / Polar Filament Story text Size Small Standard Large Width * Standard Wide Links Standard Orange * Subscribers only   Learn more On Tuesday, classic computer collector Joe Strosnider announced the availability of a new 3D-printer filament that replicates the iconic "Platinum" color scheme used in classic Macintosh computers from the late 1980s through the 1990s. The PLA filament (PLA is short for polylactic acid) allows hobbyists to 3D-print nostalgic novelties, replacement parts, and accessories that match the original color of vintage Apple computers. Hobbyists commonly feed this type of filament into commercial desktop 3D printers, which heat the plastic and extrude it in a computer-controlled way to fabricate new plastic parts. The Platinum color, which Apple used in its desktop and portable computer lines starting with the Apple IIgs in 1986, has become synonymous with a distinctive era of classic Macintosh aesthetic. Over time, original Macintosh plastics have become brittle and discolored with age, so matching the "original" color can be a somewhat challenging and subjective experience. A close-up of "Retro Platinum" PLA filament by Polar Filament. Credit: Polar Filament Strosnider, who runs a website about his extensive vintage computer collection in Ohio, worked for years to color-match the distinctive beige-gray hue of the Macintosh Platinum scheme, resulting in a spool of hobby-ready plastic by Polar Filament and priced at $21.99 per kilogram. According to a forum post, Strosnider paid approximately $900 to develop the color and purchase an initial 25-kilogram supply of the filament. Rather than keeping the formulation proprietary, he arranged for Polar Filament to make the color publicly available. "I paid them a fee to color match the speaker box from inside my Mac Color Classic," Strosnider wrote in a Tinkerdifferent forum post on Tuesday. "In exchange, I asked them to release the color to the public so anyone can use it." A spool of "Retro Platinum" PLA filament by Polar Filament. Credit: Polar Filament The development addresses a gap in the vintage computing community, where enthusiasts sometimes struggle to find appropriately colored materials for restoration projects and new accessories. The new filament is an attempt to replace previous options that were either expensive, required international shipping, or had consistency issues that Strosnider described as "chalky." The 1.75 mm filament works with standard 3D printers and is compatible with automated material systems used in some newer printer models. On Bluesky, Strosnider encouraged buyers to "order plenty, and let them know you want them to print it forever" to ensure continued production of the specialty color. Extruded nostalgia The timing of the filament's release coincides with growing interest in 3D-printed cases and accessories for vintage computer hardware. One example is the SE Mini desktop case, a project by "GutBomb" that transforms Macintosh SE and SE/30 logic boards into compact desktop computers that can connect to modern displays. The case, designed to be 3D-printed in multiple pieces and assembled, represents the type of project that benefits from color-accurate filament. A 3D-printed "SE Mini" desktop case that allows using a vintage compact Mac board in a new enclosure. Credit: Joe Strosnider The SE Mini case requires approximately half a spool of filament and takes a couple of days to print on consumer 3D printers. Users can outfit the case with modern components, such as Pico PSUs and BlueSCSI storage devices, while maintaining the classic Macintosh appearance. Why create new "retro" devices? Because it's fun, and it's a great way to merge technology's past with the benefits of recent tech developments. Projects like the Platinum PLA filament, the SE Mini case, and the dedication of hobbyists like Strosnider ensure that appreciation for Apple's computers of yore will continue for decades. Benj Edwards Senior AI Reporter Benj Edwards Senior AI Reporter Benj Edwards is Ars Technica's Senior AI Reporter and founder of the site's dedicated AI beat in 2022. He's also a tech historian with almost two decades of experience. In his free time, he writes and records music, collects vintage computers, and enjoys nature. He lives in Raleigh, NC. 3 Comments

The ways roads are used, with ever larger and heavier vehicles, have dramatic consequences on the environment – and electric cars are not the answer Today, there is an average of 37 tonnes of road per inhabitant of the planet. The weight of the road network alone accounts for a third of all construction worldwide, and has grown exponentially in the 20th century. There is 10 times more bitumen, in mass, than there are living animals. Yet growth in the mass of roads does not automatically correspond to population growth, or translate into increased length of road networks. In wealthier countries, the number of metres of road per inhabitant has actually fallen over the last century. In the United States, for instance, between 1905 and 2015 the length of the network increased by a factor of 1.75 and the population by a factor of 3.8, compared with 21 for the mass of roads. Roads have become wider and, above all, much thicker. To understand the evolution of these parameters, and their environmental impact, it is helpful to trace the different stages in the life of the motorway.  Until the early 20th century, roads were used for various modes of transport, including horses, bicycles, pedestrians and trams; as a result of the construction of railways, road traffic even declined in some European countries in the 19th century. The main novelty brought by the motorway was that they would be reserved for motorised traffic. In several languages, the word itself – autostrada, autobahn, autoroute or motorway – speaks of this exclusivity.  Roman roads varied from simple corduroy roads, made by placing logs perpendicular to the direction of the road over a low or swampy area, to paved roads, as this engraving from Jean Rondelet’s 19th‑century Traité Théorique et Pratique de l’Art de Bâtir shows. Using deep roadbeds of tamped rubble as an underlying layer to ensure that they kept dry, major roads were often stone-paved, metalled, cambered for drainage and flanked by footpaths, bridleways and drainage ditches Like any major piece of infrastructure, motorways became the subject of ideological discourse, long before any shovel hit the ground; politicians underlined their role in the service of the nation, how they would contribute to progress, development, the economy, modernity and even civilisation. The inauguration ceremony for the construction of the first autostrada took place in March 1923, presided over by Italy’s prime minister Benito Mussolini. The second major motorway programme was announced by the Nazi government in 1933, with a national network planned to be around 7,000 kilometres long. In his 2017 book Driving Modernity: Technology, Experts, Politics, and Fascist Motorways, 1922–1943, historian Massimo Moraglio shows how both programmes were used as propaganda tools by the regimes, most notably at the international road congresses in Milan in 1926 and Munich in 1934. In the European postwar era, the notion of the ‘civilising’ effect of roads persevered. In 1962, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, then‑secretary of state for finances and later president of France, argued that expanded motorways would bring ‘progress, activity and life’. This discourse soon butted up against the realities of how motorways affected individuals and communities. In his 2011 book Fighting Traffic: The Dawn of the Motor Age in the American City, Peter D Norton explores the history of resistance to the imposition of motorised traffic in North American cities. Until the 1920s, there was a perception that cars were dangerous newcomers, and that other street and road uses – especially walking – were more legitimate. Cars were associated with speed and danger; restrictions on motorists, especially speed limits, were routine.  Built between 1962 and 1970, the Westway was London’s first urban motorway, elevated above the city to use less land. Construction workers are seen stressing the longitudinal soffit cables inside the box section of the deck units to achieve the bearing capacity necessary to carry the weight of traffic Credit: Heritage Image Partnership Ltd / Alamy To gain domination over cities, motor vehicles had to win priority over other street uses. Rather than restricting the flow of vehicles to minimise the risk of road accidents, a specific infrastructure was dedicated to them: both inner‑city roads and motorways. Cutting through the landscape, the motorway had, by definition, to be inaccessible by any other means of transport than motorised vehicle. To guarantee the fluidity of traffic, the construction of imposing bridges, tunnels and interchanges is necessary, particularly at junctions with other roads, railways or canals. This prioritisation of one type of user inevitably impacts journeys for others; as space is fragmented, short journeys are lengthened for those trying to navigate space by foot or bicycle.  Enabling cars to drive at around 110–140km/h on motorways, as modern motorways do, directly impacts their design, with major environmental effects: the gradient has to be gentle (4 per cent), the curves long (1.5km in radius) and the lanes wide, to allow vehicles to overtake each other safely. As much terrain around the world is not naturally suited to these requirements, the earthworks are considerable: in France, the construction of a metre of highway requires moving some 100m3 of earth, and when the soil is soft, full of clay or peat, it is made firmer with hydraulic lime and cement before the highway’s first sub‑layers are laid. This material cost reinforces the criticisms levelled in the 1960s, by the likes of Jane Jacobs and Lewis Mumford, at urban planning that prioritised the personal motor vehicle. When roads are widened to accommodate more traffic, buildings are sliced and demolished, as happened in Dhaka’s Bhasantek Road in 2021 Credit: Dhaka Tribune Once built, the motorway is never inert. Motorway projects today generally anticipate future expansion (from 2×2 to 2×3 to 2×4 lanes), and include a large median strip of 12m between the lanes, with a view to adding new ones. Increases in speed and vehicle sizes have also translated into wider lanes, from 2.5m in 1945 to 3.5m today. The average contemporary motorway footprint is therefore 100 square metres per linear metre. Indeed, although the construction of a road is supposed to reduce congestion, it also generates new traffic and, therefore, new congestion. This is the principle of ‘induced traffic’: the provision of extra road capacity results in a greater volume of traffic. The Katy Freeway in Texas famously illustrates this dynamic. Built as a regular six‑lane highway in the 1960s, it was called the second worst bottleneck in the nation by 2004, wasting 25 million hours a year of commuter time. In 2011, the state of Texas invested US$2.8 billion to fix this problem, widening the road to a staggering total of 26 lanes. By 2014, the morning and afternoon traffic had both increased again. The vicious circle based on the induced traffic has been empirically demonstrated in most countries: traffic has continued to increase and congestion remains unresolved, leading to ever-increasing emissions. In the EU, transport is the only sector where greenhouse gas emissions have increased in the past three decades, rising 33.5 per cent between 1990 and 2019. Transport accounts for around a fifth of global CO₂ emissions today, with three quarters of this figure linked to road transport. Houston’s Katy Freeway is one of the world’s widest motorways, with 26 lanes. Its last expansion, in 2008, was initially hailed as a success, but within five years, peak travel times were longer than before the expansion – a direct illustration of the principle of induced traffic Credit: Smiley N Pool / Houston Chronicle / Getty Like other large transport infrastructures such as ports and airports, motorways are designed for the largest and heaviest vehicles. Engineers, road administrations and politicians have known since the 1950s that one truck represents millions of cars: the impact of a vehicle on the roadway is exponential to its weight – an online ‘road damage calculator’ allows you to compare the damage done by different types of vehicles to the road. Over the years, heavier and heavier trucks have been authorised to operate on roads: from 8‑tonne trucks in 1945 to 44 tonnes nowadays. The European Parliament adopted a revised directive on 12 March 2024 authorising mega‑trucks to travel on European roads; they can measure up to 25 metres and weigh up to 60 tonnes, compared with the previous limits of 18.75 metres and 44 tonnes. This is a political and economic choice with considerable material effects: thickness, rigidity of sub‑bases and consolidation of soil and subsoil with lime and cement. Altogether, motorways are 10 times thicker than large roads from the late 19th century. In France, it takes an average of 30 tonnes of sand and aggregate to build one linear metre of motorway, 100 times more than cement and bitumen.  The material history of road networks is a history of quarrying and environmental damage. The traces of roads can also be seen in rivers emptied of their sediment, the notches of quarries in the hills and the furrows of dredgers extracting sand from the seabed. This material extraction, arguably the most significant in human history, has dramatic ecological consequences for rivers, groundwater tables, the rise of sea levels and saltwater in farmlands, as well as biodiversity. As sand is ubiquitous and very cheap, the history of roads is also the history of a local extractivism and environmental conflicts around the world.  Shoving and rutting is the bulging and rippling of the pavement surface. Once built, roads require extensive maintenance – the heavier the vehicles, the quicker the damage. From pothole repair to the full resurfacing of a road, maintenance contributes to keeping road users safe Credit: Yakov Oskanov / Alamy Once roads are built and extended, they need to be maintained to support the circulation of lorries and, by extension, commodities. This stage is becoming increasingly important as rail freight, which used to be important in countries such as France and the UK, is declining, accounting for no more than 10 per cent of the transport of commodities. Engineers might judge that a motorway is destined to last 20 years or so, but this prognosis will be significantly reduced with heavy traffic. The same applies to the thousands of motorway bridges: in the UK, nearly half of the 9,000 highway bridges are in poor condition; in France, 7 per cent of the 12,000 bridges are in danger of collapsing, as did Genoa’s Morandi bridge in 2018. If only light vehicles drove on it, this infrastructure would last much longer. This puts into perspective governments’ insistence on ‘greening’ the transport sector by targeting CO2 emissions alone, typically by promoting the use of electric vehicles (EVs). Public policies prioritising EVs do nothing to change the mass of roads or the issue of their maintenance – even if lorries were to run on clean air, massive quarrying would still be necessary. A similar argument plays out with regard to canals and ports, which have been constantly widened and deepened for decades to accommodate ever-larger oil tankers or container ships. The simple operation of these infrastructures, dimensioned for the circulation of commodities and not humans, requires permanent dredging of large volumes. The environmental problem of large transport infrastructure goes beyond the type of energy used: it is, at its root, free and globalised trade. ‘The material life cycle of motorways is relentless: constructing, maintaining, widening, thickening, repairing’ As both a material and ideological object, the motorway fixes certain political choices in the landscape. Millions of kilometres of road continue to be asphalted, widened and thickened around the world to favour cars and lorries. In France, more than 80 per cent of today’s sand and aggregate extraction is used for civil engineering works – the rest goes to buildings. Even if no more buildings, roads or other infrastructures were to be built, phenomenal quantities of sand and aggregates would still need to be extracted in order to maintain existing road networks. The material life cycle of motorways is relentless: constructing, maintaining, widening, thickening, repairing, adding new structures such as wildlife crossings, more maintaining.  Rising traffic levels are always deemed positive by governments for a country’s economy and development. As Christopher Wells shows in his 2014 book Car Country: An Environmental History, car use becomes necessary in an environment where everything has been planned for the car, from the location of public services and supermarkets to residential and office areas. Similarly, when an entire economy is based on globalised trade and just‑in‑time logistics (to the point that many service economies could not produce their own personal protective equipment in the midst of a pandemic), the lorry and the container ship become vital.  The final stage in the life of a piece of motorway infrastructure is dismantling. Like the other stages, this one is not a natural outcome but the fruit of political choices – which should be democratic – regarding how we wish to use existing roads. Dismantling, which is essential if we are to put an end to the global extractivism of sand and aggregates, does not mean destruction: if bicycles and pedestrians were to use them instead, maintenance would be minimal. This final stage requires a paradigm shift away from the eternal adaptation to increasing traffic. Replacing cars and lorries with public transport and rail freight would be a first step. But above all, a different political and spatial organisation of economic activities is necessary, and ultimately, an end to globalised, just-in-time trade and logistics. In 1978, a row of cars parked at a shopping centre in Connecticut was buried under a thick layer of gooey asphalt. The Ghost Parking Lot, one of the first projects by James Wines’ practice SITE, became a playground for skateboarders until it was removed in 2003. Images of this lumpy landscape serve as allegories of the damage caused by reliance on the automobile Credit: Project by SITE Lead image: Some road damage is beyond repair, as when a landslide caused a large chunk of the Gothenburg–Oslo motorway to collapse in 2023. Such dramatic events remind us of both the fragility of these seemingly robust infrastructures, and the damage that extensive construction does to the planet. Credit: Hanna Brunlöf Windell / TT / Shutterstock 2025-06-03 Reuben J Brown Share

Version 1.0.0 By Robert Jan van Pelt (Park Books, 2025) The largest artifact in the touring exhibition Auschwitz. Not Long Ago. Not Far Away., currently on display at the ROM in Toronto, is a wooden barracks building. It’s from the Auschwitz-Monowitz camp, a satellite to Auschwitz created to provide slave labour to the IG Farben corporation for the construction of a synthetic rubber factory.  The discovery of a sister building, back in 2012, led exhibition chief curator and architectural historian Robert Jan van Pelt, University Professor at the Waterloo School of Architecture, on a research journey to write a comprehensive history of the barracks—temporary buildings that have not only housed prisoners, but also provided shelter for military servicemen and women, refugees, and natural disaster survivors. “Many people have experienced, for shorter or longer time periods, life in a barrack, and for all of them it represented life on the edge, for better or worse,” writes Van Pelt. Worm’s eye axonometric of Renkioi Hospital Barrack, a prefabricated hospital designed by Ismabard Kingdom Brunel for a site in Turkey, 1857. Van Pelt’s book criss-crosses with ease through architectural history, military history, and the history of medicine—all of which played crucial roles in the evolving development of this seemingly simple building type. The book is arranged in a dozen episodes, with the barrack at the centre of each, serving as an anchor point for unfolding the rich intellectual and historical context shaping the way these structures were developed and deployed. The book is richly illustrated with archival materials—a feat in itself, given that the documentation for temporary buildings, particularly before 1900, is scarce. These drawings, photos, and paintings are supplemented with 20 worm’s eye views of key buildings, carefully composed by a team of Waterloo architecture school students and alumni.  Thomas Thomaszoon, View of the headquarters of the Spanish in the Huis tea Kleef during the siege of Haarlem, 1572-73. Collection of Noord-Hollands Archief, Haarlem; courtesy Robert Jan van Pelt Like many vernacular buildings, temporary structures larger than a tent, designed to house soldiers in the field, have existed at least since Ancient Rome. One of the first visual accounts of barracks came centuries later, in the winter of 1572, when the Spanish laid siege to the Dutch city of Haarlem, and cartographer Thomas Thomaszoon sketched the position of dozens of Spain’s wood-and-straw structures outside the city. The siege was successful, but only a few years later, the Dutch Republic gained the upper hand. As part of the creation of a standing army, they began to develop more precise instructions for the layout of camps, including the construction of temporary barracks. Antoine-François Omet des Foucaux, Barrack constructed in Hendaye, France, 1793. From Jean-Charles Krafft, Plans, coupes et élévations de diverses productions de l’art de la charpente, 1805. Collection of Bilbliothèque Nationale de France, Paris. Courtesy Robert Jan van Pelt The Napoleonic army made use of barracks in both military camps and training camps; by the mid-1800s, the construction of various barrack types was detailed in field construction manuals issued to officers in many European armies. During the Crimean War (1853-56), over 3,500 prefabricated barracks were manufactured in a Gloucester factory, as a solution to the appalling conditions at the front. But when the structures arrived at port, British forces were not able to unload and erect them—the materials for a single building weighed more than two tons, and each would require 60 horses (or 150 men) to transport to camp on the muddy roads.  The US (Union) Army’s Lincoln Hospital, Washington, DC, 1865. Collection of Library of Congress, Washington, DC. Courtesy Robert Jan van Pelt Prefabrication was also used, with somewhat more success, towards the end of the conflict to erect field hospitals designed by British engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel with a priority on cross-ventilation to limit the spread of disease. Low mortality rates from similar structures led to a continued preference for “barrack hospitals” based on groupings of low-slung, well-ventilated pavilions, rather than conceived as single grand structures. The model was further refined with the addition of primitive underfloor heating and ridge ventilation by former surgeon William A. Hammond for the Union Army during the American Civil War (1861-65).  Barrack hospitals were constructed for civilian use, as well. Following the conclusion of the Franco-Prussian war (1870-71), such designs were built to house patients with infectious diseases in Berlin and proposed as a means to bring professional medical care to Germany’s rural areas. A barracks-inspired hospital was built in Saint Petersburg, Russia, in 1889, and continues to be operational.  If the barrack as an accommodation for the sick is a progressive tale, the 19th-century history of the barrack is equally checkered by the building type’s use for prisoner accommodation, including in the penal colonies of Australia and French Guiana. In North America, barracks were used in an internment camp for Native American Dakotas, and Civil War-era Union barracks at Camp Douglas were used to house Confederate prisoners. The oldest preserved barrack in the world may be in Canada, at Grosse Isle national park. Here, barrack-style quarantine sheds were used to detain thousands of Irish immigrant families during the typhoid fever epidemic of 1846-47, and their damp, fetid conditions contributed to many deaths—an episode Van Pelt describes as a “blot on the national consciousness of Canada.” A single Doecker Hut contains an operation room, pharmacy and hospital management office. The prefabricated, portable hospitals were developed in 1885, and used around the world, including in the First World War. In America, they were marketed for managing epidemics in the wake of the 1892 typhus fever outbreak in New York. Courtesy Berlin State Library and Robert Jan van Pelt   At the turn of the 19th century, the prefabricated portable barrack came to the fore with the manufacturing of the Doecker barracks, by Christoph & Unmack, a firm based in Copenhagen and Germany. Developed by a former military officer-turned-tentmaker, the technically sophisticated model used large rectangular frames that could be clipped together, and covered with “felt-cardboard”—dense felt pressed onto canvas and impregnated with linseed oil. The self-supporting structures proved easy to set up, dismount, and transport, making them suitable for both military applications—and, with little modification, for humanitarian aid. The Red Cross deployed Doecker barracks for use as field hospitals in Manchuria and Yokohama during the Russo-Japanese War (1904-05).  The Barrack, 1572-1914 wraps up in in the early 20th century, but with the note that in the ensuing decades until 1945, millions of barracks were produced by many of the world’s major nations—and that most of these were erected in barbed-wire-ringed compounds. “This is the period in which tens if not hundreds of millions of people, many of whom were civilians, were forced to live in barracks, as refugees, as expellees, as civilian internees, as forced laborers, as prisoners or war, as concentration camp prisoners, and as people made homeless by the destruction wrought by war,” writes Van Pelt. Up until 1914, he notes, this building type largely carried a sense of achievement—an image that would change sharply with the Age of the Camps. But although a WWII barrack was responsible for instigating Van Pelt’s initial investigation, that time period will need to await a second volume on this simple building type with a rich, complex, and complicated history.   As appeared in the June 2025 issue of Canadian Architect magazine  The post Book Review: The Barrack, 1572-1914—Chapters in the History of Emergency Architecture appeared first on Canadian Architect.