What does Battersea Power Station signify?

Old and new: a model of the redevelopment on show near the original Battersea Power Station. Image: Getty.

Architecture is an inescapably visual practice. It frames space, and so frames meanings, memories, and politics.

Donald Trump’s recent comments about the US embassy in Battersea led me to consider what its neighbour, Battersea Power Station, signifies. What comes to mind when one glimpses the upturned table, for years an iconic fragment of London’s cityscape?

Battersea Power Station was built in 1923, and operated as an electricity generator for the best part of 60 years until its decommissioning in 1983. Since then, it has sat empty, too large and risky for any investor to take on and reinvent.

In 2012, however, it was bought by a Malaysian consortium, who planned to turn the shell of the building into a new, luxury mixed-use urban space. The consortium framed its redevelopment as the last chance to save the iconic landmark. In reality, the power station has been the subject of myriad plans (some more outlandish than others) for redevelopment, including an aeronautical museum, rubbish incinerator, theme park, circus, and football ground.

Personally, having grown up about an hour’s train ride south-west of London Waterloo, Battersea Power Station always signified something of a gateway into this big, unknown, exciting city. The landscape slowly built-up as the train travelled through outer London – but once I glimpsed this landmark from the window, I knew I had really arrived.

For some, the power station signifies a proud ode to London’s industrial heritage. But it can also represent a city struggling to fully come to terms with the tectonic shifts in global political economy – shifts in which it has itself played a key role.

London has generally been relatively successful at reinventing itself as production jobs and manufacturing industries have moved overseas. It is globally recognised as one of, if not the, leading node in the networks of service and financial industries. However, Battersea Power Station has remained, as a stark visual reminder of the often rocky urban transition to post-industrialism.

Alternatively, the largest brick building in Europe might signify the triumph of modern architecture and its denial of the ageing effects of time; the cover of one of the most famous rock albums of the 20th century; or even the starting point of David Cameron’s 2010 general election campaign.

Cameron’s choice of the power station was no accident: illustrated his point about Labour’s handling of the economy during the financial crisis of 2008. It is also significant that BPS’ redevelopment was sanctioned under Cameron’s coalition government, and Boris Johnson’s mayoral leadership – the latter of which boasts such other great architectural successes as the financially burdensome ArcelorMitall Orbit, the not-so-popular-with-commuters Emirates airline, and the mothballed garden bridge.

Battersea Power Station from the railway, 2013. Image: Getty.

Since the redevelopment of the Power station has begun, my train journeys to and from home now signify something else, which is hard to disassociate from broader changes in the capital itself. Now, the Power Station has been transformed into a luxury landscape of expensive real-estate and global brands, aimed at tenants who see themselves as ‘luxury adventurers’. One of its high-profile tenants, Bear Grylls, certainly seems to fit this bill.

Its transformation plays into a much larger narrative – certainly not limited to London – in which the industrial built environment is redeveloped, repacked, and signified along the lines of culture and finance. Such transformations perfectly encapsulate the intersections of architecture, culture, and urban political economy in the post-industrial metropolis.

Battersea Power Station now lies at the heart of an extensive redevelopment of the South Bank, stretching from Waterloo through Vauxhall, Nine Elms, and Battersea. To put this redevelopment in context, it has costed more than the entire London 2012 Olympics and Paralympics, which have radically transformed a previously industrial pocket of the East End.

The power station now finds itself surrounded by a healthy dose of ‘starchitecture’ from the likes of Foster and Gehry. Over 4,000 homes are planned, as well as shops, restaurants, cinemas, a hotel, and concert venue.

Originally, the site was promised to provide 636 ‘affordable homes’ - far less than the usual 40 per cent demanded by Wandsworth council. The standard terms were waived, because of the developers’ contribution to the Northern Line extension – but the number has since, predictably, been reduced to just 386 affordable homes, of which zero actually lie within the shell of the old power station. (The developer cites technical difficulties.) Does this really come as a surprise to anyone slightly in-tune with London’s stratospherically skewed housing market?

For sale, 2015. Image: Getty.

Taking a step back, the Battersea project can be understood as a recycling of modernity. What once played a central role in London’s productive capacity is now entirely defined by consumption. Its reinvention harks back to – even glamorises – an industrial past from which it seems increasingly disconnected. The building’s iconic chimneys were pulled down and replaced with copies, that are able to ferry visitors up to the top and offer them panoramic views over the city. These four monumentalised simulacra chime with the building’s past only superficially, paying little attention to the complex local histories in which they were produced and embedded.

These traces of iconic heritage enable developers to circumvent the need to conjure up any iconic architectural form. They have been able to commodify nostalgia. Here, we might turn to architectural theorist Anthony Vidler, who sees a defining aspect of postmodern architecture as the consumption of cultural heritage, which utilises traces of history to recreate the past as an artificial historical imagination, that is more easily sold to consumers – or in this case, ‘luxury adventurers’.


Once completed, it is easy to see the Power Station becoming overwhelmingly aimed at upper classes, who can seal themselves off in the comfort of one of London’s most secure landscapes (thanks largely to the New US Embassy). However, it has recently faced issues of apartments being held back from the market, and struggles in selling larger properties, as the bottom has fallen out of London’s luxury property market.

Such a large investment in a disused building is also not short of significance in a city still recovering from the tragedy of Grenfell fire. There are glaring inconsistencies in a city that is able to invest so much capital into saving an ‘iconic’ yet disused landmark and turning it into a luxury consumption pad, while other buildings are left to burn through lack of simple upkeep and their surviving victims remain without permanent homes.

The case of Battersea Power Station also raises broader questions about how cities come to terms with their post-industrial landscapes. Plans had been drawn up for the power station to turn it into a managed ruin-cum-public park that would stay truer to its history. This certainly has whiffs of New York’s High Line, which is generally considered to be a successful reinvention of unused industrial infrastructure. Unsurprisingly, this plan was usurped by Malaysian consortium’s plans.

All in all, and for the first time in my life, I find myself agreeing with Donald Trump. I share his concerns about the Battersea development, albeit for different reasons. The Battersea Power Station still signifies somewhat of a gateway on my train journeys, yet its significance has changed. It is increasingly emblematic of a city with skewed priorities. Its status as a Grade II listed building obviously posed certain challenges – but surely there must be a more socially inclusive way to reinvent it that pays more serious attention to its heritage than its current superficial links to a bygone era.

During the industrial revolution, before the environmental contradictions of rampant industrial capitalism became apparent, the sight of smoke billowing from factory chimneys signified societal progress and the triumph of modernity. This begs the question: how long before we recognise the wider social implications of what this factory represents in its reinvented form?

Benedict Vigers is a postgraduate student at the University of Cambridge, currently studying an MPhil in architecture & urban studies.

 
 
 
 

A warped mirror: on gentrification and deprivation on London’s Caledonian Road

The London Overground crosses Caledonian Road. Image: Claude Lynch.

Capital cities are, more often than not, a focal point for the stark divide between rich and poor – places where the most economically deprived meet the most economically empowered. In London, these divides can be more than stark: they can be close, even intimate, and there are districts where crossing the street can be like entering a different world. One such street is the Caledonian Road.

Known local as “the Cally”, Caledonian Road runs for about a mile and a half, from Kings Cross to the Nags Head junction in Holloway, and was built in 1826 to provide a new arterial route to the north from the West End. At first, developments on the road were sparse; among the first notable buildings were the Royal Caledonian Asylum, which gave the road its name, and H.M. Prison Pentonville.

For some time, the northern half of the road was seen as far removed from central London, which stymied development. It wasn’t until the latter half of the 19th century residential development really got going. By the time Caledonian Road station opened on the Piccadilly line in 1906, the area was flush with Victorian terraces.

These, though, mainly lay on the eastern side. To the west, the proximity of King’s Cross prompted the development of heavy industry, particularly the clay kilns that were helping to build Victorian London proper. The divide had begun:  the east side of the street, the area known as Barnsbury, was notably quieter and calmer than the west side. Ever since the 19th century, the ‘V’ formed by Caledonian Road and York Way has been known for a high incidence of gang violence and social problems.

As in many parts of London, the end of the Second World War brought a chance to start from scratch. Many of the slums to the west of the Cally had been bombed to smithereens, and those that remained still lacked gas and hot water.

But this was the era of municipal dreams: Islington council cleared the slums and constructed the Bemerton Estate. Instead of reflecting the industrial history of the area, the estate reflected Barnsbury back at itself, treating Caledonian Road as some sort of warped modernist mirror. The square gardens of Barnsbury were reimagined as the spaces between the highrises of Bemerton, and this time, they were actually square.

The estate was immediately popular, its open design prompting a renewed sense of community in the west. But it didn’t last.

Square gardens on one side, not-so-square on the other. Image: Google Maps/CityMetric

As far back as the 1950s, Islington had already become synonymous with gentrification. Forty years later, before moving to Downing Street, Tony Blair’s London residence was Barnsbury’s leafy Richmond Crescent. House prices in the area have gone through the roof and now Barnsbury is mainly home to a the professional elite.


At the same time, though, Caledonian Road’s warped mirror has given Bemerton the exact opposite: in spite of attempts to rejuvenate it, downward spiral of deprivation and antisocial behaviour have blighted the estate for some time The promise of inviting square gardens and communal living has been inhibited by crime and poverty; the gardens lie empty, while those in Barnsbury thrive.

The disparity of wealth across Caledonian Road is regrettable. That’s not just because it speaks to a wider segregation of London’s rich and poor – a phenomenon exemplified last year by the Grenfell Tower fire in Kensington & Chelsea, the richest borough in Britain. It’s also because, in the Bemerton Estate, planners had thought they saw an opportunity to offer more Londoners the idyll of square gardens and leafy streets, often reserved for the richest.

It might be too much to claim the estate as a failure; events such as the Cally Festival aim to bring together both sides of the road, while other council programmes such as Islington Reads help to foster a greater sense of neighbourhood.

Road should never divide us; rather, they should unite those who live on either side. The spirit of Caledonian Road should cross the gap – just like the railway bridge that bears its name.