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From Prometheus to Epimetheus

Da Prometeo a Epimeteo
The Editorial Board of Ardeth
p. 5-11
Translation(s):
Da Prometeo a Epimeteo [it]

Editor's notes

DOI: 10.17454/ARDETH13.01

Full text

1In a recent pamphlet, Peter Sloterdijk (2024) revisited the concept of “Promethean shame” originally developed during the Cold War by Günther Anders (1956). In Sloterdijk’s updated version, Prometheus experiences not only shame for having exposed humanity to the risk of atomic war but also deep remorse for having actually caused a catastrophe: the relentless burning of underground forests, which depletes energy resources and accelerates global warming. In Sloterdijk’s view, Prometheus’ naïve generosity leads to remorse when the gift, once in the hands of the recipient, grows out of proportion. What was meant as a remedy for powerlessness transforms into a force of harm, far exceeding the initial disadvantages it was intended to address.

2More precisely, what we are witnessing is a reversal: Prometheus, the forward-looking Titan, is forced to confront the past. His project-driven outlook is flipped backward and, like Benjamin’s angel of history, he watches a pile of debris rising to the sky before his eyes. In essence, Prometheus, the forethought, transforms into his twin brother Epimetheus, the afterthought. The afterthought of Epimetheus is the compelling repent that begins as soon as he opens Pandora’s box (for more on this interpretation that exonerates Pandora, see, for example, Giulio Bonasone’s engraving from the early 1500s.)

3This brings out a particular relationship between past and future, as well as between history and project – one that also characterizes many contributions in this issue of “Ardeth”. This is evident from the very first pages of the Conversation between Sascha Roesler and his interlocutors, Kim Forster and Elke Beyer, where they explicitly discuss the “effort to define the concept of ‘energy landscape’ from a perspective that is both historical and future-oriented.” In line with this approach, in this introductory comment we explore whether and how a historical lens might offer insights into the future from a transdisciplinary perspective. Perhaps the reversal of Prometheus can indeed open up new ways of thinking about architectural design. We will return to this point later, but not before addressing some key questions.

4The problem (as we shall call it) of energy landscapes is vast but not indeterminate: the looming environmental collapse is closely tied to how we design spatial transformations across all scales. This connection operates in two directions: from the climate and energy crisis to space construction and, conversely, from the design of the built environment to its effects on climate, energy resources, and the environment. Architectural design, therefore, presents both a challenge and an opportunity – one that we mus find a way to address.

5In this issue, the curators have asked contributors, sometimes provocatively, to answer four important, radical, and in some ways almost unattainable questions, as they often presuppose a level of agency that seems beyond the reach of architects and urban planners. The four questions from the original call for papers have been revisited, albeit in a different order, in the editorial (with one notable change: “spaces of cohabitation” has become “relational landscapes”). This has resulted in the identification of four key thematic areas: the spatio-temporal frameworks of energy transition processes; the net-zero criteria for guiding the transition of cities; the relational landscapes that facilitate the integration of “political, infrastructural, social, and natural conditions”; and the energy hinterlands required for redistributing resources and energy production.

6In light of the responses provided by the articles, we feel that there is another overarching question to be answered: what entity, and at what level of authority, is truly capable of implementing these actions? Who, for instance, would have the power to establish new connections and synergies for energy redistribution in a world riddled with severe geopolitical disruptions? Admittedly, to take a less rigid view, these goals do fall under the strategic aims of the European Union, as outlined in reports such as “The Future of European Competitiveness” (September 2024). Yet, this remains more of a guideline than a concrete policy. It’s doubtful whether even individual sovereign states – mentioned in the Conversation – possess the necessary authority to drive such changes. So, what role can architects and urban planners play? Can we define an active role for design and planning disciplines in tackling the energy crisis, considering that they operate on local transformations while the crisis itself is profoundly global in scale?

7We can adopt two guiding approaches to navigate the problem, which will at least allow us to critically evaluate the outcomes presented in this issue. The first approach relates to the perspective from which energy landscapes are viewed. The term landscape carries numerous implications within this discourse, some of which are partially made explicit. In the editorial, the editors reference Burckhardt’s “Why Is Landscape Beautiful?” and, in the Conversation, Kim Forster quotes the same author, noting that “Landscape” is a cultural concept with a wide variety of representations and perceptions that are increasingly being understood through an urban lens.” One could also add, again citing Burckhardt, that the meaning of landscape “is to be found’in the mind’s eye of those doing the looking” (Burckhardt, 2012: 133-34). The scape/skopé/skopos of the land-scape inevitably shapes the position from which the discourse is articulated – a position that is external to the object of the discourse itself.
In line with this perspective, as mentioned, one of the key themes identified concerns the spatio-temporal frameworks through which the problem itself can be viewed as a landscape. The critical question that arises here is whether it is possible to reconcile this landscape outlook with a transformative project aimed at reintegrating and rebalancing a whole in the midst of energy dissipation and material degradation. This whole, however, does not present itself as an external object that can be neatly framed and observed from a distance; rather, it is an enveloping entity, a hyperobject (Morton, 2018), from which there is no way out.
In this context, it is worth recalling the series of epistemological critiques Bruno Latour has often directed at this scope-focused drive of the “moderns,” introducing widely-embraced concepts like the “Oligopticon” (Latour, 2005) and, more recently, the “Critical Zone” (Latour, 2020). The Oligopticon suggests a shift in the observer’s position – from a panoramic viewpoint that claims to synthesize everything, to an immersive, contingent position where one can see some things clearly, but only step by step, through trial and error. In the case of the Critical Zone, the structure of vision directly relates to the climate problem, proposing a topological reversal whereby the Earth’s space is no longer a sphere open to infinity but a narrow membrane within which we are condemned to live (or die) without any possibility of escape: “the thin skin of the living Earth.” Applying this somewhat claustrophobic perspective to our Problem, what would “energy landscapes” become? Are we still capable of looking out from a vantage point that affords a global view of these issues, or must we resign ourselves to addressing them in a contingent and fragmentary manner?

8To begin with, we could attempt to place the concept of landscape in tension with other terms, such as “zone” (following Latour), or, within the domain of urban design and architecture, revive Nicholaas John Habraken’s notion of “field.” For Habraken, a field is not merely the surrounding context of an architectural object, but rather the extension of dynamic interdependencies that architects should engage with, without claiming full authorship over them:

The constant interaction between living and inert matter lends fields an organic quality and makes it impossible to separate inhabitation from intervention. In the connection between life and its physical shelter, there exists a continuum from an individual pulling a chair closer to the table to a town council deciding to expand the urban fabric. Fields are too encompassing, too durable and too complex to be simply considered artifacts produced by us. (Habraken, 2005: 36)

9Habraken’s field is social, material, organic, technological, and processual. Its multidimensionality makes it too complex to be fully comprehended or captured by any single project. Still, “for several generations, architects fervently believed that fields could be not only designed, but invented, and that the quality and the very perpetuation of fields depended on the design professions” (Ibid: 37). Habraken himself, with his theory of supports, sought to rethink and “invent” the new city (Habraken, 1974). If the notion of field retains relevance today, particularly in relation to our Problem, it is because it encapsulates a long-standing reflection – one that Habraken, over decades, tried to implement, ultimately confronting the limitations of his role as an architect and urban planner.

10After exploring the shift from landscapes to fields, we thus arrive at the second distinction we aim to trace in this counter-reading: defining the form of design project through which we intend to engage with the problem. In the contributions to this issue, references to planning, urban design, and architectural design are interwoven. The question of planning resurfaces repeatedly – starting from the editorial, which quotes Burckhardt: “planning must be understood as a paradox, as it seeks to define a non-finite future state.” The limitations of modern planning – systemic, vertical, authoritative, etc. – are well recognized. It would be easy to associate this modus operandi with the panoptic perspective we just discussed.

11The discipline of planning itself has critiqued its own limitations, often from within. For instance, Robert Beauregard’s Planning Matter (2015) draws on Latour to reconceptualize urbanism as a set of material and situated practices – “crafting good ideas by gathering people, knowledge, and material things (Ibid., p. 9).” Yet, even within this perspective, which Beauregard defines as “(new) materialist, critically realist, morally engaged, politically progressive, and pragmatic,” the profession of urban planning remains explicitly anchored to the normativity of its discourse. As he puts it, “planning is always political. And since it is political, it is also normative (Ibid., pp. 10-11).” In contrast, the practices of architectural design are often seen largely subordinate to external directives. For example, in Beauregard’s text, architects are frequently depicted as responding to a client or developer, or working in tandem with a lawyer – again, hired by the client.

12To sketch a different yet compatible version of the modernist genealogy of this division of labor, we can return to Habraken and his foundational essay Supports, where he draws a paradigmatic distinction between architects and planners. Writing in 1962, Habraken was polemically critiquing the mass housing system, which, in his view, was collapsing the roles of architects and urban planners into one blurry profession focused on mere organization and technical execution – in his view, the city had become one gigantic project. Habraken believed the distinction between these two figures should instead be emphasized and safeguarded, fostering a new way of conceiving the urban project. In his opinion, the difference between architect and urban planner – admittedly both designers – can only be seen in the light of what he calls the “natural relationship.” As soon as this relationship is broken, the roles of these two experts fade into one another.

13The natural relationship Habraken refers to, in terms that may seem somewhat anachronistic today, is the human-environment relationship that forms the essence of dwelling. This relationship makes it impossible to separate the subject-inhabitant from the dwelling, as together they form an agent of continuous transformation, shaping space over time. This dynamic interaction would be the foundational element of his later definition of field. Only when this natural relationship is respected do the complementary roles of the architect and urban planner allow for the development of truly sustainable projects. The architect, Habraken argues, is at the center of the housing process, while the urban planner remains outside, guiding and channeling it, overseeing, as it were, the growth of the organism.

14This view reflects a degree of organicism that would ultimately reveal both the limits and strengths of these ideas. After the Trente Glorieuses, seeing the interactions between inhabitants and space as voluntary, virtuous and, above all, de-institutionalized often resulted in leaving proximity and residential spaces to the spontaneity of the market. However, the distinction between architect and urban planner remains useful in establishing two poles of design practice. On one hand, we see practices embedded within the process, mediating (between experts and non-experts, between technical figures and politicians, etc.) and primarily focusing on the effectiveness of the project itself. In this respect, Habraken even asserts that architects choose their profession not out of pity for the homeless, but because they have a desire to build. On the other hand, we find practices that start outside the process, guiding and channeling it according to a normative approach – driven by principles established before the process begins. As Habraken notes, the planner, when dealing with a living organism, can only succeed if he respects the nature of that organism.

15The contents of this issue explore a range of experiences that combine these two categories of practice – one internal and effectiveness-oriented, the other external and norm-driven – in several ways. The distinctions we wish to consider are less about the scale of the projects and more about the relationship between what is designed and what is inherited as already existing. In cases where the “already existing” forms the core resource of the design proposal, the normative approach tends to be less applicable – or, at the very least, less compelling.

16Broadly speaking, the distinction between the two practices can be understood as that between architects and urban planners, and many of the proposals we encountered point to reconciliation between these roles. For example, in the Conversation, there is an expressed need to integrate interventions “across architecture, urbanism, and even product design,” aligning strategies for energy transition that focus on individual building self-sufficiency with those addressing larger scales. The articles also showcase various approaches: some authors adopt a territorial perspective, envisioning future scenarios (Vigliocco et al.) or critically examining plans (Ramondetti). Others, while not explicitly planning-focused, explore infrastructures and landscapes as outcomes of planned actions (Maurer), possibly framing them as objects of contestation (Topalovic, Westerheide). Several contributions, however, converge in emphasizing the tension between the planned dimension and the tangible architectural aspects of interventions – such as Pryzwara, who centers his hypothesis on rubble, and D’Angelo and Ranzato, who focus on energy exaptation efforts within neighborhoods. Additionally, some articles illustrate how the normative and adaptive dimensions can function as complementary approaches to scenario building (Fabian, Pisciella, Semenzin), or how past plans, as a byproduct, leave behind materials that serve as morphological resources for the energy transition (Kuciewicz, de Iacobis).

17Ultimately, we can identify two polarities in architectural project work – which cannot necessarily be traced back to the dichotomy between design and planning – that reflect different attitudes towards time. The concept of “energy landscapes,” as the Problem of how architects and urban planners can actively participate in the energy transition to address the climate crisis, must engage with both space and the interplay of past and future time. One set of attitudes aligns with an Epimethean approach, which looks backward to the already built environment, embracing its randomness as material to be rethought and adapted for new purposes (this brings up Stephen Jay Gould’s concept of exaptation, here applied to built space). These cases prioritize local interventions, retrofitting, the horizontal production of energy networks, reuse of existing materials, and practices of maintenance and repair. The other set is seen in cases that are vision-oriented and forward-looking, in line with a Promethean perspective, focused less on existing rubble and more on setting up frameworks, guidelines, and overarching rules that seek to virtuously bring order to chaos in order to slow it down or even reverse it (negentropy). In these cases, scenarios, guidelines, legislative proposals, and regulatory interventions take center stage.

18In the Conversation, Sascha Roesler notes that “we are currently experiencing a pivotal change in architectural theory, where the category of the future is gradually taking on a dominant role, supplanting the category of history.” However, we would like to offer a different perspective on this relationship between past and future in architectural projects. Here, we return – perhaps like Epimetheus? – to our starting point. While the challenge of the energy transition may propel us into the future, possibly pulling us along with it, this doesn’t mean that the pile of debris of the past cannot present a valuable opportunity for the role we can play at this critical moment.

19As you will see in the following pages, there are cases where revisiting existing architecture reveals new insights for the future: the embedded energy of bricks or the shape of a block unfold forward, suggesting exaptation possibilities for tomorrow’s urban projects. This idea recalls Koselleck’s concept of “futures past,” but inverted – where the opportunity lies dormant and unclaimed, rather than as a “horizon of expectation” that was imagined but rarely realized. In another light, these returns to the (material) fragments of the past echo Walter Benjamin’s Theses on the Philosophy of History, where each moment of the present offers a potential rupture toward redemption, connecting disparate temporalities that are not linearly linked and can be very distant. According to Benjamin (1968), it is not that the past sheds its light on the present or vice versa; it is rather that the past converges with the present in a constellation. In this sense, reconstructing past processes could unlock undisclosed futures that remain nested in a wall or an unfinished project – a very different paradigm from a transition solely based on innovation, technological optimization, and linear progress, which often mirrors an equally linear apocalyptic vision of the end.

20Is the transition governable? And even if it were, could architecture truly design it? In the tension between the governability and ungovernability of this transition – or the emergence of crises – the impact of architectural projects on reality can be shaped by reactivating the effects of past, variously realized initiatives. Drawing on Benjamin’s perspective, history is not a cumulative continuum but rather a pile of debris that can trigger a short circuit at any moment. This view resonates with the city’s construction, seen as a fragmentary and rhizomatic network of incomplete and decaying systems that are constantly restructured and in need of energy. Within this framework, there may be opportunities to discover contingent forms of composition that can reconfigure themselves into entirely new arrangements – ones that were totally unforeseen when their original components were being systematically and programmatically designed.

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Bibliography

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Burckhardt, L. (2012 [1979]), Why is Landscape Beautiful?, in J. Fezer, M. Schmitz (eds), Lucius Burckhardt Writings. Rethinking Man-made Environments. Politics, Landscape & Design, Wien, Springer, pp. 133-141.

Beauregard, R. (2015), Planning Matter. Acting with Things, Chicago-London, The University of Chicago Press.

Morton, T. (2013), Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology after the End of the World, Minneapolis, University Of Minnesota Press. [It. ed. (2018), Iperoggetti, Roma, Nero Editions].

Latour, B., Weibel, P. (2020), Critical Zones: The Science and Politics of Landing on Earth, Cambridge (MA), The MIT Press.

Sloterdijk, P. (2024), Prometheus’s Remorse. From the Gift of Fire to Global Arson, Cambridge (MA), The MIT Press. [It. ed. (2024), Il rimorso di Prometeo. Dal dono del fuoco al grande incendio del pianeta, Venezia, Marsilio].

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List of illustrations

Title Ardeth 13 Map
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References

Bibliographical reference

The Editorial Board of Ardeth, “From Prometheus to Epimetheus”Ardeth, 13 | 2023, 5-11.

Electronic reference

The Editorial Board of Ardeth, “From Prometheus to Epimetheus”Ardeth [Online], 13 | 2023, Online since 01 December 2024, connection on 14 December 2025. URL: http://journals.openedition.org/ardeth/4123

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About the author

The Editorial Board of Ardeth

redazione [at] ardeth [dot] eu

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