Architecture and Regression

Spyros Papapetros

is an assistant professor at the School of Architecture and the Program in Media and Modernity at Princeton University. His work focuses on the historiographies of art and architecture and the relationship between architecture, psychoanalysis, and psychological aesthetics.

In the fall of 2008, you curated a lecture series on the theme of change, in which the introductory poster posed the question: “Is it possible to think of change as a dynamic process—a constantly evolving mechanism that includes accidents, periodic shifts, or even regressions to earlier paradigms?”

We at the
Cornell Journal of Architecture have been observing the language of change that has infiltrated the discipline of architecture, with terms such as variation, biomorphism, and genetics. However, change by itself is not enough: we assume that for meaningful change to occur, there must be an understanding and learning from a preexisting condition, based on feedback, analysis, and some form of repetition.

What is the problem with change, and how can the perception of change be progressed?


On the Pre/post/erous Histories of the Modern Movement

Perhaps the most pressing problem with change in recent architectural discussions is that our understanding of it has not changed at all. Once new styles or technologies replace older systems, they become as inflexible as their antecedents. Notions of historical progress, cultural transition, and social transformation appear as inert as the building structures that support (or oppose) such changes. Is it possible to think of change not as a static process, but as a dynamic one—a constantly evolving mechanism that includes accidents, periodic shifts, or even regressions to earlier paradigms? Predicated on a radical discontinuity with history, as well as a belief in technological progress, modern architecture and its militant historians have assigned notions of regression, repetition, and survival to the historicist mentality of the 19th century. However, the writings of modern architectural historians—from Giedion to Zevi, from Pevsner to Banham—are inundated with a set of revolving diagrams and spiraling correspondences with a broad range of historical eras. Antiquity, Renaissance and Baroque, or even the murkier areas of prehistory and the “immediate” (or distant) future, appear as pliable comparative models in which architectural modernity must perpetually re-inscribe its own historical position. But what happens during a period of radical transformation, such as the late 1960s, when notions of technological progress coexist with the ongoing crisis of the modern movement? What is the orientation that modern architecture must reflexively adopt when it implodes, and how can those retracing its trajectory reset its post-historical objectives?


The year was 1967. Along with multimedia spectacles and phantasmagoric building structures, the euphoric technological environment of Montreal’s Expo 67 hosted an international conference sponsored by the Noranda Mines Corporations and titled “Man and His World” (“Terre des Hommes”), also the general theme of the exposition. The long list of participants included a number of well-known scholars, such as the German philosopher Karl Löwith and the French paleoanthropologist André Leroi-Gourhan, as well as economists, politicians, physicists, astronomers, engineers, and medical researchers from four continents. The sole representative of architecture was the Italian critic and historian Bruno Zevi, who also participated at the exposition as a consultant for the Italian pavilion.

The provocative title of Zevi’s lecture, “Architecture 1967: Progress or Regression?” was drawn from a poignant association.[1] The “very happy event” of the Canadian centenary coincided with the third centenary of Carlo Borromini’s suicide in 1667 (Zevi, “Progress” 175). One can imagine the silence in the audience following the historian’s ominous comparison. It was as if the very scientific progress promoted by the seemingly unimpeded progress of the surrounding architecture had incited Zevi to revisit that “tragic episode” that had occurred exactly 300 years earlier. For the historian, the chronological correspondence signaled a more significant similarity in the circumstances surrounding the two different anniversaries. The Baroque master ended his life in total disillusionment after his innovative designs failed to be understood by his contemporaries. According to Zevi, Borromini’s legacy mirrored that of Michelangelo, whose revolutionary architectural projects could only be properly understood four centuries after they were created, following the emergence of the modern movement. The radical innovations of Mannerist and Baroque architects were succeeded by a period that Zevi characterized as a “regression” to classical, more conventional models.

Transitioning from the Baroque to the contemporary, Zevi argued that in the wake of the architectural innovations of the first half of the 20th century, the modern movement was then facing a predicament similar to that of the classicist regression experienced in earlier historical periods. Some of the modern movement’s original protagonists had recently died, and the survivors, though less suicidal (and less complex) than Borromini, partook in a professional behavior that was, Zevi implied, equally self-destructive. With the exception of Wright, who, like Borromini, maintained a standard of innovation throughout his multifaceted career, Zevi suggested that the postwar projects of modernist architects, including Gropius, Mies, or even the organicist Aalto, abandoned the anti-perspectivism and fluidity of their early projects in the 1920s and 1930s for the symmetrical facades and “boxy” monumentalism” of embassies, and office towers designed by the same architects throughout the 50s and 60s.

Bruno Zevi, “Historiographic and architectural rapport” between Francesco’s Borromini’s Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza in Rome and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in New York from Archittetura e Storiografia: Le matrici antiche del linguaggio moderno (Turin: Einaudi, 1974). Courtesy of the Archive of the Bruno Zevi Foundation.
Bruno Zevi, “Historiographic and architectural rapport” between Francesco’s Borromini’s Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza in Rome and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in New York from Archittetura e Storiografia: Le matrici antiche del linguaggio moderno (Turin: Einaudi, 1974). Courtesy of the Archive of the Bruno Zevi Foundation.

Only Le Corbusier (who had died less than two years earlier) was exempted from “the general rule of regression” by virtue of his abandonment of the “rationalism” of his early work in the 1920s for the “informal” architecture of Ronchamps and his other “gestural” postwar buildings (190).

For Zevi, the greatest problem in contemporary architecture was the emergence of an “architectural pluralism” fueled by an “eclecticist” approach that was purportedly “democratic,” yet which at its core lacked “consistency” or commitment to any single ideology or formal principle. Here Zevi echoed some of the concerns voiced by Reyner Banham in his attack on the Italian Neo-Liberty movement (which the British historian diagnosed as a symptom of “infantile regression”), as well as by Nikolaus Pevsner in his 1961 RIBA lecture on the “return of historicism” in modern architecture.[2] If Banham criticized recent Italian architecture’s regurgitation of the premodernist Art Nouveau, Pevsner lamented the modernist quotations in buildings by contemporary architects, who used the early 20th-century avant-gardes, from Expressionism to Functionalism, as an inventory of morphological precedents. Zevi’s critique of pluralism also echoed the late writings of his rival Sigfried Giedion, who in the revised introduction to his Space, Time, and Architecture lamented the “playboy” attitude of contemporary architects that liberally shifted their formal repertoires and (non)critical positions from one project to the next.[3] Regressions followed progressions not in a rhythmic sequence, but according to a succession of circumstances. If progress was a straight line, regression was a wavering meander—a pliable trajectory that branched off into a plurality of meaningless digressions.

While Banham criticized Italian architects for their “Neo-Libertarian” ways, Zevi would single out a Scandinavian, Eero Saarinen, for his “pluralist” aberrations. Zevi disparaged Saarinen for meandering from the “romantic” character of the circular mit chapel (1953) and the “Neo-medievalism” of the Yale student dormitories to the “structural” outlook of the Yale skating rink and the Dulles Airport, and then shifting once again to the expressionism of the TWA Terminal in New York (1956) (195). Zevi directed his most vehement invective against the recently completed Lincoln Center in New York—“what has been called ‘the vanguard of crayfish,’ that is, the vanguard of those who go backwards” (196).

Willemoesia, relative of crayfish from Demoor, Massart, and Vandervelde, Evolution by Atrophy in Biology and Sociology (New York: International Scientific Series, D. Appleton and Company, 1899).
Willemoesia, relative of crayfish from Demoor, Massart, and Vandervelde, Evolution by Atrophy in Biology and Sociology (New York: International Scientific Series, D. Appleton and Company, 1899).

The biological metaphor discloses the evolutionary implications of Zevi’s criticism of architectural regression. Like Wallace Harrison’s glass curtain facade for the new Metropolitan Opera House (which echoed the “Pseudo-Venetian arches” of Edward Durrell-Stone that was also censured in Zevi’s lecture), regression projects forward as a screen that covers a multitude of historical associations. Zevi envisions that historians examining the ruins of Lincoln Center 2,000 years later would find it hard to believe that it was constructed after the Bauhaus in Dessau or the Guggenheim Museum in New York; they would instead conclude that it was either a product of the late 18th century or an “offspring” of the 1893 Columbian exhibition (190). Here, the architectural historian projects two millennia forward and envisions himself as a future archaeologist who rediscovers the building and reclassifies it in its appropriate chronological order. Zevi undoes the architectural regression by a historiographic transgression. Modern architecture has to become a rudiment and regress into the status of prehistory in order to reclaim its true historical potential.

In his Interpretation of Dreams, Freud distinguishes between three kinds of regression in terms of its manifestation in dreams and neurotic symptoms. First, topographical regression: a state of antithetical orientation in the movement of psychic stimuli toward the perceptual end from which the latter have originated; second, temporal regression, which for Freud is “a harking back to older psychical structures” when mnemonic traces move toward earlier strata; and third, formal regression, in which “primitive methods of expression and representation take the place of the usual ones.”[4] Freud’s analysis of regression has both temporal and spatial implications. However, impossible as it might be to locate the position of memories, ideas, or thoughts in the psyche, what remains cogent is the notion of topographical orientation and temporal stratification in the arrangement of psychic properties that produce a series of expressive forms. The movement of regression cannot be limited to interior psychic regions, but must project to the external world. As Freud attests, the formal, temporal, and topographic aspects of regression “occur together as a rule;”[5] they produce a composite form that both regresses toward earlier interior strata and simultaneously progresses toward new modes of symbolic external expression.

In his 1967 lecture, Zevi not only speaks about regression, but he himself is also driven by it. It is as if the perceptual stimuli of the modern Expo reverberate with the memories of Baroque architectures, as well as a host of anxieties about the progress or decline of the modern movement. Central in every manifestation of regression is a notion of reverse orientation that unites origins with their (perceived) ends, thus creating a series of anachronic projections. The architectural historian becomes a pathologist who rediscovers symptoms of regression in formal resemblances and visual similarities, such as the ones invented in the histories constructed by Zevi and Giedion. History becomes the menacing object of historiography—either the recent history or the history that is morphologically closer to the present, and whose uncanny proximity makes it hard to bear.


Anticipating Zevi’s postapocalyptic scenarios, contemporary architecture itself had already turned into a form of prehistory clad by archaic, as well as futurist, patterns and associations. Toward the end of his Expo lecture, Zevi proclaimed that the legacy of the modern movement was “besieged by two opposing forces” (196) that had created a radical split. On one side was the academic “monumentalism” or “classicism” of high modernism, and on the other the “pop architecture” of Archigram—a “beat architecture” that lacked principles or “order of any kind,” and which ultimately led into “chaos.” Zevi dramatically concluded that the common objective of both of these camps “was to kill the modern movement and commit suicide” (196). If Borromini’s suicide was for Zevi an act of redemption that could potentially salvage his own designs, as well as future architecture, then in contrast contemporary architects were driven by the intent to destroy everything that preceded them, including their own buildings. Acting as a psychopathologist, Zevi analyzed the modern movement as a formerly unified subject who now suffered from a personality split. In his well-known historiographic scheme, Zevi saw the development of architecture as a continuous spiral, a circuitous progression of architectural styles in which every phase is a necessary step toward the historical fulfillment of (organic) architecture.

Bruno Zevi, Diagram, from Storia dell’ architettura moderna, 5th edition (Torino: Einaudi, 1975). Courtesy of the Archive of the Bruno Zevi Foundation.
Bruno Zevi, Diagram, from Storia dell’ architettura moderna, 5th edition (Torino: Einaudi, 1975). Courtesy of the Archive of the Bruno Zevi Foundation.

While there were several opposing tendencies in the history of architecture—for example, functionalism and organicism, or functionalism and the romanticism of the 19th-century—movements would succeed one another without coinciding for a long period of time. The coexistence of two antithetical orientations was, for Zevi, a pathological symptom of the schizoid state of modern architecture and its endlessly bifurcating psychological vicissitudes.

In an attempt to escape the appalling “reality,” as epitomized in the example of Lincoln Center, modern visionaries had regressed into “utopia,” which now split into two more antithetical directions. Next to the impetuous drive toward the future, as displayed in the space-fiction iconography of the Archigram group, was a longing for the distant past and the origins of architecture in prehistory. Such tendencies instigated a return to the typology of the “cave”—an architecture “carved from inside,” as evident in Frederick Kiesler’s Endless House (which was exhibited in the late 1950s), as well as archaic and vernacular buildings. On one side of utopia orbited the interplanetary spacecrafts of the neofuturists celebrated by Banham, and on the other the hopeless neoromanticists that desired a return to the intrauterine environments of the surrealists or the circular abodes of tribal settlements. Included among such prized, ambiguously “prehistoric” specimens were the Dogon huts documented by Aldo Van Eyck, or the rock-cut dwellings in the south of France and Tunisia explored by the Smithsons, later to be retraced—in concrete—in their so-called House of the Future.[6]

It is here that we see how Zevi’s dichotomy between “progress or regression” essentially collapsed. Since both orientations appeared to coexist, it could no longer be a matter of either/or. Like the time leap from the bone dangling ape-humans to the rotating space-stations in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey,

or the assemblage of fur-covered spaceships and pneumatic carriages driven by extraterrestrial cavemen in Rose Vandim’s Barbarella (both films were released in 1968), prehistory acted as the backdrop for the delineation of futurist and/or eschatological visions. This incongruous mélange of both pre- and postapocalyptic landscapes would ultimately delineate a pre/post/erous history—a narrative that points to the origin and end of both humanity and (modern) architecture. Indeed, such anachronic narratives mark not only the end of modernism, but also the
origin and brief life of what we call postmodern architecture.

It appears that at the beginning of the 1960s, architectural historians became obsessed not only with the decipherment of the past, but also the prognostication of the future. In his reflections on “the history of the immediate future,” Banham envisioned the historian as a computer analyst, inserting all hard data from past histories and modern-day science to obtain a “graph” of future architectural developments.[7] Historical interpretation was superseded by scientific projection and the desire to predict the future through both the present and the distant prehistoric past. However, prehistory offers no written records that could be processed as hard data by Banham’s historiographic machine. Prehistory is susceptible to pliable interpretations and produces irregular “graphs” that are hard to either extend or interpret. It is the task of the historian, then, to fill the gaps of archaeological information with predictions, and to produce a future-anterior diagram of what it will have been. Zevi himself made similar predictions in the conclusion to his Modern Language of Architecture, titled “Prehistory and the Zero Degree of Architectural Culture.”[8] Here, once again the Italian historian juxtaposed the neon signs of Las Vegas and the aesthetics of Pop Art with the “primitive elements of Paleolithic times” and the vernacular of “Architecture without Architects” (thus implicitly pitting the work of Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown against Bernard Rudofsky’s MoMA exhibition) (Zevi, Modern Language, 221–222). Zevi’s postscript was essentially a visual atlas of artfully arranged photographic collages that juxtaposed prehistoric, vernacular, and contemporary architectures, which were ingeniously choreographed with an acute sense of visual rhyming. For example, a full-page illustration combined photographic images of a Neolithic village in Northern Rhodesia, the pseudo-geodesic domes of “the hippy [sic] community of Drop City” in Trinidad, Colorado, and Moshe Safdie’s Habitat,

while the following page spread placed images of the craters of an underground community of “cavemen” in Tunisia next to Erich Mendelsohn’s drawings of “the Architecture of the Dunes” (223–225). The final image sequence of the book was an aerial view of Stonehenge, preceded by a photograph of Pederson and Tilney’s competition model for the Roosevelt Memorial in Washington, DC (1960), depicting “a crown of prehistoric stelae with platforms” (as Zevi noted in his caption), which was strongly reminiscent of the formal arrangement of the ancient site. The contemporary project follows Stonehenge, yet through its image precedes it. Even Zevi’s illustration list reverses the sequence between pre and post.

Bruno Zevi, page with illustrations of Neolithic village in Northern Rhodesia, the pseudo-geodesic domes of “the hippy community of Drop City” in Trinidad, Colorado, and Moshe Safdie’s Habitat from Archittetura e Storiografia: Le matrici antiche del linguaggio moderno (Turin: Einaudi, 1974). Courtesy of the Archive of the Bruno Zevi Foundation.
Bruno Zevi, page with illustrations of Neolithic village in Northern Rhodesia, the pseudo-geodesic domes of “the hippy community of Drop City” in Trinidad, Colorado, and Moshe Safdie’s Habitat from Archittetura e Storiografia: Le matrici antiche del linguaggio moderno (Turin: Einaudi, 1974). Courtesy of the Archive of the Bruno Zevi Foundation.

Bruno Zevi, illustrations of William Pederson and Bradford Tilney competition model for the Roosevelt Memorial in Washington, DC (1960). Courtesy of the Archive of the Bruno Zevi Foundation.
Bruno Zevi, illustrations of William Pederson and Bradford Tilney competition model for the Roosevelt Memorial in Washington, DC (1960). Courtesy of the Archive of the Bruno Zevi Foundation.


To be sure, prehistory has its own history in the annals of modern architecture. Preceding Zevi and contemporary with the practices of Kiesler and the Smithsons was Sigfried Giedion’s research on prehistoric art and (to a lesser degree) architecture. Giedion’s analyses were first presented in 1957 as a series of Mellon Lectures at the National Gallery in Washington, DC, and then later published as the first volume of his grand trilogy titled The Eternal Present.[9] Giedion’s research was informed by the recent studies of paleoanthropologists such as Leroi-Gourhan and included visits to the original sites of Pech-Merle, Dordogne, and the Pyrenees. Using a number of formal principles—such as transparency and superimposition of shapes, lack of gravity and spatial orientation—Giedion linked prehistoric art with the work of 20th-century abstract painters such as Arp, Klee, Léger, and Picasso, concluding that prehistoric man (as Freud had already said) is really our contemporary. There can essentially be neither progress nor regression in the Eternal Present, for everything is projected and flattened onto the same plane. Unlike the linear “perspectival” development traced in Space, Time and Architecture, Giedion’s later work presents a spiraling temporal system that allows the historian to expand the trajectory of modern architecture from prehistory to the present, and to consolidate its legacy in the future.

In the final part of his trilogy, Architecture and the Phenomena of Transition, published posthumously, Giedion’s “third space conception” began with modern art and architecture in the early 20th century, synthesizing the previous two “space conceptions,” the first of which belonged to Egyptian (or Greek) and the second to Roman antiquity. If the architecture of the first was a series of closed volumes, such as the pyramids or Greek temples, from which space radiated outward, and the architecture of the second was a lineage of grand structures, such as the Roman Pantheon or other large public buildings, which were molded around a hollow interior space, the architecture of the third space conception combined both of these spatial attitudes in free volumes that comprised interpenetrating exterior and interior spaces. Giedion’s historiographic scheme amalgamates teleology with posthistorical prognostication. If each of the previous historical space conceptions had lasted for at least a couple of millennia, then the third one, that of modern architecture, was destined to live longer than its predecessors and, morever, to persist eternally. In other words, modern architecture was here to stay: the 20th century was “only the beginning.”[10]

But one and two does not exactly make three, whether in the case of Giedion or any other overarching post-Hegelian synthesis. By reflecting the skyscrapers of New York onto Egyptian obelisks and pyramids, Giedion’s third space conception was implicitly leading back toward the monolithic domain of the first. Bolder in his eschatological predictions, Zevi decided to close his own account of modern architecture not with the number three, but with the “degree zero,” the level of prehistory—not as a nihilistic or impossible utopia, but as a nondirectional space of infinite possibilities.


Often in such spiraling (pre)histories, a distant origin merges with an “end” that has already occurred or it is imminent. As becomes evident in Bataille’s essays on prehistoric art, most of them dating from the 1940s and 1950s, the contemporary resurgence of interest in prehistory was instigated by the momentous discovery of the cave paintings of Lascaux and other sites and objects from the Paleolithic era, yet was inevitably tinged by the horrors of the war, including Auschwitz and Hiroshima.[11] Speaking before Zevi in the 1967 “Man and His World” conference in Montreal, Karl Löwith discussed scientific “progress” as a form of “fatality” often related to “destruction.”[12] The philosopher mentioned the role of science in the creation of nuclear weapons and the misuse of atomic energy in the World War II (Man and His World, 93). In the beginning of his lecture on “The land of prehistoric men” (which preceded the talks by Löwith and Zevi in the same conference), the paleoanthropologist Leroi-Gourhan made a similarly ominous historical comparison, by reminding his audience that in the Middle Ages, prehistoric remains, such as “heaps of sea-shells or enormous bones” would “testify to the material reality of the Deluge (71).”[13] Prehistoric specimens not only announced but were re-created by echoes of the deluge. The catastrophic impact of the World War II had rendered everything that preceded it into a form of prehistory: dark, unknowable, murky. All objects, starting with buildings, had to be reinvented by starting from “degree zero”—the flatness of the prehistorical desert. Postwar prehistories were (mal)formed by the insecurities of a postnuclear condition that gave birth to both eschatological and cosmogonic visions—fantasies of an originary prehistory that could absolve the future by the ambient properties of a virtual past. Similar to Zevi’s projection of Lincoln Center as a quasi-post-apocalyptic “ruin,” the objects of modern architecture were now rediscovered as the fossils of an unlocatable prehistory, their own origin and end becoming part of a (post)historical prediction.

But let us now close by regressing to Zevi’s “crayfish” reference in his description of the pre/post/erous rudiments of Lincoln Center. Toward the turn of the previous century, a group of Belgian natural theorists and sociologists published a book on the idea of “regressive evolution”—a supplement to, as well as critique of, Darwin’s earlier theories. According to the Belgian scientists, every (r)evolution is preceded by a form of devolution. No progress can ever occur without regression; no forward movement can take place without recoil. In order to gain one thing, an organism has to lose something else.[14] The processes of degeneration and atrophy were essential to the continuation of life, and so too were organic rudiments and relics. Could discourses of regression and prehistoric origins in architecture, then, have a similarly regenerative function? Could the very invocation of the prehistoric caves or the Borrominian Baroque create new alliances between post and past architectures and delineate historical correspondences with the present? Could the transformation of contemporary buildings into relics, such as the premature ruination of Lincoln Center catalyzed by Zevi, in fact, propel the posthumous evolution of modern architecture? Departing from the linear progress of Renaissance and Classical architectural discourses and from the radical discontinuity of historical process espoused by the modern movement, recent architectural culture advances another model of history—that of regression, temporal revolution, and spiraling anachronism. By turning back or looking back at itself from a distance, architectural history reinstates its critical dimension through a series of projective historiographic operations. Regression, regurgitation of earlier materials, recurrence, or return, are not simply traumatic repetitions of a past that is essentially unknowable, but are also sources of renewal for a disciplinary orthodoxy that has become stale.


1. Bruno Zevi, “Architecture 1967: Progress or Regression?” in Man and His World (Terre des Hommes): The Noranda Lectures Expo 67, Helen S. Hogg (ed.) (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1968), 173–200.
2. Banham Reyner, “Neo-Liberty: The Italian Retreat from Modern Architecture,” in The Architectural Review 125 (April 1959), 230–235; and Nikolaus Pevsner “Modern Architecture and the Historian or the Return of Historicism,” RIBA Journal 68 (April 1961), 230–242.
3. Sigfried Giedion, “Introduction—Architecture in the 1960s: Hopes and Fears,” in Space Time and Architecture, 5th rev. ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967), xxxii.
4. Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams (1900), in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. 5, James Strachey (trans.) (London: The Hogarth Press, 1955), 547.
5. Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams, p. 547.
6. On the iconography of the Smithsons’s House of the Future, see Beatriz Colomina, “Unbreathed Air 1956,” Grey Room, no. 15 (Spring 2004), 28–59.
7. Reyner Banham, “The History of the Immediate Future,” RIBA Journal 68 (May 1961), 252–260, 269.
8. Bruno Zevi, The Modern Language of Architecture (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1978), 218–233. See also Bruno Zevi, Il linguaggio moderno dell’ architettura (Turin: Einaudi, 1973) and Archittetura e Storiografia: Le matrici antiche del linguaggio moderno (Turin: Einaudi, 1974).
9. Sigfried Giedion, The Eternal Present Volume I: The Beginnings of Art (New York: Bollingen Foundation and Pantheon Books, 1962). As mentioned in the acknowledgments in his book, Giedion had delivered several other lectures on prehistoric art, starting with a lecture titled “Prehistoric and Contemporary Means of Artistic Expression,” delivered in the International Congress for Prehistoric and Protohistoric Sciences in Zurich in 1950. Giedion, The Eternal Present, ix.
10. Sigfried Giedion, Architecture and the Phenomena of Transition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971).
11. See, for example, his “Notes for a Film,” in George Bataille, The Cradle of Humanity: Prehistoric Art and Culture, Stuart Kendall (ed. and trans.) (New York: Zone Books, 2005), 179–185.
12. Karl Löwith, “Progress: A Fatality,” in Man and His World (see note 1), 81–95.
13. André Leroi-Gourhan, “Terre des hommes préhistoriques,” in Man and His World (see note 1), 71–80.
14. Jean Demoor, Jean Massart, and Émile Vandervelde, L’évolution regressive en biologie et sociologie (Paris: Alcan, 1897). English edition: Evolution by Atrophy in Biology and Sociology, Chalmers Mitchell (trans.) (New York: International Scientific Series, D. Appleton and Company, 1899).


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