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Though “wellness” can be hard to define, it would not be a huge leap to claim that a “well” person should not be bleeding, coughing, or suffering from depression. In that case, we use bandages, medicine, therapy – anything to repair ourselves and return to a desired, “original” state of well-being. 

If we were to follow the same line of reasoning that we use for ourselves, the logical conclusion would be to restore these ruins to their “original” historical state. When Sir Arthur Evans began his excavations of the ancient Cretan ruins of Knossos, he decided the same, and so began a series of restorations involving the work of three different architects over fifty years. Today, the Throne Room and its dolphin-adorned frescos remain in their reconstructed glory, now the second-most visited attraction in all of Greece.

Unfortunately, this is not the success story it might appear to be. For one, the Bronze Age remains surrounding the throne site were left ignored. This is a significant oversight in depicting Knossos’s history: The site was occupied from the Neolithic to the Roman Era (at least 5th century C.E.), but Evans’ restorations are frozen in a snapshot in time, at the end of the 2nd century C.E. The historical inauthenticity doesn’t stop there, however. Evans reconstructed the ruins assuming they were Minoan. Yet, the modern consensus is that most of the Throne ruins were actually constructed by the Mycenaeans, the people who in fact destroyed the previous Minoan civilization.

This isn’t to say that Evans’ archeological team had no respect for the history of Knossos. In fact, initial restorations were relatively minimal and strove to use materials authentic to the era. However, faced with the crumbling state of the ruins and the short lifespan of the additions, the restoration team made a pivot towards more durable but ahistorical materials like iron girders and reinforced concrete. Paintings had to be reconstructed away from their original locations, and the team took increasing liberties in constructing new sections based on limited archeological evidence.

No matter the intent, this is a lesson in the mistaken belief that ruins can be accurately reconstructed to their original grandeur. To demand this would be the equivalent of your dad telling his doctor that he wants to relive his college football years. Not only is a full restoration to that level of athleticism at his age exceedingly difficult, but that desire is based on a perception of well-being rather than an accurate description of his past. Just don’t ask dad about his post-game benders.

Even the most seemingly innocuous of changes can be emblematic of not just the “wellness” of the ruin in question, but of an entire nation. That sounds fairly hyperbolic, doesn’t it – what building could have such political and cultural significance?

May 2nd of this year, Heritage Minister Dario Franceschini announced the formal beginning of a project to add a wooden floor to the Colosseum, initially removed in the 19th century to gain better access to the underground gladiatorial tunnels below. His hope was to give visitors the opportunity to “see the majesty of the Colosseum” from the gladiator’s point of view, “getting back to the original image.”

There it is again; that obsession with the “original.”

He expressed this same stance back in 2014. For all but a single year since then, he’s been the Heritage Minister, wielding the power to enact this plan. It begs the question … Why has this debate lasted this long? To understand this requires an understanding of Italy’s history of reckoning with its own past.

During Mussolini’s fascist regime, the dictator ordered parts of the surrounding neighborhood of Monti to be demolished in favor of modern architecture. Yet, it couldn’t escape the shadow of history towering over it. This is not some high-concept aggrandizement; the Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana was built during this time. Today, it is referred to as the “Square Colosseum”.

Post-WWII, the newly established Republic wished to rebuff Mussolini’s ideology, and so wrote into its Constitution Article 9:

In short, the preservation of history became a matter of national interest.

Fast forward to 2008. Italy was one of the hardest hit by the economic crisis. In the name of austerity measures, half of the country’s cultural budget was slashed. The outrage was immense, with some citing Article 9 to defend what they believed to be a basic right. This is the context in which Franceschini originally made his proposal: by returning the Colosseum closer to its former state, as a cultural center of the world with regular events held on its floor, he symbolically promised to return Italy to its prime. 

Ironically, by presenting a glorified heritage, the proposed floor hides the gladiatorial tunnels that are an undeniable part of its history. By prioritizing their global image, the government once again neglects the local community of Monti as its residents are displaced by tourist-catering hotels and shops. By promoting this space as a place for “cultural events”, it inevitably becomes a space for corporate exploitation, such as when soccer team owner James Pallotta proposed a 300 million viewer pay-per-view match with the monument as a playing field. 

In some sense, the country has not escaped the mindset that Mussolini perpetrated, simultaneously idolizing and neglecting the past in service of a present self-image. Its people, acutely aware of this contradiction, struggle to decide what it actually means to preserve its ruins, and through that, its culture. 

If “wellness” means anything to a nation … is Italy well?

The thing is, Western artists have been reconciling this identity crisis for centuries now. The Romantics were particularly obsessed with the ruins of antiquity, contemplating the impermanence of Western civilization and, by association, their own transience. I’m woefully unqualified to interpret this collective oeuvre, but I do want to mention one particular artist.

Hubert Robert was nicknamed Robert des ruines for his near obsessive interest in ruins. Unlike many of his contemporaries however, Robert at times turns his mind’s eye away from the past and towards the landmarks of his present, preserving them in their eroding state or even reimagining them as such.

One of his most famous paintings, View of the Grande Galerie in Ruins (1796), is an example of the latter, depicting The Louvre in a state of ruin. Most of the artwork has fallen, but a bronze statue of the Apollo Belvedere still stands, beheld by a single man preserving the work in his sketchbook. He does nothing more, as if he’s just a visitor to the grand gallery as it was.

Some might obsess with the glory of the past, or fear what it portends for our future. From that perspective, it is hard to not view the ruin as a blight on the landscape, something unwell that needs to be fixed. But for this man who accepts the past as it was, the ruin as it is, and the transience of everything that will be … the ruin is a miracle. After all of this time, it’s still standing. And I get to see it.

How do we define the “wellness” of a ruin? A trick question.

It is defined by us; by our own wellness. Looking upon our past, present, and future, embodied in crumbling stone … are we afraid? Or are we comforted? 

–

Wanting to be anywhere else, I stormed out of my own home and walked into the nearby forest. All I wanted to do was to vent and wallow in my own despair where nobody could find me.

Nobody did find me that day. But something did.

Directly across my house is a nursery. Every day, the place bustled with the noise of parents’ cars filling the parking lot. I was used to that noise. However, just a thousand feet away was a different nursery. It always seemed to be empty. It’s probably not true, but I thought it had been abandoned.

But through a dirt trail in the forest, I accidentally stumbled into the nursery’s backyard.  Barbie dolls laying in their houses, caked in dust. A large dreamcatcher with ribbons tied to it. An oversized iridescent oyster shell sitting on a flight of stairs. A toy waterfall set, too filled with sand to have been deposited by the wind alone. A clothesline hung with crayon drawings that I stared at for a very long time, struggling to understand what each was trying to say.

I thought this place was dead. To the casual onlooker, it probably looked that way. But I understood for the first time that this was a lived-in place, where little kids tied little ribbons and scrawled with crayons and shoveled up sand where it didn’t belong. And after all of this time … it was still here.

This was my ruin. That day, when I thought I wanted to be alone, it found me. And it will find me again. Because even if the nursery truly closes and bulldozers come to tear it down, it will still be there. Because the longest-lasting form of preservation, longer than any physical restoration, is memory and art.

I returned home, comforted by the new people I got to meet. And all was well.