When walking past this building for probably the hundredth time, I begin to realise that it is not just a church, but a definition of the place I grew up in. It stands there, tall and still, carrying with it my memories, my home friends, those endless nights of binge-drinking and secret girly giggling in the town square. Each of these memories, looking upon this very church. I can’t help but think that if it hadn’t been there, if I had grown up with a different piece of art in my hometown, would things be different?
The architect of this church, which is nothing special to anyone who didn’t grow up in my tiny hometown, seems to be lost to history. I can’t help but think that every other place is similarly defined by pieces of art and the artists who make them. New York holds the hand of Lady Liberty, sculpted by Bartholdi, Barcelona is cradled in the embrace of la Sagrada Familia, a work of mastery by Gaudi. Just like I am indebted to my humble hometown church, these places owe their identities to their art and their artists, it is entirely possible that they would all be forgotten without it. It is with these placemaking artworks that a question must be posed: who has the power to create a place’s identity?
Artists around the world enforce a global-scale definition of place, all while running the risk of being forgotten themselves. While writing this, I find myself completely unable to name the architect of the pyramids, or the creator of the Berlin Wall, even though the works are the first things springing to mind when I think of Egypt or Berlin. It could be my mere arrogance, or lack of geographical knowledge, but I can’t help thinking of these artists’ lives as sacrificial ones, we have the privilege of attaching art to a whole culture, a staple piece of the lives passing through. That is to say, the defining nature of art is complimentary, these artists are able to live on through their work, and attach themselves directly to their culture, and their history.