In his novels and short stories Ballard also uses ruin imagery in a more general manner, in the role of what he calls the ‘archaeopsychic past’ (Hello America (1981); The Drowned World (1962) ). Here they serve as metaphors for inner journeys.

Factory ruins, such as the large industrial plant we saw on the coast south of Primorsko last year, are both dystopian landscapes and gutted shells bearing witness to seismic economic events. From its inception the factory has always represented a tightly-monitored, highly-specialised space as well as vigorously controlled time. Configured exclusively by functionality in its use of space, mechanical efficiency in producing the desired commodities and characterised by a high degree of regular maintenance, factories also provided a fixed core of structured social interaction. In their dysfunctional state they represent failures—personal, historical, economic—and their broken windows, hanging doors, peeling paint and fluttering pigeons in empty rooms are threatening wastelands for most people that awaken consciousness of the fragility of economic and social structures that had seemed like permanent fixtures. Production has moved elsewhere, leaving behind the knowledge that one person’s progress often represents the destruction of the previous generation’s ‘traditional’ life style. In many western European cities ruins offer a ‘free space’ for plants, animals and humans, especially the young and homeless. With the increasing control of public space—the installation of more and more surveillance cameras, the transformation of the shops on the public high street into privately-owned and policed malls as well as laws against ‘loitering’ (Samila Kawash refers to it as the ‘perpetual motion of the homeless’)—ruins can offer asylum in both a literal and metaphorical sense.

Standing here now, looking at this monumental edifice to a system that is still in the process of renegotiating its place in history, I’m struck by a strange contrast: the comparative ease and speed of the historicisation of the attack on the World Trade Centre. Within three weeks of the event curators of over thirty major American museums (including the Smithsonian Institute) had arranged to meet. The main point on the agenda was a discussion as to which artefacts were to be salvaged from the ruins in order to document the history of the 9/11 events. The exhibition, September 11: Bearing Witness to History, opened in the Smithsonian in time for the first anniversary, went on tour for three years and finally closed in 2006. Examining the collection on-line I get the feeling that history here is not so much contextual documentation but more a case of ensuring that history is written into the national consciousness with the right flavour, in icons and patriotic markers.

We stand for a short time under the red-starred tower which, given the open nature of the site, must operate like the biggest sundial in the world though today it cast no shadow because of the whipped grey skies that are throwing rain at us. When we have all but completed a full circuit I notice a broken window at knee height and discover that I can drop down onto what seems to be the landing of a concrete staircase covered in debris. I wait for a moment, listen to the wind and for any other messages the structure has to tell – the creaks, clatters and scrapings of wind-animated debris and animals in a deserted building.