Not a day passes without a headline blaring the demolition of yet another chunk of Malta’s traditional urban landscape to make way for trendy, totally unimaginative high-rise, while creating mountains of waste that no one is concerned about.
Most of us approve, even applaud. A few thousands sign perfectly futile petitions, while a handful pour out their lamentation in a heartfelt opinion piece fully aware that they are merely gaining a few moments of giving vent. For their words fall on a nation that is largely immune to a sense of beauty, let alone outrage.
This is unsurprising for two main reasons – both inextricably linked with our recent and not-so-recent past. Whether you agree or disagree with the wholesale destruction of our indigenous landscape is utterly irrelevant. Building contractors in Malta have been ruling the roost for four decades. They have even galvanised countless homeowners to pull down their own arduously built homes to erect more high-rise, laying the foundation for generations to emulate and transcend their example.
Consequently, a wave of street protests is never going to happen, which relegates expressions of grief (including this write-up) to armchair criticism. Some opinion writers lashing out that “enough is enough”, have parents who made a packet out of demolishing their fabulous townhouses some years back. I cannot tell whether these opinionists benefitted from the windfall or disagreed with their parents, nor seek to know.
Why am I bothering to spill some ink? Primarily because Richard England’s recent comment that “Malta has lost the plot” more than confirmed that it is game over for those who remember Malta’s townscapes before the 1980s set in. In fact, I would go further by affirming that Malta never had a plan to have beautiful towns. Meaning that any gorgeous buildings materialised when good taste, inspirational design and labour of love coincided, pretty much like a fortunate fluke.
Now for a throwback to history. The finesse of the Knights infused the extraordinary way they synthesised art and science in a glorious composite of beauty and functionality, though the heinous nature of dominion should not be glossed over. Stripped of the Knights’ architectural genius, Malta would have ended up just another Mediterranean rock with not much to enthuse over.
Subsequent British dominion added to the island’s military buildings catering for British military personnel and their families. Nevertheless, Sliema began to take shape in the second half of the 19th century. Despite a documented lack of planning, it grew into a much admired and desirable location of elegant town houses (including modest ones) which showcased endless variations of the ‘Maltese townhouse’.
To be 100 per cent clear I am referring to houses built out of our honey-coloured globigerina limestone, graced with wooden Maltese balconies, wooden doors embellished with fascinating metal knobs, and louvred shutters also made of wood. Sometimes, wrought iron was used to finish off verandahs, gates; or as an added security measure which often took the shape of pregnant windows. As for the amazing internal features, they are a string of superlatives.
I cannot put my finger on why looking in their direction does not beckon me inside to absorb the glow of a loving God
Nascent Sliema had countless examples from all over the island to go by, but again, was lucky to assimilate touches of art nouveau trends making waves at the time. So as the years rolled by, walking along the streets (not necessarily the promenade) was a sheer delight. Being Sliema born and bred, I have no words to describe the heartache of seeing my hometown desecrated beyond gang rape horror.
Though we finally put an end to the chains of colonialism, we have certainly not succeeded in nurturing aesthetic appeal. The bootlicking gene (fortified to survive centuries of foreign rule) must have sapped any effort in this regard, which probably explains why no Maltese ‘education expert’ ever hit upon the idea of encouraging children to discover and learn about the wonders of Malta’s pre-1980s architecture.
I am specifying this decade because this is the one that opened wide its arms to silver and gold aluminium apertures, to stone balconies binging on balavostri, and above all, to a building boom based on ‘out with the old, in with the new’.
That architecture styles evolve along with the zeitgeist is the way of the world and always open to heated debate because different tastes are fuelled by different perceptions of beauty.
Yet what happened in Malta beggars belief, even if one had to just pinpoint windows. Admittedly, wooden apertures are a nightmare to clean and a huge expense to maintain. Though not half as hectic as today, lifestyles were no longer placid, nor domestics cheap and easy to find. Ergo, the attraction of aluminium cannot be dismissed.
But it never dawned upon anyone in authority to stipulate that the mushrooming blocks of flats had to stick to uniform apertures. When other colours whetted the appetite for more aluminium, we ended up with the most hideous examples of warped eclecticism, which are still visible all over the place. It also took years to kickstart a financial aid scheme to save the Maltese balcony, and unlike building permits – which incidentally not everyone needs – I doubt if there ever was/is an avalanche of such applications.
To make matters worse we are by nature money-minded, illogical and happy to go with the flow. Today’s cashing in on property speculation and astronomical rental costs is firing a seemingly never-ending feast. The so-called vibrancy of Valletta is a direct result of all the eateries that make the capital look and smell like one sizeable open-air take-away. Its street vibe is indeed gluttonous despite the splendor of restored buildings.
But the most symptomatic of our concrete-mad vision is the embellished Paola Square. Before anyone hounds me down, I say loud and clear that it is a definite upgrade on its previous sorry state. Yet the overall design of relentless grey is joyless and sterile. So much so that the acid yellow benches fail to inject a spark of vitality. Mounted on sloping concrete platforms (what else?), their contemporariness unwittingly displays a touch of the surreal since they project our drunk-with-rapacious-greed reality.
The tree saplings are skeletal. The fountain at one end comprises a series of more concrete slabs (no other shape or material will do). Nor has anyone bothered to make the kiosk look attractive. And in this age of unprecedented equal civil rights, the infirm requiring care and attention at the Paola Health Centre cannot be dropped off at its front door.
On a more positive note, anyone stopping for an al fresco coffee has been relieved from encircling traffic – now confined to two cobbled lanes. The architect who designed the project stated that this is a deliberate way to slow down the flow of vehicles and enjoy the open space. Hats off to him had Paola Square not had to bear a great deal of the traffic heading to and out of the south, meaning we no longer have only Marsa to blame for traffic snarls.
Notwithstanding the subjectivity of likes and dislikes, most of the buildings in the square do not make me rave, including the church façade and parvis. Is it the columns? Is it the greyness? I cannot put my finger on why looking in their direction does not beckon me inside to absorb the glow of a loving God.
So, my gaze turns once again to the square. Metres of ratty grey concrete/ cement and blobs of acid yellow synthetic mesh. Just the thing for a perfect promo of the construction industry riding high on the Dubai-ification of Malta.