[Hill Stations] are areas where French can live, work and firmly establish our race. Indigenous peoples are currently sparse enough to avoid having to evict anyone. Should all these high-altitude regions be populated by settlers, farmers, planters, and French breeders- as is possible and as it must be- and civilization in Indochina, the sovereignty of France in this part of the Far East will be establish indestructibly.¹

This passage in Paul Doumer’s Situation de I’Indo-Chine articulates the prevailing view held by French colonisers during the conquest of Indochina. When the French arrived in Indochina, they were confronted with a climate that starkly contrasted with their homeland in Europe. The tropical climate was characterised by its high temperature, oppressive humidity, and a range of diseases that were largely unfamiliar to settlers. Although French adventures, settlers and soldiers, were captivated by Indochina’s beauty, many of them struggled to love in the region comfortably. The French and prominent Dr. Le Dantec stated that ‘the negative influence exerted over time by tropical climates on the health of Europeans… has been and remains the most serious obstacle to our colonisation efforts. This quote underscores the gravity of the situation where health quickly became the foremost concern of French colonisers.

The need to combat the adverse effects of the tropical climate spurred architectural and spatial transformations. The French introduced a new concept of territory and environment – the hill stations. The most notable example is Dalat, which aimed to recreate an approximation of their home environment and climate, and provide a respite from the harsh tropical lowlands. Hill stations had no equivalent in Indochina; their creation was ex nihilo² Everything had to be decided, designed and built. This developed a new conception of the way that territories could be inhabited, more significantly where the French could ‘firmly establish [their] race.’ This phrase is crucial echoing Social Darwinism and its notions of racial inequality and racial competition, and the ideological motivations behind the creation of this space. Furthermore, the creation of such a space was not just a response to the tropical climate as it represented a deliberate effort to create a space where the French could exert their power. by demonstrating their ability to conquer the tropical environment, the French clearly believed that they could justify their presence in Indochina.

In general, these elevated retreats challenge conventional understanding of ‘tropicality.’ The well-renowned geographer and anthropologist Pierre Gourou emphasised the need to recognise diversity and move beyond simplified definitions of tropicality. The space of hill stations such as Dalat challenge the conventional notions of tropicality, forcing a reconsideration of the region’s climate as more than uniformly hot and humid. Hill stations introduce the idea of microclimates within tropical regions, where altitude could mitigate the intensity of the heat. Furthermore, in this particular context of the development of Dalat, it provides a useful lens through which spatial history can be explored. The work of Eric Jenning’s is the foundational premise of this discussion, for Jennings’s work was the first to uncover the importance of Dalat.

Dalat lies in the heart of Vietnam’s central highlands and has an unique history. Dalat was designed to be a sanctuary from the tropical rigours of Indochina. Its cooler climate, nestled amid pine forests and rolling hills, provided not only a physical respite but also a mental escape from the conventional definitions of tropicality.³ The bacteriologist Alexandre Yesin, protégé of the renowned French chemist Louis Pasteir, peitioned the French governor-general, Paul Doumer, to create a resort centre in the highlands. By 1907, Da Lat had been selected as the location for such a town so started urban planning under the leadership pf Ernst Hebrard. A French journalist described the result:

[In Dalat] French determination has created an elegant and harmonious town, developed in such a way that it has become a veritable little paradise, in a setting of flowered gardens and pine trees… In designing the town, we avoided pretentious and unattractive buildings. Everywhere, delectable villas hide behind lovely gardens, gardens full of flowers from Europe. Roads are wide, asphalted, and offering breathing room. On the vast artificial lake’s limpid waters, majestic swans swim by. Tennis courts and a perfectly conceived gold course add a sporting note to the resort.⁴.

Through the use of extensive hyperbole one is able to detect the cultural superiority that the French wished to emit in their mission to create a utopia.  A ‘little paradise’ that would be entirely French in its vegetation, aesthetics and its amenities. But as Eric Jenning’s insists Dalat is a ‘singular, unexpected, almost incoherent place,’ as on the one hand it was an articulation of power but on the other it is a place that showcases colonial anxiety and the limitations of the french in adapting to the tropicality.⁵ This helps to provide a wealth of knowledge that advances and challenges pre-existing notions.

Firstly, in the European perceptions of tropical climates, there often emerged vivid descriptions of disease-ridden discomfort and extreme weather conditions. While there’s a measure of truth in these descriptions, it is particularly intriguing to examine the construction of the Xuan Huong Lake in Dalat. In its construction the lake was intended to serve as an oasis of comfort, designed to offer a stark contrast to the challenging tropical conditions and provide an idyllic setting for relaxation and recreation. Ironically, this man-made lake at the centre of the town, together with increased migration from surrounding areas with endemic malaria, resulted in bringing mosquitoes and humans together.⁶ Malaria was a grave menace to the French rule in Indochina. This unintended consequences underscores the limited understanding of the complexities of the tropical environment by the French authorities. Their focus on creating comfortable and European-style spaces in the midst of tropical challenges led to unforeseen health risks.

Second is the tension between the preservation of identity, and cultural hybridity. Notions of tropicality stress colonial exclusivity, but Dalat became witness to the proliferation of Vietnamese interactions which significantly altered its spatial history. Despite their best efforts to create a French Dalat utopia where ‘delectable villas hid behind lovley gardens, gardens full of flowers from Europe,’ the very act of colonisation ensured that the local culture and people would play a significant role in shaping the city. Vietnamese labourers, both on plantations and in the construction of railways, were essential for making the French vision reality, and their labour left an indelible mark on Dalat’s cultural landscape. Moreover, the presence of Vietnamese elites and the middle class for vacationing and leisure further eroded the French colonial vision of exclusivity. Not only did these interactions influence the city’s demographics, but they also created a unique cultural hybridity. This can be observed in the monuments and temples constructed in Dalat, including the Thein Vuong Co Sat Pragoda and the Truc Lam Buddhist temple. ⁷ The attempts to create utopia that would preserve French identity, also contributed to a place that showcased cultural hybridity, transcending the boundaries of a purely French enclave.

The very act of attempting to ‘establish their’ race in Dalat led to a situtaion where the city became a contradiction to preserved notions of tropicality, Instead of a purely European, exotic, and unchanging landscape, Dalate became a dynamic and culturally diverse place that challenged the colonial agenda. Indeed, by studying a particular place in time, one is able to gained a much comprehensive understanding of the concept of tropicality in all its complexities.

1. Paul Doumer, Situation de I’Indo-Chine. 1897-1901, cited in Aline Demay, Tourism and Colonisation in Indochina 1898,1939, p.49 [↩]
2. Aline Demay, Tourism and Colonisation in Indochina 1898,1939, p. 47. [↩]
3. Eric T.  Jennings, Dalat and the making and undoing of French Indochina, p. 1 [↩]
4. ‘A French Journalist for L’Asie nouvelle,’ in Eric T.  Jennings ‘Urban Planning, Architecture, and Zoning At Dalat, Indochina, 1900-1944, Historical Reflections, 33:2 (2007), p327 [↩]
5. Eric T. Jennings,  Dalat and the making and undoing of French Indochina, p.4 [↩]
6. Michitake Aso, ‘Patriotic hygiene:Tracing new places of knowledge production about malaria in Vietnam, 1919-75,’ Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 44:4 (2013), p.433. [↩]
7. Eric T. Jennings,  Dalat and the making and undoing of French Indochina, p.  171- 172. [↩]

Figure 1. The excerpts of newspaper

The study of the tropics was prevalent throughout the previous century when imperial colonisation was still dominant around the globe. Against this backdrop, an article from a local Singaporean newspaper The Straits Echo, titled “Health in the Tropics”, published on 6 February 1914, became the focus of this blog. Focused on the well-being of Europeans residing in the tropics, the article claims that “while the white man individually can exist in the tropics, racially he cannot persist Acclimatisation is not possible.”¹ This perspective inherently suggested that the white race and the tropics were mutually exclusive, proposing an inability for integration. Drawing from the insights of the article, the blog contends that the broad study of the tropics of the time was inherently a study of racial distinctions. Given this context, the emergence of the study of tropics served as a vehicle for manifesting and solidifying racial differentiations within these landscapes.

The opening statement of the newspaper article posits that, “Man is the creature of his environment; he is what he is by virtue of his surroundings.”² It shows the author’s firm belief in the intimate correlation between the environment and the creation, formation, and perpetuation of the human race. The author proceeded to highlight what the Europeans perceived as the most substantial detriment inflicted upon the white race by the tropics – the direct impact on “the function of the nervous system.”³ The author gave many examples to clarify the concrete harm. For example, in India, “The Duke of Wellington never met a good-tempered Englishman.”³ In addition, “it has been written in India that there the European struggles during the first, dwindles and degenerates during the second, and becomes extinct as such, during the third or fourth generation.”⁴ Such a description of the offspring of the white race bred in the tropics made the incompatibility between the white race and the tropics more tangible. It indicated that particular regions breed distinct racial identities, suggesting that Europeans acclimated to such settings would inevitably succumb to a deteriorating state, transforming into an ailing race. The author’s narrative starkly presented these two entities as entirely mutually exclusive. The prolonged residence of whites in the tropics would result in the erosion of their inherent racial characteristics. The tropical environment, as per the author’s depiction, emerged as a significant threat perilously jeopardizing the continuity of the white race.

This exploration of the incompatibility of the white race with the tropics essentially embodies the European expression of racial distinction. This expression was not limited in Singapore. Similar expressions surfaced in other colonial territories like the French colony of Hanoi in Vietnam and the Dutch colony of Jakarta in Indonesia. In Singapore, Europeans emphasised the eternal damage to the white nervous system caused by the environment of the tropics. In Hanoi, the French colonial government of the time published the French guides on hygiene, which “attempted to systematize and rationalize architecture through the lens of science … (to) reduce the discomfort of living in tropical climates.”⁵ In Jakarta, “European residents repeatedly tried to escape the ziektenhaard (breeding ground for disease) by continually moving southwards away from the northern old city,”⁶ and “racialized the previous class based divisions between urban spaces and urban populations,”⁷ which led directly to the Jakarta’s fragmented modern water supply system. These instances collectively illustrate the European perception of the incongruity between the tropics and the white race. The Europeans intended in their colonies to separate the local populations from the Western settlers, establishing communities that mirrored societal conditions from their home countries. In Singapore, the studies of tropic disease cautioned the white race against prolonged stays in the tropics for a long time. In Hanoi, the white race was required to ensure its safety and purity while differentiating itself from the local race by following the guidelines published by the Europeans. In Jakarta, white people prioritised their water supply needs and built modern water supply systems for their ethnicity.

These examples demonstrate the European’s effort to delineate racial distinctions. The endeavor was driven by the singular aim of safeguarding European own race and ensuring its sustained existence in tropical territories. Whether manifested through a newspaper article with a study highlighting potential harm for Europeans in tropical climates, the publication of French hygiene guidelines in Hanoi, or the establishment of a new water supply system in Jakarta, the primary objective essentially centred on differentiating races of that era. These initiatives were primarily geared toward securing the continuation of European livelihoods rather than conducting comprehensive, inclusive studies encompassing the broader spectrum of racial experiences within these contexts.

1. ‘Health in the Tropics’, The Straits Echo, Singapore, 2 February 1914, p. 141 https://eresources.nlb.gov.sg/newspapers/digitised/article/straitsechomail19140206-1.2.27?qt=tropic,%20hygiene&q=tropic%20hygiene [accessed 29 October 2023]. [↩]
2. ‘Health in the Tropics’, p. 141. [↩]
3. Ibid. [↩] [↩]
4. Ibid. [↩]
5. Laura Victoir and Victor Zatsepine, Harbin to Hanoi: The Colonial Built Environment in Asia, 1840 to 1940 (Hongkong, 2013), p. 234. [↩]
6. Freek Colombijn and Joost Coté, Cars, Conduits, and Kampongs: The Modernization of the Indonesian City, 1920-1960 (2014), p.66. [↩]
7. Colombijn and Coté, Cars, Conduits, and Kampongs, p.68. [↩]

When discussing the ideology of Orientalism, one would naturally refer to Edward Said’s explanation of Orientalism proposed in 1978, that is, “the East as its (the West’s) inferior and essentialized ‘other’.”¹ Felix Driver similarly claims that in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, the Europeans considered the oriental world a chaotic place. They should make it an orderly place in the name of enlightenment.² [2] Both arguments highlight the European perceptions of the inherent inferiority of the oriental world. Nevertheless, this blog will offer an alternative perspective prevalent in the early 19^th century and argue that, instead of casting the oriental world into an inferior position, the Europeans viewed it as an undiscovered place – a big cabinet of curiosities that was neutrally observed. Specifically, the Europeans’ perceptions were inconsistent, lacking a unified idea towards the Orient and its inhabitants. The Europeans maintained a neutral attitude towards the oriental world. This big cabinet of curiosities stimulated a sense of novelty and diversity contrary to Driver’s description – a sense of salvation. The blog draws upon excerpts from An Account of the Kingdom of Cabul as examples to illustrate these assertions.

Published in 1815, An Account of the Kingdom of Cabul was finished by Mountstuart Elphinstone, a Scottish diplomat and colonial administrator.³ The book chronicled his journey into the oriental land, which has many of the cultural and topographical hallmarks of “the Orient.”⁴ His narratives on one of the book’s chapters – Book II, Chapter I: General Account of The Inhabitants of Afghaunistaun highlighted the oriental world’s diverse and multifaceted nature in the early 19^th century, rather than perceiving the oriental land as homogenous. The author’s observation of the diversity of the orient world led to a neutral attitude, avoiding the denigrating view often associated with Europeans of that era.

Elphinstone’s portrayal of the oriental world in his book resembled a vast cabinet of curiosities teeming with novelties distinct from Europe. According to David Arnold, Elphinstone introduced the elements such as camels, oases, mirages, date palms, the “Jewish” countenance of girls, which invoked many typical oriental images that established for later writers a rich repertoire of Oriental scenes and emblems.⁵ Furthermore, he offered unique geographical views on the oriental land. He noted, “he would be amazed at the wide and unfrequented deserts, and the mountains, covered with perennial snow.”⁶ These novelties had established the foundation of the cabinet of curiosities because they were numerous and surprising. What stands out remarkably was the lack of homogeneity within the oriental realm itself. Elphinstone’s comparative analysis between different parts of the Afghaun land and between the Afghaun land and India were great presentations. In the Afghaun land, he found “it difficult to select those great features, which all possess in common, and which give a marked national character to the whole of the Afghauns.”⁷ Moveover, in India, he highlighted “every movement originates in the government or its agents, and where the people absolutely go for nothing,” while in the Afghaun, “the control of the government is scarcely felt, and where every man appears to pursue his own inclinations, undirected and unrestrained.”⁸ Apparently, even within the oriental landscape, a unified set of characteristics remained elusive.

The rich tapestry of novelties and diverse elements within the oriental world contributed significantly to the construction of the cabinet, shaping Elphinstone’s impartial understanding of this intriguing sphere. When discussing the characteristics of the Afghaun, he adeptly balanced admiration for their strengths with an honest acknowledgment of their weaknesses. Positively, he noted, “he would scarce fail to admire their martial and lofty spirit, their hospitality”,⁹ and “he would admire their strong and active forms, their independence and energy of their character.”¹⁰ Negatively, he mentioned, “he would find it difficult to comprehend how a nation could subsist in such disorder; and would pity whose minds were trained by their unhappy situation to fraud and violence, to rapine, deceit, and revenge.”⁹ Instead of adopting a one-sided stance of praise or denigration, Elphinstone viewed their characteristics through a nuanced lens, offering a balanced narrative. This neutral discourse blended with emotional empathy and rational assessment, created an organic cabinet of curiosities.

Overall, the blog intends to present a view different from the contemporary interpretations of the European understanding of the oriental world. Instead of considering the Orient as the weak, the early 19^th-century traveller Mountstuart Elphinstone constructed a big oriental cabinet of curiosities. He showcased the distinguishable landscapes of the oriental land, highlighted the internal variations of this land, and expressed the neutral discourse instead of forming a stereotype of degrading the Orient. The big oriental cabinet of curiosities was therefore established by the land’s novelty and diversity, and the rational assessment of Elphinstone.

1. David Arnold, The Tropics and Travelling Gaze (2006), p. 119. [↩]
2. Felix Driver, “Imagining the Tropics: Views and Visions of the Tropical World,” Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography, 25: no. 1 (2004), p. 14. [↩]
3. Arnold, The Tropics and Travelling Gaze, p. 122. [↩]
4. Ibid., p. 123. [↩]
5. Ibid. [↩]
6. Mountstuart Elphinstone, Account of the Kingdom of Cabul (1815), p. 149. [↩]
7. Elphinstone, Account of the Kingdom of Cabul, p. 148. [↩]
8. Elphinstone, Account of the Kingdom of Cabul, p. 150. [↩]
9. Ibid., p. 149. [↩] [↩]
10. Ibid., p. 150. [↩]

Frans Post, a 17th century Dutch painter, travelled to Brazil in 1636 as a part of the colonial Governor’s entourage. His mission was to visually record the fauna, flora, and environment of Brazil.¹ He returned to the Netherlands in 1644, having only completed 6 paintings. The majority of his work came afterwards, as he produced over a hundred more paintings of Brazil throughout the rest of his career. However, as Stepan notes, the character of his post-Brazil work differs greatly from the work produced while living there.² By comparing works from each period, we can see the construction of an imaginary tropics in action.

The Old Portuguese Forte dos Reis Magos, or Fort Ceulen, at the Mouth of the Rio Grande, by Frans Post 1638

The Rio São Francisco and Fort Maurits, with a Capybara in the Foreground, by Frans Post 1639

Both produced during his time in Brazil, these two paintings share characteristics common to Post’s early work. Firstly they share a muted colour palette, both dominated by a grey, cloudy sky. The water which is featured prominently in both paintings is similarly coloured. Secondly, they focus on identifiable, real locations. The presence of forts and identifiable physical features lends these paintings a sense of grounded reality. There is little of what David Arnold would call “tropicality”, the construction of the tropics in the western mind as an “other” based on depictions in literature and art, as there is no juxtaposition with “normal” temperate lands.³ Here, Brazil is represented not dissimilarly to how contemporary landscapes of Europe would be. Post’s early paintings appear to honestly depict the landscape and life of colonial Brazil, fulfilling his mission in the New World.

The Home of a “Labrador” in Brazil, by Frans Post 1650-55

Brazilian landscape with anteater, by Frans Post 1649

Considering these works painted after Post arrived back in Europe, a shift in tone is obvious. The sky is no longer oppressive and grey, but blue and expansive. This feeling of space is also aided by situating the viewpoint high up as to reveal the landscape sprawling before the viewer. In addition, the locality of the paintings becomes more ambiguous. Post’s post- Brazil work almost unanimously depicts generic scenes of Brazil, rather than real locations. A third noticeable difference is the increase of flora in the painting foregrounds, as palms and ferns replace the waterways which took precedent in Post’s earlier work. “Tropicality” had clearly taken a toll on the authenticity of Post’s work, as values commonly associated by with the tropics by the seventeenth century European masses seep into the artwork and take on an exaggerated form.

The clear, blue skies firstly evoke sun and heat, characteristics which had been linked to the tropics since Hippocrates.⁴ The real Brazil has a number of different biomes and climates which are not represented by Post, who instead chooses to essentialize Brazilian weather to conform with commonly held perceptions. In conjunction with the sprawling landscapes, however, the paintings gain a double meaning, as they emphasize the openness of the tropical world. In the seventeenth century mind therefore, the tropics took on a promise  of adventure and reward, with wide horizons of endless opportunity. The depiction of endless empty land can be argued to be an invitation for conquest of it, or the claiming of a monetary or political fortune. The tropics can thus be seen to have had an allure of potentiality in Post’s time.

The greater presence of foliage in the latter paintings speaks to the expectations of fertility and abundance in the tropics. Dense underbrush and towering megafauna were clearly already quintessential images associated with tropical landscapes. Compared to the restrained representations of foliage in The Rio São Francisco and Fort Maurits, with a Capybara in the Foreground, these examples seem to over exaggerate the presence of plants in the Brazilian landscape, playing to these expectation of fertility rather than honestly depicting floral specimens. There is also a reliance on the image of the palm tree, which had become an icon of the tropics, over any other type of flora across Post’s later work. He had clearly departed from his original aim of accurately capturing Brazilian life, and sought instead to create landscapes which were expected of Brazil. Alongside the new focus on non-specific scenes of Brazil, this can be taken as evidence of Post’s new commitment to an imaginary Brazil.

It is unclear whether the stark differences in Post’s paintings from his stay in Brazil and after should be attributed to the market for which he was painting, the effects of popular tropical conceptions on his own memories of Brazil, or a combination of factors. Regardless, a comparison between these two periods of his work clearly demonstrates the work of popular discourse and imagining on representations of the tropics in seventeenth century Europe.

1. Frans Post (about 1612 – 1680) | National Gallery, London [↩]
2. Nancy Leys Stepan, Picturing Tropical Nature (London, 2001), p. 19. [↩]
3. David Arnold, The Tropics and the Traveling Gaze: India, Landscape, and Science, 1800-1856 (Seattle, 2006) [↩]
4. Hippocrates,  Airs, Waters, Places [↩]

 

 

Fig 1. ‘The 1935 Taiwan Exposition: In Commemoration of the First 40 Years of Colonial Rule’, Source: ‘Special Exhibition: Back in their times: a visual history of Taiwan from the 1930s to the 1960s’,  The 228 Memorial Foundation, accessed 9th of October 2023, Special Exhibition｜Back in their times: a visual history of Taiwan from the 1930s to the 1960s｜Memorial Foundation of 228．National 228 Memorial Museum

This map by famed aerial artist Hatsusaburō Yoshida of ‘The 1935 Taiwan Exposition: In Commemoration of the First 40 Years of Colonial Rule’ is representative of Japan’s desire to project their ideas of utopian modernism to the rest of the world and to mainland Japan. Their rational of modernising to protect themselves from, and surpass western empires is somewhat undercut by the fact that their concept of the modern were inherently modelled, at least spatially speaking, from said international influences. 

The map itself is keeping with a trend of colonial mapmaking that emerged in the 1930s which combines Japanese pictorialism with new photographic technology, specifically aerial photos. This genre of maps have been classified as Chōkanzu and were notable for their bird’s eye view perspective, 3 dimensional representation, colourful design and most importantly, picturesque quality (1). Looking at maps with this style it becomes quickly apparent that the intended audience for the map was not the urban planner, engineer or government official but the tourist.  As Allen asserts, it gives the localities it depicts a ‘postcard destination’ quality (2).

Below is another example of Taipei represented in this style on the eve of the 1935 Taiwan Exposition.

 

 Fig 2. ‘Bird’s Eye Map of Greater Taipei’,  Source: Keoni Everington, ”Colorful ‘Bird’s Eye View of Taipei” Japanese map circa 1935,  Taiwan News, (13th of January, 2017), Colorful ‘Bird’s Eye View of Taipei” Japanese map circa 1935 | Taiwan News | 2017-01-13 18:30:00

Between them there are distinctive similarities: the detailed architecture, the scroll labelling and iconography of both transport and industry, and of leisurely parks and nature. They both simultaneously portray an image of a cosmopolitan and prosperous nation, and a luxurious and leisurely travel destination. They exist as publicly accessible texts that visualise the city in modern and idealistic terms. While they exist as Japanese colonial propaganda, they do so in different ways. The ‘Bird’s Eye Map of Greater Taipei’ on its own encapsulates Japanese colonial ideology by its foregrounding of Japanese settlements over Chinese areas, and the fictious geographic placing over the water of Japan’s iconic Mount Fuji and other colonies – Korea and Manchukuo. As Allen asserts, this representation is one of possession and desire (3).

While this map can be seen as product of colonial ideology, the 1935 Exposition Map is reliant on the context of the Exposition and the general phenomenon of world exhibitions. As such this map can be seen as a sub product of the propaganda that was the 1935 Taiwan Exposition.  Following the 1851 Great Exhibition in London, world exhibitions took on its model of showcasing industry, architecture, and technology, mixing private, public and governmental institutions for a tourist and consumer audience. Japan was one of the nations, and the first non-western empire, to be inspired by this model. It held several exhibitions in Osaka and Tokyo between 1877 and 1911. It soon also held exhibitions in its colonial territories, including one in Taipei in 1916, however the later exposition in 1935 was considered the greatest of all the colonial exhibitions. This was at least partially a consequence of the significance of the event, the celebration of the 40th anniversary of Japanese rule in Taiwan. The island was important symbolically to Japan as its first colony; if any part of its empire was going to demonstrate the power of Japanese imperialism to the rest of the world, it was Taiwan. As Gotō Shinpei declared, Taiwan was the ‘colonization university’ and the first ‘to demonstrate that Japan was the equal of Western Imperialists’ (4). As Young asserts, this desire to modernise and compete with western nations drove much of the architecture building in later colonial projects like the Manchurian cities (5).

In order to celebrate its power, the exposition was structured over 3 main sites, two in Taipei and one in Da-Dao-Cheng. The first site centred around Taihoku City Public Auditorium (now Zhongshan Hall) and was populated with: pavilions showcasing Taiwanese industries, the Hall of Encouraging New Trade and the Hall of Prefectural Affairs which highlighted other Japanese colonies like Manchuria and Korea. The second took place in Taihoku New Park (now 228 Peace Memorial Park) focused on more social and cultural transformations in Taiwan, with an open air theatre, a cinema house, the musical hall and the First Cultural Hall, previously the Taiwan museum, which discussed the process of educated modernisation. The third site largely focused on tourism and recreational activities in Taiwan (6). Through this arrangement visitors were able to experience several dichotomies: present and future, production and consumption, governmental and private, citizen and tourist, Western and Asian, colony and colonial state.

Returning to the representation of this event in the Chōkanzu map, it depicts the two main sites of the Exposition. For the sake of unity and practicality, it distorts these two sites to be spatially connected.  While close in distance, the google maps show that it skips over two blocks worth of space.

 

Fig 3.  Satellite Map of the two Exposition sites. Left side Taihoku City Public Auditorium (Zhongshan Hall) and site one, right star aihoku New Park (now 228 Peace Memorial Park). Source: Google Maps

This erasure of urban space is also visibly seen is the map as well, as blocks of buildings are represented as grey, formless masses. While this could have been designed to highlight relevant buildings to exposition, it does partly function to make this urban image cleaner and more spacious. This is certainly the case with the roads, which are enlarged significantly in the map. In general, wider streets and more parks were two primary goals in housing and urban reform that planners were seeking in Japan (7). This is why the decision to place an Exposition site in a park, and the exaggerated representation of nature in the map , is significant as the green spaces in colonial cities were often far greater than what the average mainland Japanese urban dweller saw. Therefore, while the Expositions were trying to make an international statement, they were also trying to indicate to Japanese that the colonies were places that could achieve the reform and progress that was thus far unachievable on the mainland.

Finally, what’s important to note about this map is the architectural design visible in the Exposition buildings. While there is a mix of styles present across the map, the influence of European design is clear, specifically in two key sites of the Exposition: The Taihoku City Public Auditorium and the Taiwan Museum.  Moreover, Ping-Sheng Wu and Min-Fu Hsu assert that many of the pavilions were in the art deco style (see below), a style that some Japanese architects in Manchuria thought they should use to reflect modern trends (8).

           

 Fig 4. (Left) The Hall of Sugar Industry.  Fig 5. (right) The Main Gate of the First. Source: Ping-Sheng Wu, and Min-Fu Hsu. “Phantasmagoric Venues from the West to the East: Studies on the Great Exhibition (1851) and the Taiwan Exhibition (1935).” Journal of Asian Architecture and Building Engineering, 5;2, (2006), pp.237-244, p.242

While their goal was to make a statement to the international community about Asian design, ultimately Bill Sewell argued that the Japanese were generally more concerned about joining European aesthetics, than overhauling them (9). Thus, any attempt by the Japanese to prove their superiority over the West was naturally undercut by the fact they were often working within Western concepts of modernist. What’s more ironic about the development of the New Asian style in the 1930s was that much of the international ‘modern’ designs they were modelling from, were seen as increasingly irrelevant by the rest of the world.

While most of the blog post has discussed what this map tells us about Japanese Imperialism and their concept of the modern, it hasn’t yet discussed what this representation meant to the Taiwanese. This map was found amongst an online photo exhibit entitled: ‘Back in their times: a visual history of Taiwan from the 1930s to the 1960s’ on a website called the Memorial Foundation of 228 (10). The page states its last update was from 2021. What’s striking is that, despite the 20 year difference the description that Allen gives of the 1999 exhibition ‘Old Maps of Taipei and the 2004 exhibition ‘Viewing Taipei’, matches this website too –  namely that they overwhelmingly positively focus on Japanese colonial historical contributions and downplay and ridicule Chinese nationalist attempts. While attempts to appear modern to an international audience may have been slightly undercut, to the Taiwanese people at least they have cemented a place as authors of modernity and development.

Overall, as a historical document this map represents the ideals and contradictions of Japanese modernist propaganda, particularly in its presentation to mainland Japan and the rest of the world.  However, as an item in a Taiwanese historical collection, it raises questions about how Taiwanese view the Japanese colonial period, and what

 

(1) Joseph R. Allen,  Taipei: City of Displacements, (University of Washington Press, 2012), p.37

(2) Allen, ‘Taipei: City of Displacements, p.37

(3) Ibid, p.38

(4) Ping-Sheng Wu, and Min-Fu Hsu. “Phantasmagoric Venues from the West to the East: Studies on the Great Exhibition (1851) and the Taiwan Exhibition (1935).” Journal of Asian Architecture and Building Engineering, 5;2, (2006), pp.237-244, p.241

(5) Louise Young, Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of Wartime Imperialism, Twentieth-Century Japan (Berkeley, Calif: University of California Press, 1999), pp.241-268.

(6) Wu, Hsu, “Phantasmagoric Venues’, p. 242

(7) Tucker, David “City Planning Without Cities: Order and Chaos in Utopian Manchukuo” in Mariko Asano Tamanoi ed., Crossed Histories: Manchuria in the Age of Empire,  (University of Hawaii Press, 2005.), pp.53-81, p.57

(8) Wu, Hsu, “Phantasmagoric Venues’, p. 242, and Sewell, Bill. Constructing Empire: The Japanese in Changchun, 1905–45. (UBC Press, 2019.), p. 69-71

(9) Sewell, ‘Constructing Empire’, p.71

(10) ‘Special Exhibition: Back in their times: a visual history of Taiwan from the 1930s to the 1960s’,  The 228 Memorial Foundation, accessed 9th of October 2023

 

In this short visual analysis, I will argue that the distinctive phases of architectural style visible in the architecture of Changchun and Xinjing illustrate the Japanese state’s search for an international modern style to characterise Manchukuo as a ‘utopian’ state. Space within the cities was used to portray the technical capability of the Imperial government whilst also appealing to Asian sentimentally.¹ Young emphasises the speed and proficiency with which the Japanese puppet state introduced railway lines. Indeed, over 5,030km of new track was built between 1932 and 1938 and the resultant rapid formation of railway towns and cities.² Similarly, running water, underground sewage systems, gas and electricity were efficiently introduced during the construction of Manchukuo’s cities.³

Whilst these elements of city planning were clearly defined necessities within Japanese conceptions of ‘utopia’, the style, organisation and decoration of state and public buildings was a more complex process of evolution, trial and error. The utopian vision following the Manchurian incident in 1931 sought to establish the state of Manchukuo as a source of mutual benefit and liberation for the Japanese colonisers and the Chinese colonised.⁴ Whilst Japanese commercial enterprise was prioritised, the Architecture of Changchun and Xinjing reflected Chinese revivalism and the emergence of Manchurian style in the search for the ideal ‘utopian’ structure and facade. The design and implementation of these structures are used to implement order. They demonstrate the manipulation of European styles as a means to connect with Western merchants and the inclusion of Chinese and Manchurian styles to encourage cultural mixing to align with the ideals of a modern, cohesive society.⁵

Figure 1: Manchukuo’s Hall of State⁶

Figure 2: Manchukuo’s Ministry of Public Security.⁷

Figure 3: Unity Plaza⁸

The construction of a ‘utopian’ vision for the puppet state of Manchukuo was realised through assimilating Chinese architecture with a modern Japanese style.⁹ The scale of the state buildings constructed in the Manchurian style used symmetry to reflect a desire for a utopian balance and harmony between the Chinese and Japanese inhabitants of the city.¹⁰ The conflation of Japanese and Chinese building practices alongside the sheer size of these state buildings functioned as Japanese propaganda by emphasising the capabilities, power and legal monopoly of Japan over Manchukuo. Significantly, this blend of European columns and stonework with Asian roofs instilled notions of Asian superiority over the European style to create Xinjang’s bureaucratic expressions of Manchukuo as a ‘utopia’.

Asian Revivalism was an architectural style that aimed to mask Xinjing’s initial period of architectural chaos, these buildings were often characterised by a Japanese-styled roof.¹¹ This building style was referred to as the “Manchukuo bureaucratic building style”.¹² The Hall of State, built between 1934 and 1936 was designed by Ishii Tatsure and contained a pagoda-style roof flanked by two similar roofs at the end of the central section of the buildings.¹³ Freestanding columnar entryways positioned beneath the capped roofs also separated also distinguished the Hall of State from previous styles¹⁴ Columns appear in fours throughout the wings and central structure of the building, enhancing the European-inspired element of verticality.⁶. Similarly, the Ministry of Public Security also sported capped sloping tiled roofs. Built between 1935 and 1945, it is of note for housing the Manchukuo military headquarters.¹⁵ These buildings began the initiation of a “rising Manchurian style” notable for its implementation of verticality and the adoption of Japanese-style roofs with exposed roof gable.⁷

These buildings surrounded the ‘Unity Plaza’ (depicted in figure 3), a 36-metre wide extension to the SMR settlement that conformed to the grid pattern of the SMR settlement and was designed to reinforce elements of national architectural heritage and was named to imply the unity of the various groups, Manchu, Chinese, Korean, and Japanese which formed Manchukuo.¹⁶ Unity Avenue, a 36-metre wide road extending from Unity Plaza, was a site of consistent ceremonial celebration where thousands gathered for mass meetings throughout the 1940s in support of Japan’s wars in Asia.¹⁷ The construction of these broad plazas and large authoritative Bureaucratic administration buildings reflect the significant role of urban planning and constriction to the state regulation of Manchukuo and the role of “Asian Revivalism” in attempting to create a modern harmonious city. As Buck asserts, Chinese residents of Xinjing continued to experience subordination throughout the puppet states’ influence over Manchukuo¹⁸ Indeed, these works of architecture reflect the tensions between the ideological harmony desired by the intelligentsia and their understanding as ‘utopia’ as the consideration and inclusion of ethnic groups that lived in Manchukuo and the harsh imperial reality of the motivations of the Japanese government.

1. Bill Sewell, Constructing Empire: The Japanese in Changchun, (Toronto, 2009),  p.76 [↩]
2. Louise Young, Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of Wartime Imperialism, Twentieth-Century Japan, (Berkeley, 1999), p.244. [↩]
3. Young, Japan’s Total Empire, p.245. [↩]
4. Ibid, p.242 [↩]
5. Sewell, Constructing Empire, p.79 [↩]
6. Ibid, p.84 [↩] [↩]
7. Ibid, p.85 [↩] [↩]
8. David Buck, “Railway City and National Capital: Two faces of the Modern in Changchun” in Joseph Eshwick (ed), Remaking the Chinese city: Modernity and National Identity, 1900-1950 (Hawaii, 2000), p.83. [↩]
9. Young, Japan’s Total Empire, p.241 [↩]
10. Sewell, Constructing Empire, p.87 [↩]
11. Ibid, p.81 [↩]
12. Ibid, p.81 [↩]
13. Ibid, p.82 [↩]
14. Ibid, p.83 [↩]
15. Ibid, p.85 [↩]
16. Buck, “Railway City and National Capital”, p.84 [↩]
17. Ibid, p.86 [↩]
18. Ibid, p.88 [↩]