Anita Staub: On concrete, uniformity, and loss of memory

The old passenger terminal at Tallinn Airport is one of the rarest buildings in Estonia's aviation history, combining 1930s functionalism with postwar architecture, and as such deserves protected heritage status, writes Anita Staub.
Interestingly, the world has brought us to a time when things no longer really have a chance to grow old. The urge to replace furniture arises before it has even become part of a home; clothes are worn for only a single season; and broken items are thrown away almost automatically. Repair something? Never.
This is consumer culture in all its glory, teaching us to value what is new more than what endures. Gradually, this has become a much broader worldview in which the old and the process of aging are seen more as shortcomings than as values, and anything that does not appear fresh and modern begins to feel outdated.
French philosopher Jean Baudrillard (1929–2007) already wrote in the 1970s that a consumer society needs objects to exist, but even more so it needs their destruction. The system works only if there is a nagging feeling that something is always missing, outdated, or inferior. Value is no longer determined by durability, quality, or the meaning accumulated over time, but by the ability to appear new and desirable. A world has emerged in which aging is no longer accepted as a natural part of life, but as a flaw that must be quickly hidden or replaced.
In urban space as well, old buildings are often seen as something that does not meet the modern ideals of novelty and efficiency. To some extent, this is understandable: buildings left without maintenance for decades can appear worn and it can be difficult to recognize their value. Yet often the problem lies not in the buildings themselves, but in our broken relationship with maintenance, repair, and longevity. In looking for reasons, we must turn to recent history, when the Soviet period disrupted the tradition of continuous building maintenance, the effects of which are still felt today.
Yet interesting environments are not born of perfection, but of time and the stories carried by its passage, which always leave their mark on space. Paradoxically, in an age of rapid consumption there is an increasing search for authenticity and real stories, even as they are being destroyed at an accelerating pace. There is talk of the need to create distinctive environments, but in practice the tendency is still to choose solutions that are quick to build, easy to manage, and maximally profitable.
The result is environments that increasingly resemble one another. In the end, it makes little difference whether you are in Tallinn or Võru, Paris or Hong Kong, since glass and concrete can be built anywhere. What is becoming increasingly difficult, by contrast, is creating places with a truly recognizable identity.
Old buildings give places a uniqueness that cannot be imported, exported, or copied. They contain distinctive details and period-specific materials that carry forward long-standing building traditions and preserve something intangible at first glance — the touch of time.
For this reason, it feels strangely misguided to think of historic buildings as more of a burden than an opportunity. A good example is the old passenger terminal at Tallinn Airport, whose preservation has come into conflict with the airport's entirely understandable development plans, and which is proposed to be replaced by two aircraft parking stands.
Tallinn Airport has been an exceptionally good owner of the old terminal: the building is in use and has been restored to a high standard. It is one of the rarest buildings in Estonia's aviation history, combining 1930s functionalism with postwar representative architecture and therefore deserves protected status as a historic structure.
Thus, the old terminal could become the most distinctive part of the entire airport — a historical layer that would give new developments an identity and create an environment that cannot be found anywhere else. The National Heritage Board hopes to find, in cooperation with the airport, the City of Tallinn, and architects, a solution that allows both the airport's development and the preservation and dignified use of the historic terminal.
Naturally, in every similar situation, one must consider economic possibilities, owners' interests, and development needs. Preserving, maintaining, and integrating an old building into new solutions often requires more effort than simply starting from scratch. But when it comes to culturally valuable buildings, the perspective should extend beyond short-term cost-benefit calculations.
Owners of culturally valuable buildings inevitably hold the power, through their decisions, to shape the environment for all of us. Unexpectedly, historic buildings themselves can become the strongest elements of development projects.
Estonia offers good examples of how old and new do not have to exclude one another. The value of Tallinn's Rotermanni Quarter has arisen precisely from preserving and keeping old industrial buildings in use, while adding contemporary architecture alongside them that respects heritage values. It is the coexistence of different eras that gives Rotermanni its identity—something no entirely new, from-scratch development can rival.
As early as the late 19th century, English heritage advocate and artist William Morris (1834–1896) warned against mass production and the resulting uniformity, seeing danger in the replacement of beauty, craftsmanship, and human scale by quickly produced anonymity.
For Morris, the issue was not only about buildings or objects, but ultimately about the kind of world we live in and how it shapes our inner world. Perhaps this is also the deeper meaning behind heritage preservation and the protection of old buildings.
Preserving and using old buildings is, in part, a response to a world that is becoming increasingly uniform, more easily replaceable, and emotionally emptier. Old buildings carry not only history, but also humanity and local distinctiveness — qualities that cannot be mass-produced or replicated through standardized solutions.
In a world where consumer culture constantly urges us to desire the new, historic buildings may be our opportunity to preserve character, memory, and identity.
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Editor: Kaupo Meiel, Argo Ideon









