How our perception of waste shapes our reality
Recently, a leaflet was delivered to my home from Nuclear Waste Services, the company that is overseeing the final disposal of some of the most dangerous waste that exists. It reminded me that the small village where I live in Cumbria is one of three proposed locations for the burial of nuclear waste. If realised, it would be a site that has to be secure and safe for at least 100,000 years.
Such a timescale makes the markers around which we otherwise plan our lives (the birthdays, holidays, anniversaries and so on) seem almost infinitely small. This presents a challenge to any attempts to make us take ownership of such waste.
When you think about waste, you probably imagine the mundane leftovers of your everyday experience. Because of their proximity to our daily lives, cultural historians like me can learn a lot from the history of such leftovers.
Contemporary artists like Michael Landy and curators at the EU House of History’s year-long exhibition, Throwaway, have also explored this everyday aspect of waste.
But between such extremes of everyday life and the abstract future, we can find waste everywhere. After spending more than two decades thinking about what waste actually is and what we might learn from it, I have learned that waste, as a thing, an idea, a problem, is always wholly determined from a human standpoint.
There is no waste in nature. And what is waste in human life only remains so if it cannot be reused or reconfigured for human ends or absorbed by nature.
Contemporary waste
If we can say that nuclear waste was a development of the 20th century, then it is clear that we can think of waste through the particular historical forms it has taken. An example of 21st-century waste is the immaterial digital leftovers that we now unconsciously generate. This data waste, generated from the technologies and media platforms that now facilitate much of our work and leisure time, is harvested and recycled by a multitude of corporate, business, government and other interests. Such leftovers will outlive us, but they are more or less invisible to us.
What we can learn from this, as I explore in my new book, The Idea of Waste, is not only that there are forms of waste originating in certain times or places, but that waste is very much a contemporary phenomenon. It is always an idea that is taking new forms, while at the same time continuing to exist in all prior forms.
A new waste consciousness emerged in the late 1960s in response to consumer society and the new packaging wastes it created. It was summed up by the concept of recycling (a word almost unknown before that time).
There was a dual meaning in environmental activist campaign messages such as “Don’t waste waste – recycle!”. The point was that waste was not just a material thing, it was a way of perceiving or thinking about such material things. Promoting notions like zero waste hinges on how we perceive what is valuable or what is worthless, which varies according to our knowledge at any given time.
This is why designers and architects, tech startups and various upcyclers can position themselves as visionaries who are able to shape how we think about wastes: they understand that waste is not always waste.
But even their efforts to minimise or reduce waste to zero still have to face the fact that in any act of making or creating, energy and resources will have been expended. The life cycle of designed or upcycled materials that embody circular ideals will also come to an end, returning us once again to remainders and leftovers. In that sense, zero waste is an ideal that is intended to design a new human consciousness.
The lesson we may draw from all of this is that there can be no history of waste that charts a path of victory. It is impossible to say that we conquered one form of waste and then moved on the next one. Waste is always with us. But it is also always taking new forms and without constant vigilance, it will, in one form or another, overwhelm us.
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