If you want to under­stand how a town thinks about death, one way to learn is to start at the gate.

​Most of us pass through the gates of Timaru Cemetery with pur­pose. We might be vis­it­ing graves, look­ing around or walk­ing or cyc­ling through. But if we pause at the entrance and look closely, the gates tell a layered story of loss, law, archi­tec­ture and civic respons­ib­il­ity.

The blue­stone entrance piers, built of local basalt, anchor what The Timaru Her­ald described in 1904 as “a length of neat iron pal­is­ad­ing fence on low stone wall”, with orna­mental car­riage gates and smal­ler ped­es­trian gates “hung on massive stone gate posts”. This was delib­er­ate civic design.

In Janu­ary 1897, the Timaru Cemetery Board called for tenders for a stone wall and entrance piers under archi­tect James S Turn­bull.

His father, Richard Turn­bull, had earlier gif­ted iron gates to the cemetery in 1869.

Prac­tical neces­sity drove much of this work. In the 1860s, stock wandered in and dam­aged graves as fen­cing deteri­or­ated.

In a young set­tle­ment bordered by graz­ing land, enclos­ure was essen­tial as well as dec­or­at­ive.

Timaru Cemetery was estab­lished as a pub­lic muni­cipal cemetery rather than a church­yard. The land was ves­ted under the Pub­lic Reserves Act 1854 along­side another reserve, near what is now the Aigan­tighe Art Gal­lery, that was reportedly never used. The first recor­ded inter­ments took place in 1860. Among the earli­est were Deal boat­men Mor­ris Clayson Cory and Robert Boubius, who drowned dur­ing a res­cue attempt off Timaru’s coast while work­ing for the land­ing ser­vice.

From 1870, the cemetery’s man­age­ment was reg­u­lated under pro­vin­cial legis­la­tion.

The Cemetery Reserves Man­age­ment Ordin­ance allowed burial fees to be waived for those without means, but exclus­ive rights had to be pur­chased before monu­ments could be erec­ted.

So, buri­als could be guar­an­teed, but memori­al­isa­tion required pay­ment. Later acts form­al­ised trustee gov­ernance and even­tu­ally trans­ferred respons­ib­il­ity to local author­it­ies under the Burial and Crema­tion Act 1964.

In 1881, archi­tect Maurice de Har­ven Duval added a brick mor­tu­ary chapel just inside the entrance with a care­taker’s cot­tage nearby.

A 1904 news­pa­per walk-through described the “pretty mor­tu­ary chapel in stuc­coed brick” and noted that by then about 3400 inter­ments had taken place and the ori­ginal reserve was nearly full.

By the 1930s, ideas about burial were chan­ging. In 1933, the cemetery board debated estab­lish­ing a crem­at­orium and con­sidered a pro­posal pre­pared by Percy Watts Rule, who had worked in part­ner­ship with James Turn­bull.

The plan would have added a gas-fired crem­at­orium to the west side of the exist­ing chapel. It was cos­ted and ser­i­ously dis­cussed but never built.

The gates, designed a gen­er­a­tion earlier, had already wit­nessed a shift from tra­di­tional burial to the pos­sib­il­ity of mod­ern crema­tion.

The chapel was demol­ished in 1968, and gov­ernance later passed fully to local author­ity con­trol under the Burial and

Crema­tion Act. The Sex­ton’s res­id­ence is gone. The admin­is­trat­ive build­ings have changed. The gates remain. They have framed epi­demic buri­als in 1918, war­time losses, pub­lic debate about buri­als, and the daily acts of remem­brance that con­tinue today. They frame grand monu­ments and unmarked ground alike. Within the gates, regard­less of status or story, most of us arrive in the same place at the end.

The cemetery in many ways has also become a timeline of Timaru’s past, writ­ten in stone – and in the marker’s absence. It is also import­ant to recog­nise that burial tra­di­tions here long pred­ate colo­nial legis­la­tion. Māori have ances­tral con­nec­tions to this land­scape, and con­cepts of tapu and remem­brance exis­ted here well before this muni­cipal reserve was formed.

Today we con­tinue to pass through these gates to remem­ber, to reflect and some­times simply to walk. Built her­it­age mat­ters because it shows us what earlier gen­er­a­tions val­ued enough to build in stone. These gates tell us that Timaru chose pro­tec­tion, order and pub­lic respons­ib­il­ity. As we con­sider the future of our cemeter­ies, per­haps they quietly ask what we will choose to value now.

Brought to you by the Timaru Civic Trust, cel­eb­rat­ing our built her­it­age and the people who keep it alive.

By Roselyn Fauth

In the final instal­ment of a four-part series, Timaru Civic Trust mem­ber Roselyn Fauth looks at the archi­tect behind sev­eral of the town’s land­marks.

Over the past few weeks we’ve stood on Stafford St, looked toward Car­oline Bay, and paused in the Botanic Gar­dens.

We’ve traced the stor­ies of the Ōrari Build­ings, the Hydro Grand Hotel and the South Can­ter­bury War Memorial.

There is one name con­nect­ing them all – the archi­tect Her­bert Wil­liam Hall.

Born in Christ­ch­urch in 1884, Hall stud­ied at Can­ter­bury Col­lege School of Art under Samuel Hurst Seager and won a gold medal prize in archi­tec­ture while still a stu­dent.

He moved to Timaru in 1908, the same year the North Island Main Trunk rail­way opened, trans­form­ing the way tour­ism oper­ated in New Zea­l­and.

In Timaru he entered into a part­ner­ship with civil engin­eer Fre­d­er­ick Marchant.

Together they designed the Hydro Grand Hotel in 1912. The Hydro was con­struc­ted as Timaru developed its port resort devel­op­ment.

Later, work­ing inde­pend­ently, Hall designed both the Ōrari Build­ings and the South Can­ter­bury War Memorial at the Timaru Botanic Gar­dens in 1925.

Hall’s influ­ence exten­ded far bey­ond South Can­ter­bury. In 1928 he designed the Chat­eau Tongariro in Tongariro National Park, which opened in 1929.

Owned by the New Zea­l­and Gov­ern­ment’s tour­ism depart­ment, the lux­uri­ous neo-Geor­gian hotel stood in delib­er­ate con­trast to the dra­matic vol­canic land­scape behind it. Pub­li­city imagery of the period showed eleg­antly dressed guests step­ping from a refined por­tico into the alpine wil­der­ness. The rail­way had opened the cent­ral plat­eau to trav­el­lers, and Hall’s design helped shape New Zea­l­and’s emer­ging tour­ism iden­tity.

In 1935, Hall was awar­ded the New Zea­l­and Insti­tute of Archi­tects’ Gold Medal for St David’s Memorial Church at Cave, the pro­fes­sion’s highest hon­our.

He died in Temuka in 1940, aged 57. Hall’s leg­acy of built her­it­age con­tin­ued on through his son Humphrey.

His son, Humphrey Hall (1912-1988), also became an archi­tect. In 1938–39, Humphrey designed his own house at 11 Park Lane in Timaru, now a Cat­egory A her­it­age build­ing.

Flat-roofed, with strip win­dows, pilotis and a roof garden, it was one of New Zea­l­and’s earli­est Mod­ern­ist houses and marked a dra­matic shift from his father’s clas­sical lan­guage. I have been inside, and it is really inter­est­ing prop­erty, while the spiral stair­case is stun­ning.

After serving in World War II and sur­viv­ing as a pris­oner of war, Humphrey later entered into part­ner­ship as Hall and MacK­en­zie.

In 1958, the firm co-designed the Her­mit­age Hotel at Mount Cook, earn­ing national recog­ni­tion and a Gold Medal from the Insti­tute of Archi­tects.

Within one fam­ily, archi­tec­ture in New Zea­l­and moved from clas­sical columns to Mod­ern­ist forms over a gen­er­a­tion.

When we look at the Ōrari Build­ings, stand at the War Memorial, or drive past the Mod­ern­ist house on Park Lane, we are see­ing two archi­tects named Hall – father and son – shap­ing Timaru at dif­fer­ent moments in its his­tory.

They are two gen­er­a­tions of archi­tects who helped define how this town wanted oth­ers to see itself.

Hydro Grand Hotel. Timaru. TePapa MA_I417454

​In the second instal­ment of a four-part series, Timaru Civic Trust mem­ber Roselyn Fauth looks back at the Hydro Grand Hotel, designed by archi­tect Her­bert Hall.
Last week we stood on Stafford St and looked up at the Ōrari Build­ings. To under­stand that 1925 corner, we can step back 13 years.

In 1912, the Hydro Grand Hotel opened on the corner of Stafford and Sefton streets.

Com­mis­sioned by Wil­liam Ken­neth Mac­don­ald, who also com­mis­sioned the Ōrari Build­ings, and designed by Hall and Marchant (Hall had also designed the Ōrari), it was con­ceived to be the east coast of the South Island’s sea­side resort.

Its style was Edwar­d­ian Baroque with Medi­ter­ranean influ­ence, sim­ilar to the grand hotels of Eng­lish coastal towns such as Brighton and Bournemouth.

Three storeys high, with a cir­cu­lar tower crowned by a domed cupola and view­ing bal­cony, it looked east, facing the view of the alps, the ocean and Car­oline Bay.

It was mod­ern for its time. It had an elec­tric lift, a mech­an­ical freight lift, and hot run­ning water.

The Hydro was named “Hydro” because of a planned hydro­ther­apy or salt water bathing facil­ity.

While it appears that the baths were not com­pleted, the build­ing com­ple­men­ted the sea­side infra­struc­ture devel­op­ing at the Bay.

Bathing sheds had been estab­lished from the 1890s, and ladies and men’s facil­it­ies were expan­ded by 1910, The Car­oline Bay Asso­ci­ation formed in 1911,

The Bay Car­ni­val star­ted in 1912, and by 1920 hot salt­water baths were near­ing com­ple­tion.

The Bay’s pub­lic amen­it­ies com­ple­men­ted the Hydro’s private ambi­tions, and helped to rein­force Timaru’s iden­tity as a coastal resort. By the late 1920s, excur­sion trains brought 25,000 vis­it­ors annu­ally.

Like the Ōrari Build­ings, the Hydro also occu­pied a tri­an­gu­lar site. Guests enjoyed open bal­conies. The ori­ginal ground floor included shops as well as din­ing and a bar.

The Hydro told a story about how Timaru saw itself in 1912. It was a town con­fid­ent enough to ima­gine vis­it­ors arriv­ing by rail and stay­ing by the sea. A town shap­ing its iden­tity around Car­oline Bay.

The build­ing remained part of the streets­cape for dec­ades. After storm dam­age in 1975, and years of decline, it was even­tu­ally demol­ished.

But in 1925, as Timaru developed its com­mer­cial heart of exchange, it also com­pleted something far more endur­ing.

Next week, we turn to the South Can­ter­bury War Memorial, also designed by Her­bert Hall.

By Roselyn Fauth

In the third instal­ment of a four-part series, Timaru Civic Trust mem­ber Roselyn Fauth looks at the South Can­ter­bury War Memorial, designed by archi­tect Her­bert Hall.

In 1925, the same year the Ōrari Build­ings opened, Timaru com­pleted its South Can­ter­bury War Memorial.

Stand­ing in the Botanic Gar­dens at 20 Queen St, oppos­ite Memorial Ave, the memorial takes the form of a fluted Cor­inthian column moun­ted on a stepped base and topped by a wreath, orb and cross.

Con­struc­ted of basalt, gran­ite, marble and bronze, it com­bines clas­sical tri­umph with Chris­tian sym­bol­ism. It is restrained, delib­er­ate and dig­ni­fied. The column form was inspired by clas­sical tri­umphal columns such as Nel­son’s Column in Lon­don.

The bronze cross at the top was made in Lon­don to Her­bert Hall’s design.

Dis­cus­sions about a memorial began in Octo­ber 1918, even before peace was form­ally declared.

The Returned Sol­diers’ Asso­ci­ation ini­tially pro­posed a build­ing that could serve as headquar­ters.

By mid-1919, the idea shif­ted toward a purely com­mem­or­ative monu­ment.

At one stage, a site oppos­ite the Hydro Hotel was favoured. When that could not be secured, the Botanic Gar­dens were approved in Feb­ru­ary 1924.

Charles St was renamed Memorial Ave in August 1925 to acknow­ledge the memorial’s place­ment.

Designed by Her­bert Hall and con­struc­ted by Messrs Par­kin­son Ltd, the memorial was com­pleted by July 1925 and unveiled on Armistice Day, Novem­ber 11, 1925.

The bronze memorial tab­let was unveiled on Anzac Day 1926.

The pan­els list the names of 875 South Can­ter­bury ser­vice­men from World War I, 497 from World War II, and those who served in later con­flicts, includ­ing Korea, Malaya, and Viet­nam.

Memorial walls flank­ing the column were erec­ted in 1997, and the paved fore­court was added around 2000.

Each Anzac Day the memorial remains the focal point of com­munity remem­brance in Timaru.

In 1925, Timaru built two very dif­fer­ent things.

The Ōrari build­ings on the site oppos­ite the Hydro to con­tinue daily life. And the memorial to hon­our those who did not return.

Look­ing at the three struc­tures, it is inter­est­ing to note what we have lost, what we have endured, and how the built her­it­age helps us con­nect to our past, people and place.

When we know where we come from, we know who we are, and it can help us make bet­ter decisions and know what to advoc­ate for, for our future.

In the first instal­ment of a four-part series, Timaru Civic Trust mem­ber Roselyn Fauth looks at Man­awa Ora, formerly the Ōrari Build­ings, designed by archi­tect Her­bert Hall.

I was walk­ing up Stafford St when I noticed the scaf­fold­ing had come down from the Ōrari Build­ings.

In the late after­noon light, the refreshed façade was glow­ing. The new coat of paint feels sea­side fun and con­fid­ent.

I snapped some pho­tos and on the way home, I real­ised I knew very little about its his­tory.

The Ōrari Build­ings at 327-341 Stafford St were erec­ted in 1925 for Wil­liam Ken­neth Mac­don­ald of Ōrari Sta­tion.

Designed by archi­tect Her­bert Hall and built by J T Hunt, the two-storey com­mer­cial block stands on its tri­an­gu­lar site, its roun­ded corner soften­ing the junc­tion of Stafford St and Port Loop Rd.

Look up and you can see Hall’s dis­cip­lined style. A solid para­pet above a den­tilled cor­nice con­ceals the mono­p­itch roof.

First-floor win­dows sit within arched mould­ings, some dec­or­ated with plaster swags. A sus­pen­ded ver­anda to shel­ter ped­es­tri­ans from the weather wraps the corner. A small dec­or­at­ive bal­cony over­looks Port Loop Rd. Con­struc­ted of brick and cement plaster, I love this build­ing. It is a lovely example of com­mer­cial clas­si­cism.

When it opened, the build­ing con­tained seven shops and tearooms upstairs over­look­ing Car­oline Bay.Early occu­pants included Richard Hill, elec­trical engin­eer, the Misses L and D Ran­some serving tea,

Mrs Vick­ers’ lib­rary exchange, Mrs Lewis the hairdresser and a fur­niture dealer.

In 1954, the build­ing was dec­or­ated for the royal visit of Queen Eliza­beth II. A dec­ade later, a large Player’s cigar­ette sign was removed from the roof.

When I grew up I knew this as Mas­cot House, and have lovely memor­ies of a first fancy date with my now hus­band at Ginger and Gar­lic.

Today the facade dis­plays the build­ing’s new Man­awa Ora, mean­ing breath of life.

The Ōrari still stands. Its grand friend across the street does not.

Next week, we’ll step back to 1912 and revisit the Hydro.

Brought to you by the Timaru Civic Trust, cel­eb­rat­ing our built her­it­age and the people who keep it alive.

A stink pipe on Timaru's Pringle St overlooking Ashbury Park.
Christopher Templeton / Supplied

By Andrew Paul Wood

In a handful of spots around town you will come across tall, mysterious cast iron pipes sticking out of the footpath, with an ornamental base.

Some still have their elaborate top.

These are not, as sometimes supposed, the remains of old street lamps, but rather, “stink” or “stench” pipes, or stack vents, used to ventilate sewer gas.

The first stink pipes were installed in London after the “Great Stink” of 1858, based on the concept of a blast pipe from a steam locomotive, and allegedly invented by a Victoria surgeon, chemist and engineer Sir Goldsworthy Gurney (1793-1875).

It isn’t entirely clear when Timaru’s stink pipes were first installed, sometime between the 1880s and 1910s.

Timaru’s population nearly doubled between 1878 and 1901, and doubled again by 1911, making sanitation a priority.

A letter to The Timaru Herald on July 10, 1906 describes a sorry state of affairs with “150 water closets, besides numerous baths, lavatories and sinks” in the CBD draining directly into the two main sewers in George and Strathallan streets.

What sewers there were had originally been designed for stormwater and only with the growth of Timaru, pressed into service for general drainage.

The letter writer complains about the dangers of sewer gas, particularly the corner of Stafford St and Cains Tce, and “in other parts householders plug and fill their baths or put sacks over the drain inlets to prevent the escape of the sewer gas”.

Sewer gas is a mixture of mostly methane, hydrogen sulphide, ammonia and carbon dioxide, produced when organic material breaks down in low‑oxygen environments. It smells like rotting eggs, though the actual health risk was overstated.

The germ theory of disease dominated from the late 19th century, but the idea of “miasma” – that disease could be caused by bad air and foul odours – carried along with it the belief it contributed the right conditions for germs.

The other concern was the danger of sewer gas explosions, such as those reported from Auckland, Dunedin, Melbourne and London in the first part of the 20th century.

A report from the District Health Officer to the Timaru Borough Council from August 24, 1915 complains that the George St sewer, carrying a lot of industrial waste, was only serviced by three six-inch vents.

These functional artefacts are important reminders of Timaru’s developmental history, even if their purpose was less than glamorous.

Roselyn Fauth
​
When I walked through the old Union Bank of Aus­tralia build­ing recently, I found myself ima­gin­ing being in Charles Gri­er­son’s shoes.

He was the first bank man­ager to step into this new blue­stone bank when it opened on Stafford St in 1877, and lived upstairs, keep­ing watch over the safe.

Stand­ing there dur­ing the recent renov­a­tion by Timaru Dis­trict Hold­ings Ltd (TDHL), I felt unex­pec­tedly con­nec­ted to that earlier world.

The Union Bank story began far from Timaru. It issued its first pro­spectus in Lon­don in 1837 and became the first bank to oper­ate in New Zea­l­and, open­ing a branch in Wel­ling­ton in 1840. By the time it reached Timaru in 1867, it was well estab­lished across the coun­try and staffed here by a man­ager and six bank­ing officers.

Gri­er­son was in charge when the new build­ing opened.

The bank would remain in this spot for 74 years before mer­ging in 1951 with the Bank of Aus­tralasia to become the ANZ.

The build­ing was designed by Thomas Roberts, a Timaru archi­tect who trained as an engin­eer in Eng­land before emig­rat­ing to Can­ter­bury in 1870. He later designed Sealy House, now Shand House at Craighead Dio­cesan School.

The con­tractor was Thomas Machin, who would later prac­tise as an archi­tect.

Together they cre­ated a Vic­torian com­mer­cial clas­sical build­ing with real pres­ence, con­struc­ted in Timaru blue­stone with cement plaster, brick, slate and cor­rug­ated iron. The project cost about £3000, a sig­ni­fic­ant invest­ment for a town still recov­er­ing from the dev­ast­at­ing 1868 fire that des­troyed much of its wooden CBD. It was a build­ing that needed to look trust­worthy, and it did.

Over the years the facade evolved. A sus­pen­ded ver­anda was added and, in the 1950s and 1960s, mod­ern shop fronts were built in front of the ori­ginal struc­ture.

This is the build­ing I remem­ber grow­ing up in Timaru, where I bought cla­ri­net reeds and Theatre Royal tick­ets from New­man’s Music Store. See­ing the scaf­fold­ing come down to reveal the restored blue­stone was a real thrill. Remov­ing the later plaster has brought back a strong sense of her­it­age char­ac­ter that anchors the whole streets­cape.

Inside, sev­eral ori­ginal fea­tures have sur­vived. Fire­places, a koru stair ban­is­ter, columns with Cor­inthian cap­it­als and the won­der­ful old safe door that still opens into the stron­groom. These details make it easy to ima­gine those early bank­ing staff step­ping between coun­ters and ledgers.

TDHL pur­chased the prop­erty in 2018. In 2023, they com­mit­ted to strength­en­ing and restor­ing it to sup­port and com­ple­ment the south end redevel­op­ment.

The former bank man­ager’s res­id­ence on the first floor has been the TDHL office since 2024, and the ground floor is now home to Ven­ture Timaru.

TDHL gen­eral man­ager Frazer Munro showed me around upstairs and said it had been a fant­astic project to be involved with, espe­cially reach­ing the com­ple­tion of the facade res­tor­a­tion. The high ceil­ings and her­it­age ele­ments in all the rooms cre­ate a calm­ing and invit­ing atmo­sphere.

Ven­ture Timaru oper­a­tions and des­tin­a­tion man­ager Di Hay told me what a priv­ilege it was to now be loc­ated in this her­it­age build­ing, where the care­ful renov­a­tion pro­cess has cel­eb­rated the past and also the present, with some nice mod­ern touches.

Build­ings like this help us under­stand where we have come from and who we are today. Keep­ing them alive means allow­ing them to evolve while hon­our­ing their past. Every­one involved should feel proud. It is won­der­ful to see this place hum­ming with life again at the south end of Stafford St.

Brought to you by the Timaru Civic Trust, cel­eb­rat­ing our built her­it­age and the people who keep it alive.

David McBride

​December is a month of reflection.

While our elected representatives in Wellington may need to assess the year past by viewing facts and figures, a provincial community might take a hands-on approach.

Indeed the physical improvements in Timaru this year have been significant. New sporting facilities have been realised; others under way.

There was one major disappointment - this community had been asked to facilitate the redevelopment of New Zealand’s research facilities at Antarctica, but then had to accept the abandonment of that project.

Sadly, a well-organised programme of public involvement was promptly dissolved, when the level of funding required of central government was shown to be unrealistic.

However, on a more positive note, substantial new construction projects in Timaru have indeed materialised this year in sporting and cultural facilities ‒ either constructed, or have received further commitment from the management board.

The redevelopment of facilities at Fraser Park shows the strength within the Timaru community to maintain and enhance important amenities.

Christchurch reimagined its identity through a riot of colour and cultural reclamation.​

In the wake of the 2011 Earthquakes, the city’s fractured walls became sites of transformation with bold murals throughout the city.

These tributes to urban resilience have drawn global acclaim. The FLARE Ōtautahi Street Art Festival and Lonely Planet’s 2017 designation of Christchurch as a global street art capital have turned these works into social media pilgrimage sites.

Timaru, too, has embraced the street art as a civic mirror and a celebration of the community.

Our masterpieces deserve to be far more widely known.

Flox’s The Shelter (2018) honours Te Maru, the place of shelter, with a native bat, moa skeleton, and huia unfurling across George St.

Aroha Novak’s Wall Flowers, a delightful remembering of the Mount Cook Airlines Mt Cook lily logo, and fantasy Caroline Bay-scape Te Tihi-o-Maru evoke nostalgia on Strathallan St.

Dunedin artist Toothfish’s Plankton mural in the Royal Arcade links carbon cycles to oceanic fragility. And Matt Willey’s Scout Bee, part of his global Good of the Hive initiative, marks Timaru as the first New Zealand town in a worldwide swarm of bee-themed murals.

These are only a few examples, but they are not incidental.

The Timaru Civic Trust, in partnership with artists, businesses, and organisations like Alive Vibrant Timaru, has funded, facilitated, and curated much of this urban renewal.

Their stewardship of heritage buildings and commitment to public art has turned walls into canvases where ecology, history, culture, community, civic pride and turangawaewae converge.

Andrew Paul Wood

David McBride

Queen Victoria ruled across England and its Empire for most of the 19th century.

The Victorian period is renowned for its heavy decorative style. Whether it was a teapot or a fireplace, a significant overlay of decoration was considered essential.

However, like all movements there were counters to this style. In architecture one such reaction was a drive towards simplicity and humility.

The members of a loose group turned to the British heritage of simple farm buildings including barns, sheds and haystacks for inspiration.

Promotion of the vernacular was paramount, led by a cluster of artists, craftsmen and architects.

This philosophy became known as the Arts and Crafts movement, a misleading term since the members were critical of the highly decorative art found in a Victorian art gallery or showroom at that time.

The photo here shows an elegant New Zealand house of considerable age, springing from the Arts and Crafts style. The gable is attractive through its pure shape and proportions.

There is no longer decorative fretwork on the barge boards that form the gable, and no rustication of the weatherboard cladding.

It is well clear of the Victorian decoration that would be found in earlier examples of the same building.

One might pay homage to the founders of the Arts and Crafts movement, raising society to be ready for the bold, totally stripped buildings that lay ahead in the Modern movement of the 20th century.