Arts, Faculty of
Geography, Department of
DSpace
UBCV
Robb, Douglas
Doctor of Philosophy - PhD
University of British Columbia
This dissertation analyzes how decarbonization in Canada is mutually co-constitutive with processes of landscape change. Drawing from interdisciplinary scholarship in human geography and landscape architecture, with a focus on digital technologies of landscape visualization and manipulation, this dissertation critically analyzes how contemporary decarbonization agendas (re)produce conditions of uneven development and socioecological instability. Chapter 2 explores how the historical formation of energy landscapes in Canadaâs boreal region continues to influence design proposals for the low-carbon transition, often at the expense of Indigenous communities and fragile ecologies. Chapter 3 calls attention to the pervasive tendency to depict human impacts upon Earth though highly abstract and aestheticized visualizations; a deeply depoliticizing practice I term planetary voyeurism. Chapter 4 builds upon this critique through a meta-review of water-energy nexus visualizations: a resource governance framework that claims to comprehensively depict relational linkages between energy generation and water use, yet which often elides the spatial, temporal, and hydrosocial dimensions of landscape. Lastly, Chapter 5 investigates the potential to misread and depoliticize strategies of putative decarbonization which may not, in fact, be carbon neutral; particularly when the cumulative effects of broader landscape transformations are considered. Through these analyses, this dissertation advances a place-based approach to decarbonization grounded in three key arguments: 1) decarbonization is constituted by and through relational landscapes characterized by shifting social, political, and ecological interrelationships; 2) technology is a powerful instrument of landscape change, and innovative digital tools of landscape perception and visualization can mitigate (or reinforce) processes of spatial injustice through the production of low-carbon technonatures and socionatures; and 3) decarbonization presents an opportunity to decentre human beings in the design and construction of built environments. Taken together, these arguments seek to challenge conventional approaches to decarbonization, elucidate more just and inclusive energy transition pathways, and advance more-than-human approaches to the design of post-carbon futures.
DAM TO DELTA: VISUALIZING LANDSCAPES OF DECARBONIZATION IN THE SAAGHII NAACHII/PEACE RIVER REGION, CANADA by Douglas Robb HBA, University of Toronto, 2011 MLA, University of Toronto, 2014 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Geography) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) February 2022 © Douglas Robb, 2022 ii The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the dissertation entitled: Dam to Delta: Visualizing Landscapes of Decarbonization in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River Region, Canada submitted by Douglas Robb in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Geography Examining Committee: Karen Bakker, Professor, Department of Geography, UBC Supervisor Daniel Barber, Associate Professor, Weitzman School of Design, University of Pennsylvania Supervisory Committee Member Jessica Dempsey, Associate Professor, Department of Geography, UBC Supervisory Committee Member Mohammed Rafi Arefin, Assistant Professor, Department of Geography, UBC University Examiner Kees Lokman, Associate Professor, School of Architecture + Landscape Architecture, UBC University Examiner Kristina Hill, Associate Professor, College of Environmental Design, UC Berkeley External Examiner iii Abstract This dissertation analyzes how decarbonization in Canada is mutually co-constitutive with processes of landscape change. Drawing from interdisciplinary scholarship in human geography and landscape architecture, with a focus on digital technologies of landscape visualization and manipulation, this dissertation critically analyzes how contemporary decarbonization agendas (re)produce conditions of uneven development and socioecological instability. Chapter 2 explores how the historical formation of energy landscapes in Canadaâs boreal region continues to influence design proposals for the low-carbon transition, often at the expense of Indigenous communities and fragile ecologies. Chapter 3 calls attention to the pervasive tendency to depict human impacts upon Earth though highly abstract and aestheticized visualizations; a deeply depoliticizing practice I term planetary voyeurism. Chapter 4 builds upon this critique through a meta-review of water-energy nexus visualizations: a resource governance framework that claims to comprehensively depict relational linkages between energy generation and water use, yet which often elides the spatial, temporal, and hydrosocial dimensions of landscape. Lastly, Chapter 5 investigates the potential to misread and depoliticize strategies of putative decarbonization which may not, in fact, be carbon neutral; particularly when the cumulative effects of broader landscape transformations are considered. Through these analyses, this dissertation advances a place-based approach to decarbonization grounded in three key arguments: 1) decarbonization is constituted by and through relational landscapes characterized by shifting social, political, and ecological interrelationships; 2) technology is a powerful instrument of landscape change, and innovative digital tools of landscape perception and visualization can mitigate (or reinforce) processes of spatial injustice through the production of iv low-carbon technonatures and socionatures; and 3) decarbonization presents an opportunity to decentre human beings in the design and construction of built environments. Taken together, these arguments seek to challenge conventional approaches to decarbonization, elucidate more just and inclusive energy transition pathways, and advance more-than-human approaches to the design of post-carbon futures. v Lay Summary This dissertation investigates the landscape impacts of decarbonization in Canada. Drawing from interdisciplinary scholarship in human geography and landscape architecture, with a focus on visual technologies as powerful instruments of landscape change, this research critically analyses how designs for decarbonization claim to mitigate threats posed by climate change, yet, in reality, often deepen social and environmental harms. By foregrounding the place-based nature of low-carbon energy transitions, this dissertation embeds processes of decarbonization within dynamic landscapes constituted by complex socioecological forces, technological innovations, and more-than-human interrelationships. In doing so, this dissertation advances novel insights into how an interdisciplinary, landscape-led approach to decarbonization can enable more just and inclusive post-carbon futures. vi Preface This dissertation is based on independent research completed by the author, Douglas Robb. I was responsible for all fieldwork efforts, including interviews, participant observation, geospatial analysis, archival research, and visualizations (unless otherwise noted). Some of the material in Chapter 1 has been published as Robb, D. (2021). Learning from the Tree Crusher. On Site Review 39, 37-39. I conducted this research and authored this paper independently. Archival researched included in Chapter 2 has been previously presented at the Politics of Building a Climate Crisis PhD symposium hosted by the Department of Architecture at Cornell University. All the research and writing for this paper was conducted independently. A version of Chapter 3 has been previously published as Robb, D., & Bakker, K. (2020). Planetary voyeurism. LA+ Interdisciplinary Journal of Landscape Architecture 12, 50-55. Karen Bakker contributed to the section pertaining to terpenes and provided general editorial commentary, as did the journal editors, Karen MâCloskey and Keith VanDerSys. I was responsible for the conceptual framing of the article, as well as the underlying research and writing of the remaining sections. A version of Chapter 4 has been previously published as Robb, D., Harrison, C., Baka, J., & Bakker, K. (2021). Visualizing water-energy nexus landscapes. Wiley Interdisciplinary Reviews: Water 8(6), e1548. Cole Harrison and I co-wrote Section 4.4.2 on temporality; Karen Bakker co-wrote section 4.4.3 on hydrosociality; Jennifer Baka provided general editorial oversight. I was solely responsible for the conceptual framing, production and analysis of the vii visualization database, production of original diagrams and cartographic visualizations, writing of the paper, and coordination of the overall research project. A version of Chapter 5 is currently under peer review. Philippe Le Billion provided input to Section 5.2.1 on the political economy of decarbonization; Karen Bakker contributed to section 5.3 on the history of energy extraction in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region; both contributed general editorial oversight. I was responsible for writing the remaining sections of the paper and coordinating the overall research project. Some of the material in Chapter 6 will be published as Robb, D. (2021). Going home to a drowned landscape. Ground 56(4). (Accepted; article in press). I conducted this research and authored this paper independently. This research was approved by the University of British Columbia Behavioural Research Ethics Board (BREB) certificate number H19-03806; Principal Investigator: Dr. Karen Bakker. viii Table of Contents Abstract ......................................................................................................................................... iii Lay Summary .................................................................................................................................v Preface ........................................................................................................................................... vi Table of Contents ....................................................................................................................... viii List of Tables ................................................................................................................................ xi List of Figures .............................................................................................................................. xii List of Abbreviations ...................................................................................................................xv Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................... xvi Chapter 1: Introduction ................................................................................................................1 1.1 Dissertation Overview .................................................................................................. 12 1.2 An Interdisciplinary Approach ..................................................................................... 15 1.3 Literature Review.......................................................................................................... 18 1.3.1 For Geographers ........................................................................................................ 18 1.3.2 For Landscape Architects ......................................................................................... 25 1.4 Methodology ................................................................................................................. 34 1.4.1 A Multi-Sited Approach ........................................................................................... 34 1.4.2 Interdisciplinary Methods ......................................................................................... 40 1.4.3 Teaching as Methodology ......................................................................................... 43 1.4.4 Positionality and Research Process ........................................................................... 47 1.5 Chapter Summaries ....................................................................................................... 49 Chapter 2: Designing Canadian Resource Landscapes: Two Histories of Double Vision ....53 ix 2.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................... 53 2.2 What Makes a Resource? .............................................................................................. 56 2.3 Constructing a Pan-Canadian Resource Landscape ...................................................... 64 2.3.1 The Mid-Canada Development Corridor .................................................................. 67 2.3.2 The Boreal Corridor Boréale .................................................................................... 76 2.4 Two Histories of Double Vision ................................................................................... 83 Chapter 3: Planetary Voyeurism ................................................................................................87 Chapter 4: Visualizing Water-Energy Nexus Landscapes .....................................................101 4.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................. 101 4.2 Water-Energy Nexus Visualizations and the Question of Hydrosociality .................. 103 4.3 WEN Visualization Approaches and Methods ........................................................... 110 4.3.1 Meta-review of WEN visualizations ....................................................................... 110 4.3.1.1 Methodology ................................................................................................... 110 4.3.1.2 Audiences ........................................................................................................ 112 4.3.2 Analysis................................................................................................................... 115 4.3.3 Strengths ................................................................................................................. 119 4.3.4 Limitations .............................................................................................................. 122 4.4 Recommendations: Future Directions for WEN Visualizations ................................. 125 4.4.1 Recommendation 1: Spatiality ................................................................................ 125 4.4.2 Recommendation 2: Temporality ........................................................................... 127 4.4.3 Recommendation 3: Hydrosociality ....................................................................... 131 4.5 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 132 x Chapter 5: Recarbonizing landscapes? Carbon Neutrality, Settler Colonialism, and Cumulative Environmental Effects in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River Region, Canada ..136 5.1 Introduction ................................................................................................................. 136 5.2 Landscapes of Decarbonization Agendas ................................................................... 140 5.2.1 Variegated Capitalism and the Ecological Fix ........................................................ 141 5.2.2 Materiality and Relationality .................................................................................. 145 5.3 Colonization and Recarbonization in Saaghii Naachii/Peace River Landscapes ....... 151 5.3.1 Hydropower ............................................................................................................ 151 5.3.2 Site C Dam .............................................................................................................. 153 5.3.3 Oil and Gas ............................................................................................................. 156 5.3.4 Recarbonizing Landscape ....................................................................................... 159 5.4 Blueberry River First Nations and the Question of Cumulative Effects .................... 161 5.5 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 165 Chapter 6: Conclusion ...............................................................................................................168 6.1.1 Key Findings ........................................................................................................... 172 6.1.2 Theoretical Implications and Contributions............................................................ 175 6.1.3 Future Directions .................................................................................................... 179 Bibliography ...............................................................................................................................181 xi List of Tables Table 1.1 Table of design education opportunities. ...................................................................... 44 Table 4.1 Water-energy nexus visualization coding scheme. ..................................................... 111 xii List of Figures Figure 1.1 LeTourneau Tree Crusher in operation near Mackenzie, British Columbia. Photographer unknown; photo taken in 1966. Image reproduced with permission from Jim Wiens/Mackenzie and District Museum. ........................................................................................ 2 Figure 1.2 Aerial photograph of the Tree Crusher "mowing" trees within the Williston Reservoir inundation zone. Photo taken from BC Forest Service Clearing the Peace (1966) slideshow presentation. Image reproduced with permission from Jim Wiens/Mackenzie and District Museum........................................................................................................................................... 5 Figure 1.3 W.A.C. Bennett Hydroelectric Dam, showing the Peace River to the left and the Williston Reservoir to the right. Image credit: Garth Lenz. ......................................................... 11 Figure 1.4: Canadaâs âmany northsâ as represented by various legal and political boundaries. Image credit: Sheppard and White (2017). ................................................................................... 35 Figure 1.5 Artistâs rendering of the Site C Dam. Image credit: Acciona. .................................... 47 Figure 2.1 Nature's "architecture." Diagram of strata north of Limestone Islands and section of Triassic rocks, Burnaby Island (Dawson 1880). ........................................................................... 62 Figure 2.2 Mid-Canada Development Corridor (Mid-Canada Development Foundation Inc. 1971b, 52). .................................................................................................................................... 71 Figure 2.3 Northern ânew townâ concept (Mid-Canada Development Foundation Inc. 1971b, 58). ................................................................................................................................................ 74 Figure 2.4 Precedent image of the Boreal Corridor Boréale (Van Nostrand 2014). .................... 77 Figure 2.5 Boreal Corridor Boréale. Image credit: SvN. .............................................................. 79 xiii Figure 2.6 Current and projected climate suitability zone of aspen. Image credit: Natural Resources Canada. ........................................................................................................................ 80 Figure 3.1 Woman peering through peephole of Ãtant donnés: 1° la chute d'eau, 2° le gaz d'éclairage... by Marcel Duchamp (1966). Image credit: New York Times. ............................... 88 Figure 3.2 Representative visualization enabling planetary voyeurism. Image credit: Harvard Graduate School of Design Urban Theory Lab. ........................................................................... 93 Figure 4.1 Number of water-energy nexus publications in the academic literature, 2008-2019. 112 Figure 4.2 Bibliometric analysis of water-energy nexus citation trends. ................................... 114 Figure 4.3 Generalized Sankey diagram depicting flows of water use. ...................................... 116 Figure 4.4 Representative âconventionalâ WEN visualization, drawing on the Authorsâ research on the water-energy nexus in northeastern British Columbia, Canada. Hydraulic fracturing sites are represented as blue dots proportionately scaled by volume of water consumed; underlying watershed management basins are shaded yellow in proportion to the cumulative volume of water withdrawn from them for hydraulic fracturing purposes. ................................................. 118 Figure 4.5 Representative WEN landscape visualization, drawing on the Authorsâ research on the water-energy nexus in northeastern British Columbia, Canada. Hydraulic fracturing sites are represented as dots coloured on a red-blue gradient based on their proximity to water-intensive agricultural lands (shown in green). These sites are proportionately scaled based on their volume of water consumption. Urbanized areas and First Nations reserves (orange) are also depicted. 121 Figure 6.1 Construction of the Halfway River Bridge as seen from the current banks of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River. Image credit: Douglas Robb, August 2021. ................................ 169 Figure 6.2 Digital rendering of the Halfway River Bridge. Approximate location and viewshed of Figure 5.1 indicated in red. Image credit: BC Hydro / YouTube. .............................................. 169 xiv Figure 6.3 Fluctuating water levels scour lines into the riverbank, impeding vegetation growth. Image credit: Douglas Robb, August 2021. ................................................................................ 171 xv List of Abbreviations AR Augmented Reality BC British Columbia BCB Boreal Corridor Boréale BRFN Blueberry River First Nations CAD Computer-Automated Design CCUS Carbon Capture, Utilization, and Storage/Sequestration CO2 Carbon Dioxide EOR Enhanced Oil Recovery FN First Nations GHG Greenhouse Gas GIS Geographic Information Systems GSC Geological Survey of Canada IEA International Energy Agency IPCC Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change LNG Liquified Natural Gas MCDC Mid-Canada Development Corridor Mt Megatons RAIC Royal Architectural Institute of Canada SAGD Steam-Assisted Gravity Drainage VR Virtual Reality WEN Water-Energy Nexus xvi Acknowledgements There are simply too many people to thank here. I want to begin by expressing my sincere gratitude to my dissertation advisor, Karen Bakker. Thank you for your thoughtful guidance, for your bottomless supply of dark chocolate, and for always reminding me that true interdisciplinary research takes courage and imagination. Daniel Barber: thank you for your thought-provoking conversations and for helping me keep one foot in the world of design. Jessica Dempsey: thank you for your boundless curiosity and enthusiasm; you model the kind of teacher and colleague I hope to become. Thanks also to Philippe Le Billon for your kindness, support, and strategic advice. This dissertation would not have been possible without financial support from the University of British Columbia, the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and the Landscape Architecture Canada Foundation. Many thanks to all people who generously gave their time to speak with me during the course of my researchâboth on and off the record. To Angele Alook, Gretchen Bakke, Holly Buck, Diane Cameron, Sarah Cox, Marcella Eaton, Margaret Kenequanash, Mark Plamondon, Harry Swain, and Stephen Thomas: thank you for helping me navigate the complexities of Canadaâs energy landscapes. To Guy Armitage, Arlene Boone, Ken Boone, Gwen Johansson, Anne Vos, and Henry Vos: thank you for showing me the beauty of Peace Country. Thank you to all my colleagues, students, and friends at UBCâs Department of Geography and at UBCâs School of Architecture + Landscape Architecture: Josh Barichello, Fionn Byrne, Mollie Holmberg, DâArcy Hutton, Kees Lokman, Sophie Maguire, Chris Reimer, Madeline Whetung, and David Zielnicki. Many thanks to my research assistants, Andrew Butt and Kathryn Reeder. Thanks also to my colleagues at the University of Torontoâs Daniels xvii Faculty of Architecture, Landscape, and Design who have opened many doors for me over the past decade, especially Elise Hunchuck, Jeannie Kim, Liat Margolis, and Alissa North. Special thanks to William Blissett for encouraging me to take that geology course, and to Jane Wolff, my longstanding friend and mentor, for teaching me how to look at landscapes. To the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River: thank you for enabling so many diverse forms of life to flourish. I hope this dissertation can make a meaningful contributionâhowever smallâto begin repairing the damage that has been inflicted upon you. I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to David Cosolo, whose support and companionship provided safe harbour when I needed it most; thank you for exploring the country with me. Lastly, to Angela Robb, Bill Robb, and Lucy Robb: thank you for your endless love and encouragement. None of this could have been possible without you.1 Chapter 1: Introduction Progress. The action of advance, of growth and development. It was progress when the earliest organisms crawled from the sea and life had its beginnings on earth. The wheel marked another era. Today, progress propels man towards a richer and fuller life. He tries to unravel mysteries in the laboratories and on the testing grounds, and he streaks through space on a rocketâs tip. And in godlike fashion he moves mountains, bends rivers, and creates. This is part of the progress story in British Columbia, where man and his monster machines are blasting and clawing and building to create 240 miles long the worldâs largest man-made lake. â Vancouver Sun Editorial Board (1965, 25 May) Fifty-five years ago, one of the worldâs tallest earth dams was built 22 kilometres west of Hudsonâs Hope. It flooded a valley shaped by the Parsnip and Finlay Rivers. It was where the Tsay Keh Dene had derived their livelihoods, established their identity and honoured their ancestors for millenniaâ¦ Inadequate consultation and disrespect for First Nations was not excusable half a century ago; it should be criminal now. âIzony and Dowlatabadi (2016, 29 Sept) Standing in front of the Tree Crusher, I was most surprised by the size of its teeth. This ominously-named deviceâthe largest of its kindâwas designed for a singular purpose: to crush trees. It was conceived and manufactured by the LeTourneau Technologies Corporation in Longview, Texas, and consisted of a central chassis connected to two spiked drum rollers that functioned as wheels (Figure 1.1). Above the front roller extended a rigid beam designed to 2 âtopple all sizes of vegetation, both large and smallâ (Orlemann 2001, 2). The spiked rollers would then âfell, break up, and partially masticate all vegetationâ that stood in the Tree Crusherâs path, leaving behind it a wake of splintered debris (Le Tourneau 1960). I had studied the Tree Crusherâs technical details at the Royal British Columbia Archives in Victoria, but now, standing in front of it in the quiet, subalpine forests of northeastern BC, I was shocked by how out-of-place (and unwelcome) it seemed in contrast to the surrounding landscape. Figure 1.1 LeTourneau Tree Crusher in operation near Mackenzie, British Columbia. Photographer unknown; photo taken in 1966. Image reproduced with permission from Jim Wiens/Mackenzie and District Museum. My visit to the Tree Crusher was a short pit-stop on my journey from Vancouver to the Site C Dam on the Peace River: Canadaâs newest hydropower project and the largest 3 hydroelectric dam currently under construction in North America. The purpose of my trip was to document the effects of Site Câs construction on communities and ecologies along the river. My partner and I planned to canoe down the Peace Riverâor Saaghii Naachii as it is known in the local Dane-zaa languageâfrom the Site C Dam toward the riverâs terminus at the Peace-Athabasca Delta in order to speak with land owners and First Nations communities affected by ongoing infrastructure development. Questions of landscape were central this fieldwork, both physically and conceptually. From dam to delta, landscapes link the people and places directly (and indirectly) impacted by contemporary energy extraction and decarbonization projects. I decided to visit the Tree Crusher because it played an important role in shaping this interconnected geography. Although the Site C Dam and the Tree Crusher are separated by a four-hour drive through a steep Rocky Mountain pass, these seemingly unrelated objects are, in fact, closely linked within Canadaâs evolving energy landscapes. In 1964, the BC Forest Service organized for the delivery of two Tree Crushers to the newly-established resource town of Mackenzie, located along the Parsnip River (a tributary of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River) (Kvarv 1987). The machines were needed to clear-cut large tracts of forest that would soon be drowned under the rising waters of the Williston Reservoir: a vast artificial lake impounded by the W.A.C. Bennett Hydroelectric Dam. By the late 1960s, construction of the dam was nearing completion, and nearly 200,000 hectares of boreal forest remained slated to be clearedâand fast. Failure to clear the trees that grew within the reservoirâs inundation zone would result in large quantities of floating debris that could threaten the damâs architecture and pose a risk to future recreation activities, such as boating and fishing. Site preparation for the future reservoir initially relied on manual techniques like hand-felling and slash-and-burn, but these methods were deemed to be too slow to clear such a large area in time. 4 A new tool was needed; something that could rapidly clear-cut vast tracts of forest ahead of the rising flood waters. At the same time, a parallel project of large-scale land clearance was underway across the Pacific. In 1964, the United States Armed Forces began experimenting with new ways to clear the dense jungles of Vietnam that provided cover to Viet Cong forces. The U.S. military had conducted tests using airborne herbicides, defoliants, and fire-bombing techniques with varying degrees of success. In a bid to expedite its land clearance program, military officials commissioned LeTourneau to manufacture a fleet of Tree Crushers (Orlemann 2001). With financial support from the U.S. government, these machinesâwhich were initially designed for commercial logging operationsâquickly grew in size, speed, and ferocity. Most of the âenhancedâ Tree Crushers were shipped from Texas to Vietnam, but two made their way north to Canada. The first Tree Crusher arrived in Mackenzie on six flat rail cars, and took nearly four days to unload and reassemble. Enthusiastic reports of the Tree Crusherâs arrival reflect the fervor of mid-century infrastructure development in British Columbia (Kvarv 1987). As recently as the late 1960s, northern BC was seen as a âvast tract of unexplored and uninhabited countryâ in urgent need of modernization (Peyton 2017). Projects such as the W.A.C. Bennett Dam were celebrated for ârolling the frontier back 500 miles to the north,â and for bringing new lands and peoples into the dominion of the Canadian settler colonial state (Wenner-Gren British Columbia Development Co. 1958, 14). The Tree Crusher played an important role in this nation-building 5 agenda, and was emblematic of a high modernist impulse to subdue and âimproveâ unruly frontier landscapes (Scott 2008).1 Figure 1.2 Aerial photograph of the Tree Crusher "mowing" trees within the Williston Reservoir inundation zone. Photo taken from BC Forest Service Clearing the Peace (1966) slideshow presentation. Image reproduced with permission from Jim Wiens/Mackenzie and District Museum. Despite initial enthusiasm, the Tree Crusherâs operational tenure was relatively short-lived. After two years and countless breakdowns, it had only cleared about 1,000 hectares of land 1 High modernism, in the context of geographical scholarship, refers to positivist and scientistic approaches to ecological modernization and the technocratic governance of populations (Peyton 2017; Scott 2008). It is related to, but somewhat distinct from, architectural definitions of modernism which to refer to a post-war aesthetic and philosophical approach to the design of the built environment (Sachs 2018). 6 (Figure 1.2). As a bespoke piece of industrial equipment, its operators had to learn how to troubleshoot frequent mechanical failures in the field with limited access to equipment for repairs. The landscape surrounding Mackenzie also provided many unforeseen challenges. For instance, the 175-ton machine would often get bogged down in the soft soils along the Parsnip River. Workers improvised by only crushing trees that grew on firm bedrock until a second, nimbler 80-ton Tree Crusher could be shipped to site. By 1970, the rising water levels of the Williston Reservoir put an end to the land-clearing works and the two Tree Crushers were abandoned where they stood in the forest. It was not until 1984 that the Municipal Council of Mackenzie voted to retrieve and refurbish the rusted remains of the original Tree Crusher as a monument to the townâs industrial heritage. Today, the bright yellow machine sits as a roadside tourist attraction in Mackenzie along Highway 39, while a similar story of industrial land clearance and landscape transformation unfolds downstream at the Site C Dam. I begin with the story of the Mackenzie Tree Crusher because it illustrates the main concepts I explore in this dissertation. My research explores the complex landscapes that emerge through interactions between the cultures, infrastructures, and political economies of energy, with a focus on digital technologies of landscape visualization and manipulation. Drawing from interdisciplinary scholarship in human geography and landscape architecture, my research critically analyzes how contemporary decarbonization agendas (re)produce conditions of uneven development and socioecological instability. Building on this critical analysis, my research also considers how geographers and landscape architects might foreground questions of place and landscape in designs for the low-carbon transition in order to elucidate more just and inclusive energy futures. 7 According to Hutton (2020), landscapes offer a lens to study the dynamic interrelationships between humans and their environmentâand, implicitly, the changing demands that humans place on landscapes in pursuit of energy resources. âLandscapes,â she argues, âare models in situ, as well as experimental testing grounds for new forms of changing lands elsewhereâ¦ while designed landscapes model ideas about human relationships to land, they also engage in real ones through their material makingâ (11). Similarly, Lokman (2019) suggests that landscapes offer a valuable medium through which to âanalyze, represent, and communicateâ situated knowledge about shifting socioecological conditionsâparticularly with respect to climate changeâas a precursor to âenvision[ing] different futures across a broad range of scalesâ (268). Building on these important insights, this dissertation seeks to better understand how Canadaâs low-carbon transition is mutually co-constitutive with processes of landscape transformation. I do so by embedding abstract decarbonization agendas within landscapes constituted by complex socioecological forces, technological innovations, and more-than-human interrelationships. In foregrounding questions of landscape through geographic and landscape architectural perspectives, this dissertation advances an interdisciplinary, place-based approach to the analysis and design of post-carbon futures. This approach is grounded in three key arguments, which run throughout the following chapters: 1) decarbonization is constituted by and through landscapes characterized by shifting social, political, and ecological interrelationships; 2) technology is a powerful instrument of landscape change, and innovative digital tools of landscape perception and visualization can mitigate (or reinforce) processes of spatial injustice through the production of low-carbon technonatures and socionatures; and 3) decarbonization presents an opportunity to decentre human beings in the production of built environments, and to advance more-than-8 human approaches to the design of post-carbon futures. By articulating landscapes as dynamic and relational entitiesâand not as passive stockpiles of natural resourcesâthis dissertation seeks to problematize technocratic and instrumentalizing approaches to decarbonization, while also challenging the idea that landscapes are subservient terrain for human intervention. The story of the Tree Crusher offers a useful analogy to think about emerging low-carbon landscapes in three distinct ways. First, as a tool, the Tree Crusher embodies the violent techniques used to accumulate energy resources within global systems of extractive capitalism.2 The Tree Crusher is purposefully indiscriminate, designed to ignore the unique qualities of place according to logics of speed and efficiency shared by the United States Armed Forces the designers of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam (and, more recently, the Site C Dam). These blunt technical requirements persist in many of the tools commonly used in contemporary design and cartographic practice, yet which were originally developed, in part, to facilitate surveillance and combat operations in enemy territory (such as GIS and remote sensing technologies) (Gregory 2011; Weizman and Sheikh 2015). Similarly, the militarization of land clearance in the jungles of Vietnam is reflected in the BC Forest Serviceâs approach to site preparation for the Williston Reservoir: the boreal forest stood in the way of a particular political goal, and the Tree Crusher provided a powerful toolâand weaponâto advance the Government of British Columbiaâs agenda of northern modernization. Second, as a monument along Highway 39, the Tree Crusher reflects the convergence of capital, labour, and industrial ambition that carved the town of Mackenzie out of BCâs northern 2 It should be noted that trees themselves are significant sources of embodied energy (and a precursor to fossil fuels); yet in the narrow pursuit of one particular energy source, vast swathes of forest were crushed and drowned beneath the Williston Reservoir. 9 forests. It commemorates the men and women who established Mackenzie and prepared the land for the Williston Reservoir, many of whom went on to work in the pulp, paper, and timber mills which now dominate the townâs local economy. Yet today, Mackenzieâs economic future is uncertain. Many of the regionâs mills have closed, citing an âongoing lack of economic [wood]fiberâ due to high tree mortality associated with invasive species, increasing frequency and severity of climate change-induced wildfires (Oud 2021), as well as the mechanization and digitization of labour-intensive extractive processes (Ramantswana et al. 2020). Against these difficult odds, the Tree Crusher monumentalizes the struggle and resilience of Mackenzieâs founding citizens in the face of an uncertain economic future. Yet the Tree Crusher can also be read as a monument to the hubris of reckless resource extraction. Decades of industrial clear-cutting, mining, hydroelectric development, and oil and gas extraction have reduced the forests surrounding Mackenzie to a fragmented patchwork (Macdonald 2016). As boreal ecosystems struggle to cope with the pace and scale of industrial development, so too do the cultures and livelihoods that depend on them. This is acutely felt by Indigenous peoples who rely on these sacred landscapes for food, medicine, and traditional practices, yet who have been dispossessed and systematically marginalized under Canadian settler colonialism; particularly the Dane-zaa people, who have lived in the Saaghii Naachii / Peace River Region for thousands of years. Viewed in this light, the Tree Crusher embodies the narrowly-conceived schemes and ambitions that characterize many of Canadaâs extractive energy landscapes (Peyton 2017; Sims 2018). It is both a monument to exploitation and a reminder of the ongoing forms of violence inflicted upon Indigenous peoples and cultural landscapes. 10 Third, as a symbol, the Tree Crusher represents the ways in which historical and ongoing practices of infrastructure development in British Columbia (and elsewhere) fail to recognize the more-than-human interrelationships that constitute all landscapes. Many of these relations have only recently come to the attention of Western science, including forms of biochemical communication between tree species through mycorrhizal networks: trees not only âtalkâ to one another, but engage in complex and self-organizing forms of cooperation and knowledge-transfer (Simard 2021). These are not just chemical associations, but also cultural and spiritual relationships that form the basis of reciprocal kinship networks that have long been understood by Indigenous peoples, including the Dane-zaa (Kimmerer 2013; Todd 2015; Watts 2013). For example, in their ethnography of the Dane-zaa language, Ridington and Ridington (2017) document how oral traditions are encodedâliterally and figurativelyâinto the landscapes of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River through place names, cultural practices, and centuries of intergenerational memory. Yet the Tree Crusher is blind to these obligate relationships, as are many other tools that geographers and landscape architects routinely use to observe, visualize, and stage interventions in the material world. We can witness this blindness in contemporary design projects that instrumentalize nonhumans through discourses of âecosystem servicesâ and other ânature-based solutionsâ (Swanson et al. 2021). Like the Tree Crusher, these design approaches reduce the dynamic, agential qualities of landscapes into material throughputs for technical and economic systems. As a tool, a monument, and a symbol, the Tree Crusher represents the complicated role played by geographers, landscape architects, and others engaged in the design and production of Canadian energy landscapes. While the Tree Crusher may have ceased functioning in 1970, its legacy lives on in the construction of contemporary energy projects, such as the Site C Dam. We 11 can observe this legacy in geographic and cartographic paradigms rooted in colonial, speciesist, and extractive worldviews; likewise, we can find it the disciplinary norms and practices used by landscape architects to design unjust and unsustainable built environments. These paradigms and practices are modern-day Tree Crushers, and I argue that we can witness their destructive power in the landscape transformations wrought by contemporary decarbonization agendas. The story of the Tree Crusher therefore provides a cautionary tale. As it currently sits at the side of the road, in an environment increasingly characterized by fires, flooding, and biodiversity decline, the Tree Crusher demonstrates the consequences for failing to acknowledge the agency and interconnectedness of landscapes. This dissertation is an attempt to learn these lessons, and to mobilize them toward the design of more just and inclusive post-carbon futures. Figure 1.3 W.A.C. Bennett Hydroelectric Dam, showing the Peace River to the left and the Williston Reservoir to the right. Image credit: Garth Lenz. 12 1.1 Dissertation Overview According to a recent report issued by the International Energy Agency (2021), human societies must reach net-zero carbon emissions by the year 2050 in order to avoid the most catastrophic effects of climate change. Achieving this goal will require a fundamental reconfiguration of the global energy landscape; hence, potential pathways toward decarbonization have emerged as a subject of intense debate. Some advocate on behalf of a ânet-zeroâ framework, which seeks to balance continued fossil fuel production with infrastructures of carbon capture, utilization, and storage (CCUS) designed to remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and sequester it in biological or geological sinks. Critics are less optimistic, arguing that the logics of net-zero decarbonization risk locking human societies into continued reliance on oil and gas, while simultaneously undermining calls for Indigenous self-determination and climate justice, in addition to diverting financial and political resources away from the urgent task of climate change mitigation and adaptation (Buck 2021). Geographers and landscape architects (such as myself) increasingly find themselves at the centre of these complex debates. Speaking as a landscape architect, my colleagues and I are repeatedly told that the present historical moment offers an unprecedented opportunity to âbuild back betterâ and to envision a more just and sustainable society centered on the decarbonization of the economy (Landscape Architecture Foundation 2017). These reminders are warranted: as a generalist discipline committed to the preservation of âsocial, aesthetic, economic, and environmental values,â landscape architecture is uniquely positioned to shape processes of energy transition in Canada and abroad (Canadian Society of Landscape Architects 2015, 1). Speaking as a geographer, I am encouraged by recent attempts to articulate more just and inclusive energy futures through geographic and cartographic scholarship, particularly efforts to 13 rethink orthodox concepts of landscape through engagement with historically marginalized perspectives and spatial traditions (Friess and Jazeel 2017). This dissertation builds on these positive developments by critically analyzing the concepts and methods used by geographers and landscape architects to produce landscapes of decarbonization. Specifically, I seek to analyze how contemporary research and design practices contributeâperhaps inadvertentlyâto ongoing processes of settler colonialism, extractivism, climate destabilization, and biodiversity decline through the making of energy landscapes. Embedded within this analysis is an implicit critique of geographyâs and landscape architectureâs complicity in processes of uneven development and ecological degradation related to contemporary energy transitions, as well each disciplinesâ struggleâor unwillingnessâto advance a program of social and environmental justice through the design of post-carbon futures (Brown and Jennings 2003; De Block et al. 2019; Fleming 2019). Why articulate these concerns now? Because, as it is abundantly clear, we are rapidly running out of time to confront the global climate crisis (IPCC 2021). One does not need to look far to find evidence: this summer, the Pacific Northwest experienced an unprecedented heatwave, where temperatures in Vancouver peaked above 40 degrees Celsiusâabout 20 degrees hotter than the seasonal average. Nearby, the town of Lytton gained the notorious distinction of being the hottest place ever recorded on Earth north of the 50th parallel. (Since the time of initial writing in July 2021, Lytton has been destroyed by wildfires).3 According to the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (2021), human societies have less 3 The proximal cause of the fire is uncertain, although numerous local reports suggest it was ignited by a spark from a passing freight train (Canadian Press 2021). However, climate change-induced weather events, including an unprecedented âheat dome,â have been identified as the ultimate cause of the wildfires that have ravaged the Pacific Northwest during the summer of 2021 (NRCAN 2021). 14 than a decade to fundamentally transform the ways in which we utilize land to produce energy and sequester carbon dioxide in order to avoid the most catastrophic effects of climate change. Geographers and landscape architects have responded to this call through a flurry of conferences, exhibitions, and special journal issues devoted to the exploration of potential pathways toward the post-carbon future. However, I argue that many design responses to decarbonization have, thus far, been largely motivated by discourses of sustainability and solutionism that fail to address the underlying conditions of our current climate crisis. This is a dangerous oversight. Designing for decarbonization will require geographers and landscape architects to engage in a critical examination of their disciplineâs historic involvement in extractive and exploitative practices, and to rethink their political and ethical obligations to the nonhuman world (for example, see Collard, Dempsey and Sundberg 2015; Space Caviar 2021). In seeking to respond to the urgency of the climate crisis, I argue that geographers and designers often fall prey to the temptation to call for sweeping infrastructural gestures and/or utopian techno-fixes (Goldstein 2018; Halpern, Mitchell and Geoghegan 2017). This impulse, I suggest, demonstrates a fundamental misunderstanding of decarbonization as a primarily technical task, and not as an opportunity to reimagine social and ecological relationships that have been structured around the logics of fossil capital (Escobar 2018; Iturbe 2019). Hence, this dissertation is not only interested in the objects, materials, and architecturesâi.e. the âstuffââof energy transitions, but also the ways in which the design of post-carbon futures enables (or constrains) particular ways of living, knowing, and engaging with landscapes. As such, I ground my analysis in three key arguments that run throughout each chapter of this dissertation: 15 1. Decarbonization is a space-making process that requires various material and discursive technologies to transform landscapes into sites of energy transition. Consequently, the extent to which current research methods and design practices are organized around the logics of fossil fuel consumption will inevitably limit our collective ability to imagine post-carbon futures. 2. Innovative digital technologies enable geographers and landscape architects to âseeâ landscapes on a planetary scale, and to model and visualize decarbonization agendas with increasing detail and comprehensiveness. However, by excluding so-called ânon-expert, non-technicalâ perspectivesâincluding forms of Indigenous knowledge and calls for self-determinationâthese technologies can also obscure histories of environmental violence and contribute to ongoing forms of marginalization across intersectional dimensions of race, class, and gender. 3. Designing the low-carbon transition will require a fundamental reconceptualization of human-nonhuman relations beyond the logics of fossil capital, yet contemporary decarbonization projects are often rooted in speciesist and anthropocentric paradigms. Consequently, geographers and landscape architects must work to decentre human beings and advance a more-than-human approach to the design of energy transitions. 1.2 An Interdisciplinary Approach This dissertation critically analyses how contemporary decarbonization agendas are mutually co-constitutive with processes of landscape change. Much like climate change itself, 16 this project exceeds the scope of any single academic discipline. Therefore, this dissertation is grounded in an interdisciplinary approach situated between geography and landscape architecture (my two areas of professional and academic training). These disciplines share a rich, yet somewhat separate tradition of interrogating, conceptualizing, and intervening in complex landscapes. Despite their many shared political and intellectual commitments, geography and landscape architecture have evolved alongside different theories, vocabularies, and modes of inquiry; as a result, these disciplines can seem unfamiliar, and sometimes unintelligible to each other. With few exceptions, landscape architects and geographers tend to work on different kinds of projects, consume different scholarly media, attend different conferences, and publish in different journals. I suggest that this lack of engagement is a tremendous missed opportunity that results in a diminishment of our collective terms for projecting the future. This dissertation responds to calls for engaged pluralism between geography and landscape architecture (Barnes and Sheppard 2010; Meyer 2020). Insights from geography can provide valuable additions to landscape architectureâs conceptual and methodological toolbox. At the same time, I believe that landscape architecture can offer new tools for geographic research; for example, design methods can help to operationalize abstract social theories through compelling visualizations and material interventions (Heyes 2007). Hence, this dissertation endeavours to foster a respectful and generative engagement between the methodologies, epistemologies, and theoretical traditions of geography and landscape architecture. At the same time, this dissertation seeks to model ways that an interdisciplinary design-research practice can tackle âwicked problemsâ such as climate change and decarbonization. This dissertation takes the form of four interrelated journal articles that elaborate on the three arguments I have laid out above. Chapter 2 explores how the historical formation of 17 extractive landscapes in Canadaâs boreal region continue to influence design proposals for low-carbon transition, often at the expense of Indigenous communities and fragile northern ecologies. Chapter 3 calls attention to the pervasive tendency to depict human impacts upon Earth though highly abstract and aestheticized visualizations; a deeply depoliticizing practice I term planetary voyeurism. Chapter 4 builds upon this critique through a meta-review of water-energy nexus visualizations: a resource governance framework that claims to comprehensively depict relational linkages between energy generation and water use, yet which often elides the spatial, temporal, and hydrosocial dimensions of landscape. Lastly, Chapter 5 explores the potential to misread and depoliticize strategies of putative decarbonization which may not, in fact, be carbon neutral; particularly when the cumulative effects of broader landscape transformations are considered. I have structured this dissertation as four self-contained journal articles in order to maximize the interdisciplinary visibility of each paper: some draw more heavily from landscape architectural theory and have been published (or are under peer review) in design journals, while others are directed toward audiences in human geography. The challenge in each chapter was not to shore up disciplinary boundaries, but rather to facilitate a cross-pollination of ideas and concepts that are not normally articulated together. As a project of interdisciplinary scholarship, this dissertation makes intellectual contributions to several fields. For geographers, particularly those engaged in topics of energy transition, this dissertation articulates decarbonization as a space-making process embedded in relational landscapes characterized by dynamic biophysical conditions, shifting infrastructural assemblages, and longstanding histories of social and political contestation. For landscape architects, this research challenges designers to critically reflect on the assumptions and paradigms that underpin contemporary practices used to design, visualize, and construct 18 landscapes of the low-carbon transition. Together, these contributions situate decarbonization within the asymmetrical power dynamics and shifting social relations that make up energy landscapes. In doing so, this dissertation opens up decarbonization agendas to critical analysis and creative re-imagination, while also foregrounding innovative strategies to elucidate more just and inclusive energy futures. 1.3 Literature Review This dissertation offers a critical analysis of contemporary decarbonization agendas by drawing on literature from geography and landscape architecture. Below, I provide an overview of my interdisciplinary research context, which I have divided into two parts: one for geographers, and one for landscape architects. 1.3.1 For Geographers Over the past decade, landscape has emerged as an importantâbut underdevelopedâ concept for geographers seeking to analyze changes in the global energy system (Baka and Vaishnava 2020). One of the most influential geographical approaches to the study of energy landscapes is Geelsâ (2005) sociotechnical model. This approach conceives of landscape in terms of feedback loops that driveâand are simultaneously shaped byâprocesses of social and technological change. According to sociotechnical perspectives, landscapes emerge through the convergence of supply-side changes in technology and capital, and demand-side shifts in socio-cultural behaviours and values linked to changing patterns of energy production, consumption, and capital accumulation (Turnheim and Geels 2012). For example, innovations in electric 19 vehicle technology can trigger the production of new infrastructures that alter patterns of energy use, and vice versa (Haarstad and Wanvik 2017). But supply and demand dynamics only enable a partial understanding of complex energy landscapes. Likewise, sociotechnical perspectives have been critiqued for conceptualizing landscape as a passive terrain upon which social and technological processes unfold (Lawhon and Murphy 2021; Meadowcroft 2009). As Calvert et al. (2019) note, âemphasis on the sociotechnical dimensions of energy transition has not been balanced by emphasis on the socioecological dimensions of energy transitionâ (192). This observation is echoed by Bridge and Gailing (2020), who suggest that sociotechnical perspectives have a âpolitical blind spotâ (1039) in that they often fail to address the power-laden and socially-contested nature of energy landscapes. Energy transitions are fundamentally disruptive processes, yet sociotechnical narratives often overlook the ways in which decarbonization agendas are shaped by competing social, cultural, and political agendas. 4 Scholars of geographical political economy have sought to address this âpolitical blind spotâ by articulating decarbonization as a space-making process embedded within landscapes of variegated capitalism (Brenner, Peck and Theodore 2010; Castán Broto 2019; Kirshner et al. 2020; Tornel 2020). This perspective is grounded in historical-materialist understandings of natural resources, which articulate energy landscapes in terms of the spatial and temporal flows 4 The question of who, or what, is most susceptible to the disruptive forces of the low-carbon transition is a political question. While incumbent fossil fuel companies may seem to be the most directly impacted by policies aimed at increasing the speed of decarbonization efforts, they are also (at least in Canada) largely sheltered by subsidies, tax breaks, and other political programs (Alberta Energy 2020a; Government of British Columbia 2021). Often, the financial and ecological disruptions of the transition are devolved to individual consumers (Graney and Jones 2021) or written off as environmental externalities (Kama 2020). Increasingly, as I discuss in Chapter 5, these externalities are absorbed by oil and gas companies as new sources of increased profitabilityâalbeit ones that obscure the continued social and ecological impacts of landscape degradation. 20 of global capitalism (Brenner 2014). From a political economic perspective, the territorial requirements of decarbonization present a new frontier for capital accumulation through the reconfiguration of social relations and environmental processes. Consequently, the shift away from hydrocarbons toward renewables sources of energy will entail a fundamental reconfiguration of the political structures and socioecological relations that underpin our fossil fuel energy regime (Ekers and Prudham 2017; Haarstad and Wanvik 2017; Huber and McCarthy 2017). Geographers have shed significant light onto these complex dynamics, such as the production of social inequalities linked to the decline of fossil fuel-based economies (Carley and Konisky 2020); impacts on human and environmental health associated with the creation of renewable energy landscapes (McCarthy 2015); regulation of critical mineral extraction required to produce low-carbon devices (Bazilian 2015; Heffron 2020), and the emergence of new exploitative labour regimes needed to build and maintain biological and geological carbon sinks (Mac Dowell et al. 2017). In addition to these analyses, geographers have also explored landscapes of decarbonization through the concept of the socioecological fix. This concept builds upon Harveyâs (2001; 2006) theory of the spatial fix to describe how renewable energy infrastructures and CCUS projects provide new outlets for the circulation of capital (Ekers and Prudham 2017; 2018). Drawing on ecological Marxist literature, energy geographers have mobilized this concept to interrogate decarbonization agendas alongside broader critiques of capitalism (Malm 2016; Parenti 2016). According to proponents of the socioecological fix concept, state and corporate-led decarbonization initiatives represent an attempt to overcome the second contradiction of capitalism, wherein processes of accumulation erode the ecological conditions necessary for capitalâs reproduction (OâConnor 1994). McCarthy (2015), for example, describes how 21 renewable energy projects can offer a âfixâ to oil and gas companies looking to redirect flows of capital away from increasingly risky investments in hydrocarbon extraction. Similarly, Palmer (2021) explores how carbon-sequestering tree plantations provide a fix for companies seeking to decarbonize their operations by transforming carbon dioxide emissions from a negative externality into a valued commodity in the form of timber products. In both of these examples, the resulting landscapes do not represent a radical break from the constitutive logics of fossil capital, but rather a reformulation of the capitalist enterprise under the guise of âgreenâ development (Carton and Andersson 2017). Geographic scholarship on the socioecological fix sheds light onto the ways that incumbent fossil fuel companies capitalize on processes of energy transition to facilitate continued cycles of accumulation.5 Furthermore, this concept helps to articulate how the material production of energy infrastructures can induce parallel transformations in social, cultural, and biophysical landscapes. These coupled infrastructural and socionatural dynamics illustrate how decarbonization, as a broad political agenda, materializes in highly variegated ways and often reproduces asymmetrical power relations through the production of built environments (Kirshner et al. 2020). By framing decarbonization in terms of social and political contestationâand not as the result of formal governance mechanisms or design practicesâthis scholarship enables a more nuanced analysis of how energy transitions intersection with questions of social and environmental justice. 5 It should be noted, however, that incumbent fossil fuel companies in Canada continue to derive the vast majority of their revenue from the extraction, transportation, andâincreasinglyâdomestic processing of hydrocarbons; the extent to which these companies have capitalized on renewable sources of energy and CCUS technologies remains a fraction of their overall business model (Graham 2019). 22 Energy geographers have sought to address these justice considerations through the concept of âenergy landscapesâ (Castán Broto 2019; Haarstad and Wanvik 2017; Pasqualetti and Stremke 2018). This concept seeks to spatialize the âsocial processes and the outcomes of conflict and negotiationâ associated with the production and consumption of energy resources (Bridge et al. 2013, 335). For example, geographers have used the energy landscape concept to articulate the uneven distribution of risks and benefits associated with our changing energy system, such as questions surrounding the environmental hazards of infrastructure siting (Jenkins et al. 2016). This research draws from longstanding work in environmental justice scholarship to reveal how âprogressiveâ energy policies can, in fact, (re)produce environmental harms and uneven development across multiple spatial and temporal scalesâoften in ways that intersect with racial and gendered forms of inequality (Cutter 1996; Pulido 2000). Landscape plays an important role in this literature to describe both the material conditions that contribute to an overall state of energy precarity (Bouzarovski and Simcock 2017), as well as the broad constellation of distributional and procedural justice considerations that shape an individualsâ interactions with the energy system (Jenkins et al. 2016; McCauley and Heffron 2018). Geographic scholarship on energy justice has percolated into mainstream conversations surrounding the Green New Deal and other popular decarbonization agendas (Fleming 2019). These conversations tend to foreground the interconnected social and environmental justice dimensions of energy transitions, including evolving human interrelationships with spaces of energy production (Castán Broto and Baker 2018). However, within these analyses, the concept of landscape remains relatively underdeveloped, specifically with respect to theories of materiality and Indigenous knowledge (Baka and Vaishnava 2020). Decarbonization, according to Sovacool et al. (2019) is not a âtechnical task that can be modeled by âscienceâ and 23 administered by âpolicyââ (582). Rather, as Howe (2014) suggests, landscapes of decarbonization are dynamic entities that possess agency to actively participate in their own making (see also Benediktsson 2021; Jasanoff and Simmet 2021). However, as Calvert et al. (2019) argue, geographers continue to rely on outdated and constrained understandings of landscape that overlook its relational and agentic qualities. According to Escobar (2018), this is the result of a foundational anthropocentrism and ontological dualism embedded within geographical concepts and methods. Building on these critiques, scholars from numerous geographic subdisciplines have critically examined geographyâs complicity in forms of conceptual and epistemic violence required to transform dynamic landscapes into âresourcesâ (Braun 2002; Malm 2016; Parenti 2016; Simpson 2019; Sovacool 2021; Wakefield 2020), including important Indigenous perspectives. For example, Curley (2018) describes how decarbonization agendas are often predicated on the erasure of Indigenous understanding of landscape as sites of reciprocal kinship obligations. Through his analysis of âgreen jobsâ transition programs for Navajo coal workers, Curley demonstrates how decarbonization agendas can extend colonial policies of resource governance in ways that limit Indigenous moves toward self-determination. At the same time, these agendas can obscure Indigenous âplace-specific norms and values that have important influences on the geographically uneven landscape of sustainability transitionsâ (64). Curleyâs analysis reveals how popular narratives of the low-carbon transition appear to signal a new paradigm of natural resource governance, when, in fact, they often perpetuate colonial processes of landscape formation rooted in the discourse of âresources;â an insight echoed by other Indigenous energy scholars (Doyon, Boron, and Williams 2021). This approach to decarbonization is not only deeply depoliticizing, but it also reduces relational landscapes into 24 malleable terrain for capitalist accumulation. Furthermore, it contributes to ongoing forms of Indigenous dispossession and exploitative practices of resource-making; as Curley (2021) states, paraphrasing Métis scholar Zoe Todd, âresources is just another word for colonialismâ (79). Kimmerer (2013) similarly challenges the reductive and depoliticizing language often used to describe the impacts of industrial development in biophysical landscapes. As both a plant biologist and Indigenous scholar, Kimmererâs writing synthesizes her scientific training with traditional ecological knowledge in order to critique and extend conventional understandings of landscape. According to Kimmerer, concepts of landscape grounded in grounded in principles of western scientific knowledgeânamely, rationalism, empiricism, and objectivity (Datson and Galison 2007)âwork to separate the dynamic interrelationships of the natural world into discrete categories. The result is a place-less and potentially depoliticized approach to environmental management and ecological restoration devoid of a relational understanding of the interconnections between humans and the land. According to Kimmerer (2013), one antidote to this detached perspective is a more open and inclusive definition of landscape: âLand as sustainer. Land as identity. Land as grocery store and pharmacy. Land as connection to our ancestors. Land as moral obligation. Land as sacred. Land as selfâ (337). Through this broadened definition, Kimmerer demonstrates how scientific agendas of progress, including decarbonization, might utilize âscience, art, and storyâ in order to âwrite new stories of relationship to placeâ (344) rather than merely instrumentalizing land to satisfy human technological or political ambitions. Why do these theories and concepts matter? Because, I argue, if we fail to recognize the constitutive injustices of our current fossil fuel-based energy system, then we will almost certainly reproduce them in our designs for the post-carbon future. Insights from critical 25 geographic scholarship can help clarify where these injustices lie, and offer ideas for how landscape architects might remedy them through alternative modes of energy transition planning and design. As a geographer, I believe that it is my responsibility to help translate these theories and concepts into terms that can be operationalized through landscape architectural practice. Yet there are numerous obstacles to this project. Geography and landscape architecture, like other disciplines, operate under the logics of global capitalism, from the neoliberalization of higher education (Alexander 2014) to the norms and standards that structure the design of built environments (Hutton 2020). These forces have indelibly shaped geography and landscape architecture in ways that each discipline is (slowly) beginning to reckon with. As a result, designersâ ability to operationalize critical geographic insights remains constrained by various disciplinary parameters. In the following section, I explore some of these obstacles and consider how decarbonization presents geography and landscape architecture with a valuable opportunityâand obligationâto develop new, interdiscplinary modes of research and practice. 1.3.2 For Landscape Architects In many ways, the challenges posed by the low-carbon transition are familiar terrain for landscape architects. During the 2016 New Landscape Declaration Summit, leading landscape architectural theorists and practitioners assembled to debate the disciplineâs role in responding to the various social and ecological crises of the twenty-first century. Building on the Landscape Architecture Foundationâs 1966 Declaration of Concern, the Summit concluded by framing landscape architectureâs contemporary responsibilities within a historical continuum of design production: âwe find ourselves in a historically and culturally significant positionâ¦ [as] engineers led the nineteenth century, architects the twentieth, and this is now our timeâ 26 (Landscape Architecture Foundation 2017, 8). Indeed, as a generalist discipline committed to the preservation of âsocial, aesthetic, economic, and environmental values,â landscape architecture is uniquely positioned to shape the interrelated social, technological, and ecological dimensions of the decarbonization (Canadian Society of Landscape Architects 2015, 1). This work is already well underway, as seen in the recent proliferation of conferences, exhibitions, and design studios devoted to the exploration of potential pathways toward decarbonization. Yet critics of the New Landscape Declaration query the gaps between landscape architectureâs rhetoric and its ability to realize these ambitions in concrete terms. These critiques range from indictments of landscape architectureâs self-professed exceptionalism (Fleming 2019), to its failure to articulate design futures beyond white, heterosexual, and male perspectives (Rios and Napawan 2018). In addition to the criticisms directed toward the New Landscape Declaration, some have questioned landscape architectureâs ability to advance a progressive design agenda within an increasingly neoliberalized professional and academic context (Lahiji 2014; Robbins 2007; Swyngedouw 2016; Spencer 2016; Soules 2021). Still others suggest that the institutionalization of the design disciplines presents a profound barrier to the production of âparticipatory, bottom-up, situated design methodsâ that might enable the convivial flourishing of diverse âbodies, spaces, [and] environmentsâ (Escobar 2018, 45).6 All too often, landscape architectural responses to climate change overlook these important critiques, and ignore the work of landscape theoristsâoften women and people of colourâwho advocate 6 Noting, of course, the significant critiques that have been directed toward participatory social science research methods; particularly their ability to obscure power imbalances between researchers and marginalized communities, and to conceal extractive forms of knowledge production (Juarez and Brown 2008). 27 for plural and relational approaches to the design of built environments (Bargmann 2013; Boone 2017; Hill 2018; Hood and Tada 2020; Jacobs 2019; Sprin 2005; Wolff 2003). How might these critiques push landscape architects to respond to climate change and decarbonization in more inclusive ways? Specifically, how can landscape architects play a leading role in articulating post-carbon futures, while simultaneously holding their discipline accountable for its historical participation in processes of social injustice, colonialism, and resource exploitation? To answer these questions, this dissertation draws from Harveyâs (1996) observation that âall socio-political projects are ecological projects, and vice versaâ (174). In other words, landscape architectural interventions in material landscape are always also opportunities to reimagine and rewrite hegemonic power relations and social inequalities. Building on insights from human geography, this dissertation calls on landscape architecture to critically examine its foundational assumptions and paradigms, particularly in light of ongoing conversations surrounding the disciplineâs evolving social and political obligations with respect to climate change and energy transition. This dissertation seeks to expand landscape architectural responses to decarbonization by critically examining the visual tools and methods used to represent and manipulate landscapes. Specifically, it interrogates landscape visualizations as power-laden artifacts, embedded within particular epistemologies of perceiving and staging interventions in the material world. As Kitchen and Dodge (2007) suggest, visualizations always enact asymmetrical power relations between the image-maker, the viewer, and the object or place being represented. As a result, emerging technologies of digital landscape perception and representation are transforming landscape architects into a new and powerful kind of environment-making subject, capable of wielding diverse forms of data and projecting compelling visions for the post-carbon future 28 (Dyce 2013)âalbeit a future often articulated through privileged positions of observation (Mirzoeff 2011; Rancière 2004). First, this dissertation queries the technologies used to observe and visualize patterns of global environmental change, commonly expressed through the idea of the Anthropocene. Notwithstanding the many critiques of the Anthropoceneâparticularly its inherent anthropocentrism and erasure of differential human responsibilities (Haraway 2015)âthis concept has nonetheless gained salience in landscape architectural discourse as a way to theorize the extent of human impacts on Earth. Often, these impacts exceed the scope of an individual humanâs perceptual capabilities; designers have therefore increasingly turned to digital technologies such as satellites, drones, and distributed sensory networks, combined with ever-cheaper cloud-based computing, to âseeâ environmental changes on a planetary scale (Gabrys 2016). These technologies have enabled landscape architects to perceive environmental change at an unprecedented scale, and have facilitated new design practices that claim to be able to address complex global challenges, such as decarbonization. However, some caution against the increasing centrality of digital tools and platforms used in landscape architectural responses to climate change and energy transition (Herrington and Zielnicki 2020). Visualizations build stories about places and spaces. Every image presents an armature of informationâand, implicitly, values; its makers represent their ideas about what matters in a landscape (Mirzoeff 2011). The maps and views made ubiquitous by the proliferation of digital visualizations are no exception. Embedded more and more deeply in landscape architectural practice and updated with higher and higher resolution, technologies like GIS, Google Maps, and Street View grow increasingly authoritative as they gain sophistication (Halpern 2015). As Latour (2011) suggests, digital images share the useful qualities of older 29 maps and photographs: satellite views are measured, scaled documents of site observations; street views conform to widely understood conventions of visual representation; both can be widely shared as analytical tools. Digital visualizations comprise a model of reality that seems to represent the built environment so clearly and persuasively that being there no longer matters (Alexander and May 2020). The apparent accuracy of these images presents a dilemma that speaks directly to the question of how landscape architects (and others) construct knowledge about places, and how that knowledge shapes possibilities for the post-carbon future. COVID-19 has made these digital platforms even more ubiquitous and compelling than they were only a year or two ago. Faced with travel restrictions and lockdowns, landscape architects have turned to digital technologies to safely observe places they cannot visit. My experiences teaching over the past three years suggest that students (and professors) are increasingly persuaded by the veracity of what appears on their monitors. Yet the notion that more data, more complexity, and more computational power might produce optimalâand seemingly apoliticalâenergy transitions depoliticizes the power of visualizations (Halpern 2015), and ignores long-standing forms of violence and injustice enabled by modes of landscape representation, such as the use of cartographic practices in projects of resource extraction and colonialism (Dang 2021; Dyce 2013; Li 2007). In addition to the tools and methods used to observe and visualize designs for decarbonization, the second key focus of this dissertation concerns questions of relationality and materiality in the design of energy landscapes. In describing landscapes as relational, I contend that landscapes are the material expression of co-produced power relations between humans and nonhumans across multiple spatial and temporal scales (Jacobs 2019; Massey 2005). Or, in simpler terms, that landscapes are dynamic subjects with agency to participate in the making of 30 the world (Escobar 2018). This understanding is grounded in materialist theories of the environment (specifically feminist and decolonial theory), which posit landscapes as webs of more-than-human relations that are interconnected through networks of care and reciprocity (Bakker and Bridge 2006; Bennett 2010; Haraway 2015; Kimmerer 2013; Watts 2013). Relational definitions of landscape challenges conventional political economic narratives of the low-carbon transition, which typically frame decarbonization in terms of abstract flows of global capital, commodities, and emissions. As Hutton (2020) suggests, the inability to perceive the relational qualities of a landscape can obscure the responsibilities that landscape architects have to the people and places implicated in their designs. This include questions surrounding the labour conditions of people engaged in site construction and maintenance, as well as the extractive practices used to obtain and transport building materials. Boone (2015) reiterates this point in this assertation that landscape architectural scholarship and practice must critically re-engage with the social and political conditions of landscape production across intersectional dimensions of personhood and identity. Addressing challenges of climate change and decarbonization depends on landscape architectsâ ability to perceive the sociopolitical dimensions of their work through plural perspectives, and to make these relationships visible in the design of constructed landscapes. Similarly, Watson (2020) argues that landscape architects also have a responsibility to the nonhumans enrolled in the production of material landscapes. Drawing from Indigenous ecological knowledge, Watson foregrounds nonhumans as activeâand perhaps unwilling (Wakefield 2020)âagents in human decarbonization agendas; examples include plant species that have been bred to enhance their carbon storage abilities, or animal species, such as oysters, that have been utilized to combat marine pollution and attenuate storm surges (Orff 2013). These 31 projects are often celebrated as innovative examples of nature-based solutions to climate change (Seddon et al. 2020); however, they can also be read as examples of landscape architects co-opting the biological capabilities of nonhumans to satisfy particular human needs and desires (Goldstein and Johnson 2015). This is not to say that humans and nonhumans should not or cannot be collaborators in the design of post-carbon futures (Lokman 2017), but rather that human agendas must be decentered in designs for decarbonization. However, these interrelationshipsâand humansâ obligations within themâare often blurred by digital visual technologies that divorce landscape architects from their own embodied, sensory experiences. The consequences of this rift are both political and ontological, and have potentially significant repercussions for the design of post-carbon landscapes. For example, interfaces such as Google Maps and Street View (among many others) stabilize particular ontological knowledge claims of what a landscape is (i.e. visual information that can be encoded as digital data) to the exclusion of relational forms of knowledge; particularly non-Western perspectives and spatial traditions (Friess and Jazeel 2017). By affording limited opportunities for control and agency (i.e. the ability to pan, zoom, and move around a map), these interfaces satisfy a voyeuristic desire to observe while also obscuring the ways in which these experiences are mediated by invisible algorithms and the absence of sensory information extraneous to the platform (Mirzoeff 2011). Feminist critiques, especially Harawayâs (1988) concept of situated knowledges, provide an important counterweight to the voyeuristic tendencies associated with hegemonic ways of observing and visualizing landscapes. According to Haraway, all knowledge claims are predicated on the contingent positionality of the viewing subject; there is no such thing as a âneutral observer,â but rather differential positions of observation that are structured by social and political power relations. Hence, any claims to objectivity made through scientific 32 or technological armatures (including visual technologies from paper maps to Google Street View) are contestable, since their vantage point is inherently partial. As Haraway argues, these privileged positions of observation are linked to hegemonic (i.e. white, western, and male) ways of seeing that fabricate âessential truthsâ about reality, while simultaneously obscuring how these knowledge claims work to construct and maintain unjust social orders. This is not to suggest that digital technologies are inherently dangerous, or that they canât enable new avenues for landscape architects to engage with the nonhuman world. For instance, by challenging the authority of the universal, liberal human subject, Haraway (2016) demonstrates how multiple plural perspectivesâboth human and nonhumanâcan complicate conventional ideals of progress and modernity, while also revealing collective desires for the production of new designed realities. Only by acknowledging and understanding the contingency of oneâs own situated knowledge, and hence the fundamental partiality of all visualizations, can new opportunities for collaboration between fluid, and perhaps contradictory perspectives occur. Cantrell et al. (2018) similarly explore this idea by demonstrating how computational technologies can offer potential directions for the future of landscape architecture, especially as emerging biohybrid tools reconfigure how nonhumans participate in processes of landscape design and construction. By dissolving the antagonistic dualisms (i.e. human/machine, nature/culture) that have long structured landscape architectural production, Cantrell et al. chart a course for design theory and practice beyond the hegemonic power structures that have been âsystematic to the logic and practices of domination of women, people of colour, nature, workers, animalsâ¦ all [those] constituted as othersâ (Haraway 2016, 96). Furthermore, innovative digital technologies can facilitate new practices of environmental regulation and conservation (Adams 2019), and can enable new modes of communication and collaboration 33 between humans and their nonhuman counterparts (Ahn 2014; Cantrell and Holzman 2015). However, as critical geographic scholars have demonstrated, there are many practical and ethical pitfalls associated with the growing use of digital technologies in environmental design and governance (Ash et al. 2018). As designers rely more and more on disembodied digital technologies to guide interventions in the material world, their opacity becomes an increasingly political problem. As digital technologies assume an increasingly central role in shaping designs for the low-carbon transition, landscape architectural scholarship must foreground debates surrounding digital surveillance, data sovereignty, and the role of computational algorithms in deepening intersectional inequalities (DâIgnazio and Klein 2020). Why does this matter? Because, as Latour (2011) suggests, when we âstop looking at nature and look exclusively and obsessively at prints and flat inscriptions,â we risk elevating abstract images as the default mode of knowing a landscape despite âcontrary indications from the sensesâ (70). The methods used by landscape architects to visualize, design, and construct energy landscapes often divorces these spaces from their constitutive relationships, threatening the social and environmental justice goals of the low-carbon transition. These reductive methods deny landscapes their personhood as agential subjects, and delegitimize so-called ânon-expertâ understandings of place (Brown 2014; Coulthard 2007; Wolfe 2006). At the same time, however, I argue that innovative technologies can also provide new opportunities to reimagine landscape architectureâs role as political, cultural, and ecological practice. Learning to âseeâ nonhuman landscapes through diverse ontologies and epistemologies, including multisensory and more-than-human forms of perception, will expand landscape architectureâs possibilities and will engender new opportunities for nonhumans to participate in decarbonization agendas. 34 1.4 Methodology This dissertation employs an interdisciplinary methodology drawing from human geography and landscape architecture; specifically, I draw from archival, ethnographic, and geospatial research methods. While interdisciplinary research methods can carry a number of practical and conceptual risks (Fischer et al. 2012), I have found that a combination of data sources, analytical techniques, and theoretical perspectives offers an effective way to address the âwicked problemsâ of climate change and decarbonization. Furthermore, this dissertation endeavours to expand the disciplinary boundaries of geography and landscape architecture by examining objects and themes beyond the traditional purview of each field. In this section, I elaborate on my research methodology and provide a brief reflection on my research positionality. 1.4.1 A Multi-Sited Approach This project originated as an attempt to understand the interconnected nature of energy infrastructures in northeastern British Columbia; homeland of the Dane-zaa peoples and current Treaty 8 territory. However, the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent restrictions placed on travel and fieldwork made it impossible to visit the region in order to conduct interviews and other place-based forms of landscapes analysis. Consequently, the focus of this dissertation gradually shifted away from modes of situated ethnographic fieldwork toward broader questions surrounding the discursive production and digital visualization of low-carbon landscapes. Nevertheless, the people, ecologies, and infrastructures of northern British Columbiaâparticularly the landscapes of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace Riverâoccupy an 35 important position in the conceptualization of this dissertation, and therefore merit brief a discussion as part of my research methodology. Figure 1.4: Canadaâs âmany northsâ as represented by various legal and political boundaries. Image credit: Sheppard and White (2017). Northern landscapesâor, perhaps more accurately, geographical imaginaries of northern landscapesâpermeate Canadian culture, society, and politics. Yet even as the effects of climate change and resource extraction bring the North more squarely into the consciousness of southern Canadians, it remains a challenging place to define. As Sheppard and White (2017) demonstrate 36 in Figure 1.4, the boundary between northern and southern Canada can be drawn in a number of different ways by delineating certain boundary conditions, such as agricultural, infrastructural, geologic, and climatological thresholds. According to Coates (1994), the question of boundaries is a longstanding focus in northern scholarship, which seeks to differentiate the unique social and environmental conditions of northern geographies relative to southern Canadian culture and politics. In analytical terms, cartographic boundaries offer an empirical baseline from which to address urgent regional issues facing the North, particularly in regards to national and international debates surrounding climate change and energy transition. However, attempts to define âthe Northâ based on the production of cartographic boundaries can also obscure nuanced geographical understandings of landscape and erase forms of place-based knowledge. For example, in her analysis of the James Bay Hydroelectric project, Desbiens (2013) demonstrates how maps and technical surveys were used to reveal the âcomplete mysteryâ (143) of northern Quebec to southern urbanites and policymakers, while simultaneously displacing histories of human presence on the land. By articulating northern rivers and landscapes as a standing reserve of hydroelectric potentialâand not as an Indigenous cultural and spiritual homelandâthese visualizations serve to assimilate the James Bay region into Québécois cultural narratives of environmental modernity liked to longstanding practices of rural industry (Hamelin 1979). At the same time, they define a boundary between the âscriptedâ urban and periurban landscapes of southern Canada and the ânondescriptâ wastelands of the North (187), thereby situating the James Bay region as the constitutive âoutsideâ to dominant centres of Canadian political and economic power, as well as a permanent frontier for extractive capitalism. As Desbiens argues, these visualizations are problematic because they make it difficult for southern Canadians to see and experience northern landscapes in the same ways as 37 northerners; this epistemological gap then provides space for southerners to project their own ideas and aspirations. A similar critique is echoed by Coates (1994), who argues that definitions of the North predicated on the drawing of boundaries âtend to be ahistorical, and do not properly take into account the evolution of thought and understanding that is inherent in the attempt to live in and understandâ northern landscapes (19). Indeed, by failing to acknowledge histories of Indigenous presence and forms of intimate land-based knowledge across Canadaâs northern landscapes, contemporary representations of Northern landscapes engage in similar practices of settler colonial dispossession as previous cycles of resource extraction (Cameron 2015). I argue that the ongoing political and cultural work of settler colonialism can be seen in the production of new northern low-carbon energy projects and renewable resource landscapes. As Wolfe (1999) succinctly puts it, in the context of settler colonialism âinvasion is not a structure but an eventâ (2). Hence, I suggest that it is possible to interpret geographical imaginaries of new, northern, low-carbon landscapes as part of the necessary discursive maintenance required by the Canadian colonial project. Building on Baldwinâs (2009) analysis of carbon sequestration through the neoliberal governance of Canadaâs boreal forests, I argue that the social production of space needed to facilitate Canadian decarbonizationâmediated by digital technologies of visualization and driven by capitalist logics of accumulationâare fundamentally linked to contemporary processes of settler colonialism and Indigenous dispossession. Framing northern landscapes as necessary sites for decarbonization (whether for hydropower production, carbon sequestration, or the extraction of critical minerals for battery production) âdeterritorializes them into abstract regimes of global carbon managementâ which authorize continued practices of colonial violence via âthe moral imperatives of ecological modernityâ (Baldwin 2009, 234). Specifically, I suggest that the race to observe, map, and 38 transform northern landscapes in order to advance an agenda of putative decarbonization must also be read alongside parallel efforts to impose systems of economic, legal, and political domination over Indigenous peoples, and to legitimize exploitative relationships with nonhumans landscapes through the rhetorics of the low-carbon transition. In order to address the limitations (and potential risks) associated with visual abstractions of northern landscapes, this dissertation attempts to situate current debates surrounding decarbonization within place-based histories and human-environment relationships. By foregrounding questions of place and landscape, particularly Indigenous land-based knowledge and territorial claims, this dissertation seeks to elucidate the discursive production of northern energy landscapes by southern Canadians. To contextualize this research, I ground my analysis in the landscapes of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River, which have recently emerged as a nexus of competing economic, environmental, and decolonial agendas. The Saaghii Naachii/Peace River flows east from its headwaters in the Rocky Mountains of British Columbia toward the Peace-Athabasca Delta in northern Alberta. The unique microclimatic conditions of this landscape have provided a haven to biodiversity and Indigenous cultures for centuries. Specifically, the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River valley is the homeland of the Dane-zaa people, who have lived in the region for at least 10,000 years according to oral histories and archeological evidence (Ridington and Ridington, 2013). More recently, it has emerged as the heartland of Canadaâs oil and gas industry, and as the epicentre of technological innovation and financial investment in Canadaâs decarbonization efforts. Along its course, the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River passes through diverse ecologies which have been significantly transformed by decades of industrial activity, agriculture, and hydroelectric developmentâincluding in the impacts of the Tree Crusher and the W.A.C. 39 Bennett Dam, the ongoing construction of the Site C Dam, and intensive water withdrawals and landscape fragmentation associated with unconventional oil and gas extraction. These cumulative industrial impacts have contributed to the gradual erosion of Dane-zaa traditional cultural practices: according to geospatial analysis conducted by the David Suzuki Foundation on behalf of the Blueberry River First Nation, approximately 73 per cent of the Nationâs traditional territory currently lies within 250 metres of an industrial disturbance (Macdonald 2016). Once considered a peripheral frontier by the Canadian settler state (Wenner-Gren 1958), the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River now lies as the centre of domestic and international debates surrounding the environmental impacts of resource extraction and energy generation. My fieldwork in this region included two site visits to the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region in February 2020 and August 2021, as well as a 10-day canoe trip down the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River from the town of Fort St. John, British Columbia to the town of Peace River, Alberta. I also undertook a number of trips to Victoria to interview energy regulators and government officials, and to do archival research at the Royal British Columbia Museum and Archives. In addition, I conducted interviews in the greater Vancouver area with engineers, architects, and landscape architects engaged in design activities pertaining to energy infrastructures in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region. By undertaking fieldwork at multiple sites, I wanted to understand how decarbonization unfolded as a constellation of interrelated landscapes, âconstantly transformed through relations that extend beyond a particular place andâ¦built by intertwined structures, subjects, and uneven exercises of powerâ (Jacobs 2019, 31). Rather than frame these sites as âself-enclosed, bounded, territorial containersâ (Brenner 2004, 38), my goal was to understand how Canadian energy landscapes emerged as the product of complex material, spatiotemporal, and multiscalar dynamics. To isolate any part of this 40 landscape for the purpose of analysis would be to abstract it from its social and material relations, and therefore to engage in the same reductive and depoliticizing practices this dissertation strives to resist. Hence, my research is grounded in multiple sites, scales, and temporalities in order to contextualize contemporary decarbonization agendas within evolving social and political forces that have transformed Canadaâs landscapes over the past century. This means paying close attention to the capital flows and infrastructures of energy generation and extraction; tracing the biophysical and ecological transformations of material landscape interventions; visiting the sites and speaking with the people implicated in the production of these spaces; and attending to moments of tension, difference, and contestation within these interrelated processes. 1.4.2 Interdisciplinary Methods This dissertation employs interdisciplinary research methods drawn from human geography and landscape architecture. These include semi-structured interviews with government officials, industry representatives, and local community members; geospatial and cartographic analysis of energy landscapes; site analysis, including photography and measured drawing; archival research; and document analysis of media coverage, technical and regulatory documentation, and visual materials (i.e. maps and renderings). My approach in synthesizing these methods was informed by workflows commonly used in landscape architectural design research: begin with a literature review; spatialize your research through geospatial and cartographic analysis; ground-truth your visualizations through multiple site visits and detailed site investigations; repeat as your understanding of place deepens and gains complexity (McGuire and Henson 2019; Van den Brink et al. 2016). 41 Accordingly, my research process is anchored in concepts and methods of landscape architectural visualization. These practices include the production of maps, drawings, and photographs, as well as analysis of images and technical drawings sourced from engineering, architectural, and environmental assessment documentation dating back to the mid-1950s. In addition, I produced my own maps and drawings using publicly-available geospatial datasets and archival information. Drawing from photographic and representational techniques of landscape analysis, I used these images as entry points into the multiple spatialities and temporalities of decarbonization (Weschler 1984; Wolff 2003). By framing my analysis through landscape visualizations, my goal was to explore how images reveal information about a landscape while simultaneously (and inevitably) shutting out other essential perspectives. Although my research relies heavily on critical analyses of visual materials, some readers might note the relative lack of original visualizations included in this dissertation. This absence is largely intended to support my overall critique of the fetishization of visualizations in design discourse surrounding the low-carbon transition. Images of bucolic post-carbon futures abound in architectural and landscape architectural literature surrounding potential pathways toward the post-carbon future, and operate as powerful rhetorical tools to advance particular social and political agendas. In the following chapters of this dissertation, I query the power of visualizations in shaping spatial imaginaries of the decarbonization while simultaneously obscuring particular voices and perspectives; hence, I have avoided including images that might inadvertently reproduce the kinds of power dynamics I seek to critique, while also decentring visualizations in design discourse surrounding the low-carbon transition. In order to counteract the inherent limitations of visual materials, my research also employed semi-structured interviews with individuals engaged in the design, regulation, and 42 construction of contemporary low-carbon energy projects. I conducted a total of twenty-seven interviews with twenty-four individuals representing a broad range of perspectives and positionalities. Interview subjects included settler land owners impacted by energy development; government personnel involved in energy regulation and environmental assessment; energy sector representatives (both renewable and fossil fuel-based industries); journalists; workers employed in infrastructure construction and resource extraction; and designersâprincipally landscape architectsâengaged in projects associated with Canadian energy infrastructure. Throughout my fieldwork, I employed a snowball approach to recruit participants, often meeting people in the field or, in one case, striking up a conversation in the domestic departures lounge of the Vancouver International Airport. This process enabled me to trace networks of familiarity, and to better understand the complex social relationships that exist between different actors involved in Canadaâs energy sector. There were, however, a few limitations to this research, particularly with respect to the recruitment and engagement of interview participants. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic and restrictions placed on travel to northern communities by provincial health authorities and the University of British Columbiaâs Behavioural Research Ethics Board, I was ultimately unable to conduct much of the ethnographic fieldwork I had initially intended. As a result, I turned to secondary sources to learn about the cultural and biophysical impacts of decarbonization in northeastern BC, including media interviews, infrastructure regulatory filings, and notes from public engagement sessions. However, I nonetheless acknowledge that some voices from the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River regionâmost notably Indigenous voicesâare absent from this body of work. In seeking to address this absence, this dissertation engages with Indigenous scholarship on topics of environmental governance and settler colonialism from across North 43 America, as filtered through the lens of contemporary decarbonization projects in BC and Alberta. My intention is not to conflate distinct forms of situated knowledge and land-based ontologies; to do so would result in a kind of pan-Indigeneity that undermines my call for place-based approaches to landscape research. Rather, I highlight this limitation in my research methodology in order to draw attention to the importance of foregrounding Indigenous understandings of place and landscape in analyses of the low-carbon transition, and to chart out a potential direction for future research. In general, the individuals I was able to speak with held complex and often contradictory views towards contemporary energy projects, particularly interview participants who resided within the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region. Opponents to developmentâpredominantly local landownersâwere eager to express their reservations towards projects such as the Site C Dam and the rapid expansion of hydraulic fracturing operations, yet they also recognized the economic importance of these projects within their local communities (every local participant I interviewed had a close friend of family member employed in the energy sector). Conversely, non-locals involved in energy regulation, environmental assessment, or infrastructure design were largely supportive of the development of low-carbon energy projects, but expressed concerns over perceptions of environmental damage or potential disruptions to energy supply and labour markets. These perspectives, among others, reveal how energy landscapes hold plural meanings and values in ways that are not always evident through visualizations alone. 1.4.3 Teaching as Methodology One of the main objectives of this dissertation is to bridge the concepts and methods used in geography and landscape architecture, and to bring this interdisciplinary perspective to bear on 44 urgent questions of decarbonization. Over the past three years, I have been fortunate to have many opportunities to develop this interdisciplinary approach through a series of graduate and undergraduate teaching positions (Table 1). These opportunities were not part of my initial research plan and are not explicitly referenced in this dissertation; many were unexpectedly precipitated by the COVID-19 pandemic, which allowed me to take on remote teaching positions. However, these opportunities have played an important role in the development of this dissertation by enabling me to experiment with ways of integrating social theory and ethnographic methods into landscape architectural design research. Furthermore, they provided me with an opportunity to test how the insights from my doctoral research program could form the basis for a new kind of interdisciplinary, theoretically-informed landscape architecture pedagogy distinct from the history-theory curricula I experienced as a student (and which, from my perspective, seem to persist within Canadaâs design institutions). As a result, I want to briefly address the role of teaching as a research methodology. Year Institution Course 2019 University of British Columbia Site Analysis and Planning (graduate) 2020 University of Toronto Design History of Landscape Architecture (undergraduate) 2020 University of British Columbia Site Analysis and Planning (graduate + undergraduate) 2021 University of Toronto Advanced Topics in the History and Theory of Landscape Architecture: Designing Canadian Energy Futures (undergraduate) 2021 University of Toronto Contemporary Landscape Theory (graduate) Table 1.1 Table of design education opportunities. 45 Given my professional background in digital landscape visualization and geographic information systems (GIS), I was invited to teach a series of site analysis and planning courses at the University of British Columbiaâs School of Architecture + Landscape Architecture. Historically, this course focused on technical aspects of landscape modelling using computer-automated design (CAD) and parametric software; my innovation was to incorporate a critical theoretical perspective into the teaching of standard digital workflows. Each week, students were introduced to a new computational tool commonly used in landscape architectural practice. After completing a series of exercises, students were then asked to engage with a series of readings and media that contextualizedâand often problematizedâthat weekâs tool as an expression of a implicit ideology or worldview. The intent was to demonstrate how familiar, and often mundane tasks of landscape analysis were, in fact, shaped by histories of power and knowledge that manifested through the application of a particular device or digital workflow. I was also asked to teach a series of landscape architectural design history and theory courses at the University of Torontoâs Daniels Faculty of Architecture, Landscape, and Design. Prior to my arrival, these courses largely focussed on canonical projects in North American and European landscape design. My approach to reinventing these courses was to contextualize well-known projects within the ideologies of modernity, particularly with respect to processes of settler colonialism. My goal was to enable a critical re-reading of these familiar projects, and to demonstrate how landscape architecture could both reflect and transform social and political discourse through the design of the built environment. For example, in my Designing Canadian Energy Futures seminar, students were asked to first design a proposed energy project, then to visualize a failed version of their project as it might exist in the future based on known and 46 unknown risks. This speculative design exerciseâknown as a pre-mortem (Eaton 2014)âforced students to grapple with needs and values of multiple actors (both human and nonhuman) implicated within the expanded field of their proposed project. My intent was to foreground the political dimensions of landscape, and to suggest how decarbonization can catalyze inventive design proposals beyond the traditional bounds of landscape architectural practice. As a research methodology, teaching facilitated opportunities for participant observation within the classrooms and hallways of two of Canadaâs leading design institutions. I was able to have direct contact with landscape architecture students and faculty in order to understand their concerns, motivations, and desired outcomes from contemporary design education. To that end, I was able to better trace landscape architectureâs recent conceptual and ethical reorientations toward social and environmental justice, as well as various institutional attempts (and failures) to address these shifts (Brown and Jennings 2003; Chang 2018; Larson 2018; Resnick 2019). Why does this matter? Because, in many ways, I envision this dissertation as a pre-mortem exercise for contemporary decarbonization agendas in Canada. Climate change is actively transforming the global environment, and geographers and landscape architects must learn to adapt and respond to these changing human-environmental conditions. The stakes are high, amounting to a fundamental reimagining of how we design built environments in both practical and ethical terms. Taking decarbonization as my starting-point, this dissertation explicitly endeavours to articulate new design strategies for the low-carbon transition, and implicitly seeks to develop new ways to train geographers and landscape architecture students to confront the global climate crisis. Interdisciplinarity is a crucial element of this project: geographers, landscape architects, and others engaged in the urgent task of decarbonization must learn to work together. 47 1.4.4 Positionality and Research Process This thesis reflects my positionality as a researcher in multiple ways, some of which I can identify and articulate, and others that I cannot. Here, I briefly reflect on the ways in which my social position and identity influenced my fieldwork and analysis. I became interested in Canadian decarbonization projects while working as a landscape architect in Sydney, Australia. At the time, my firm was engaged by a large multinational engineering firm to conduct landscape works for a highway upgrade; my job was to produce visualizations of how the proposed highway would affect nearby communities and environments. During this work, I became increasingly critical of the ways that landscape representation could obscure and naturalize the impacts of large-scale infrastructure projects. As I struggled to reconcile my disciplinary training with my growing ethical concerns, I came across a rendering of the Site C Dam (Figure 1.4). While there was no individual attribution to the rendering, I felt an immediate sense of connection to the designer who produced the visualization. Did we share the same ethical concerns? Did this image conceal similar stories and environmental impacts as the visualizations I was expected to produce? Figure 1.5 Artistâs rendering of the Site C Dam. Image credit: Acciona. 48 In attempting to answer these questions through my research and fieldwork, I drew upon my professional networks to identify other designers engaged in Canadian energy infrastructure projects. During my interview sessions, I often sensed that my own experience in private practice afforded me a degree of legitimacy and access, potentially resulting in more candid âin-groupâ responses than another researcher may have been able to elicit. This was particularly true of design professionals who might otherwise have been reticent to discuss certain aspects of their work, especially their personal views on controversial energy projects. As a white, male, and bisexual researcher affiliated with a prominent research university, I have undoubtedly benefitted from a degree of access that may not have been attainable to other scholars. This fact was made evident to me during fieldwork in northern resource towns and energy infrastructure construction camps. These spaces are associated with high incidences of gender-based violence, particularly directed towards Indigenous women and queer people (Amnesty International 2016). It was relatively easy for me to blend into these spaces by simply altering my appearance and mannerisms; these changes not only afforded me access to certain sites and interview subjects, but almost certainly influenced the kinds of responses I received. On the other hand, I was made acutely aware of the precarity of marginalized populations within these heteronormative, male-dominated spaces. Researching this dissertation required a significant amount of code-switching depending on the social context I happened to find myself in, from university lecture halls to hydraulic fracturing drill sites. As Latham (2003) suggests, access to diverse spaces is, in part, predicated on the social performance of identity; in the case of my dissertation, I was required to perform many different identities. Often, this performance was automatic: a reflexive adaptation which 49 nonetheless likely influenced my research outcomes. In many ways, I view this flexibility not as a limitation but as a privilege which other researchers may not have been able to draw from. While my positionality may have granted me in-group status within particular settings, my relationship to the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region, and to the design of Canadian energy landscapes more broadly, is fundamentally one of an outsider. I have only briefly visited these landscapes, and I never worked on a Canadian energy project in an official design capacity (I have, however, worked on various Australian energy projects). Although I attempted to immerse myself in the histories, debates, and practices of Canadian decarbonization, my engagement with this complex topic is inevitably partial. As with all social science research, my fieldwork inevitably required some degree of subjective interpretation. Consequently, there exists the potential that my analyses are the result of a misreading, or partial reading, of highly contested landscapes and infrastructure projects; any errors or misrepresentations are solely my own. 1.5 Chapter Summaries Chapter 2 explores the visual histories of resource extraction projects that have been proposed in Canadaâs northern boreal landscapes over the past half century. Some of these projects have been built, although many have not; nevertheless, they have resulted in the accumulation of countless reports, studies, and maps which discursively produce the North as a landscape of resource abundance in contrast to (and fueled by) southern Canadian crises of economic scarcity and socioecological instability. This chapter examines the political implications of these divergent northern narratives through visualizations of two resource development projects: the Mid-Canada Development Corridor and the Boreal Corridor Boréale. I argue these projects are emblematic of an epistemological âdouble visionâ in Canadian landscape 50 architecture, which I define as a persistent tendency to observe, visualize, and design environments in terms of narrow technical and market-based perspectives that obscure the relational dimensions of landscape. This chapter traces the evolution of double vision through the design of Canadian resource landscapes and demonstrates the longstanding complicity of architecture and landscape architecture in facilitating processes of spatial injustice in Canadaâs north. Chapter 3 coins the term planetary voyeurism to describe the (often unintended) consequences of abstract visualizations of environmental impacts. Over the past decade, innovative digital technologies such as satellites, drones, and distributed environmental sensing networks, combined with cloud-based computing, have enabled geographers and designers to âseeâ environmental changes on a planetary scale. An unprecedented amount of geodata is now available, at rapidly decreasing cost. But when we visualize Earth, which perspectives do we privilege, and what perceptions and actions do these visualizations enable? In this chapter, I caution that technologically-mediated ways of seeing and perceiving global environmental change, while certainly valuable and informative, often arise from and/or produce an unintended voyeurism. I offer the concept of planetary voyeurism in order to spark interdisciplinary dialogue about how visual abstraction and aestheticization might obscure the intimate and variegated dimensions of energy transitions. Chapter 4 investigates the water-energy nexus (WEN), which has emerged over the past decade as a prominent framework to analyze and visualize interconnections between energy production, freshwater resources, and the hydrological cycle. The WEN is a fundamentally geographic concept embedded in landscapes, and WEN analyses often include landscape visualizations. However, I argue these visualizations these are rarely conceptually rigorous; 51 consequently, the visual-representational dimensions of WEN analyses remain relatively weak. Chapter 4 addresses this gap through a meta-review of 503 water-energy nexus visualizations sourced from 336 scholarly articles. Based on this analysis, I argue that WEN visualizations often depict complex landscapes as technical systems, while eliding broader considerations of the multiscalar, spatiotemporal, and hydrosocial dimensions of water and energy. In response to these limitations, I offer an alternative approach to visualizing hydrosocial landscapes that draws upon parallel work in geography and cognate disciplines. In the concluding section of the chapter, I formulate a set of recommendations to guide the production of more theoretically-informed nexus visualizations grounded in the concepts of spatiality, temporality, and hydrosociality. Chapter 5 explores decarbonization as a space-making process, embedded in landscapes where the biophysical, socionatural, and material dimensions of energy transitions intersect. Yet contemporary discourses of net-zero decarbonization routinely overlook the landscape transformations required to offset carbon emissions. This creates a conceptual pitfall: the potential to misread and depoliticize strategies of putative decarbonization which may not, in fact, be carbon neutral, particularly when the cumulative effects of broader landscape transformations are considered. Chapter 5 queries narratives of decarbonization that arise alongsideâand as a result ofâsimultaneous investments in fossil fuel production. I frame decarbonization as a socio-spatial phenomenon that materializes in variegated ways through the site-specific interplay between capitalist social relations and biophysical processes. In making this claim, I seek to bridge political economy with concepts of materiality and relationality which, I suggest, enable deeper theoretical engagement with the socionatural and ontological dimensions of the multifaceted processes of landscape transformation entailed by 52 decarbonization. Drawing on a case study of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River, this chapter illustrates the empirical impact of this theoretical framework by illustrating how a focus on landscape can help to problematize contemporary decarbonization agendas which, in some cases, obscure the cumulative environmental impacts and violent socionatural reconfigurations that arise in decarbonizing landscapes. Chapter 6 offers concluding reflections on the preceding chapters structured around three rhetorical questions regarding the future decarbonization efforts in Canada and, implicitly, the future of geographic and landscape architectural research and pedagogy. This chapter suggests potential research directions going forward, and speculates on how this research might catalyze the design of post-carbon futures beyond the logics of fossil fuels. 53 Chapter 2: Designing Canadian Resource Landscapes: Two Histories of Double Vision There remains prevalent in Canada a northern mystique. For some the near and far north is tomorrowland, bursting with unmeasured mineral wealth, beckoning the adventurous, offering the promise of future greatness for the nation. â Mid-Canada Development Foundation (MCDC 1971a) The development of the Boreal Corridor completes Confederation, including the middle and northern portions of the country, which, up until now, have been ignored. â John van Nostrand, Principal, SvN Architects + Planners (Planet Greene 2018) 2.1 Introduction In a 2017 speech to the Royal Architectural Institute of Canada (RAIC), architect and planner John Van Nostrand advocated for the construction of a pan-Canadian infrastructure corridor through the countryâs boreal hinterlands. Consisting of highways, railways, pipelines, telecommunications services, and new urban settlements, the proposed corridor would link Canadaâs northern regions to southern cities and ports. According to Van Nostrand, the corridor was essential for Canadaâs social and economic prosperity: âseventy-five per cent of our future wealth is in that corridor, in terms of oil and mineralsâ¦we should be building a plan for thisâ (Wall 2017). The âweâ in question referred to the architects, landscape architects, and design professionals assembled at the RAIC annual meeting, which was organized around the theme of Architecture 150 in recognition of the sesquicentennial anniversary of Canadian Confederation. 54 This timing was significant in that it served to foreground the design disciplinesâ longstanding participation in Canadian nation-building agendas through the material production of extractive infrastructuresâand, implicitly, through the discursive transformation of Canadian landscapes into lucrative reserves of natural resources. This chapter investigates how designers transform landscapes into resources, and considers how this process has evolved alongside technological innovations in landscape visualization. Over the past century, countless resource extraction projects have been proposed in Canadaâs boreal forests. Some have been constructed, although many remain unbuilt fantasies of northern modernity envisioned by architects and landscape architects based in Canadaâs southern cities (Peyton 2017). Nevertheless, the gradual accumulation of maps, visualizations, and design documentation has produced an idea of the North as a vast source of untapped resource wealth; an impression that has long resonated with political economic agendas of capitalist settler colonialism (Simpson 2019). This image of abundance exists in stark contrast to representations of the boreal region as a âfrigid barren wasteland, beset with fantastic problems of climate and lengthy periods of darknessâ (MCDF 1971b, 5). Together, these divergent visualities have constructed a popular impression of boreal landscapes as spaces of simultaneous abundance and emptinessâa reductive binary that obscures the regionâs diverse histories and ecologies, and provides a blank canvas for the projection of settler colonial fantasies for development. Building on Braunâs (2002) concept of double vision, this chapter explores the material and discursive production of resource landscapes through two speculative design proposals for a pan-Canadian infrastructure corridor: the Mid-Canada Development Corridor (1968) and the Boreal Corridor Boréale (2018). Although these projects are separated by half a century, I argue that they are symptomatic of a longstanding desire to produce Canadaâs boreal region as an 55 imaginary geography of resource abundance, in contrast toâand fueled byâsouthern Canadian anxieties over economic precarity and socioecological instability. Specifically, I suggest that proposals for a pan-Canadian infrastructure corridor demonstrate the ways in which design can be mobilized to advance certain visions for the future, while simultaneously erasing other essential voices and perspectives. In the case of the Mid-Canada Development Corridor and the Boreal Corridor Boréale, I argue that these fantasies rest on the violent dispossession of Indigenous lands and on the abstraction of complex socioecological processes in order to facilitate the production of a new frontier of extractive capitalism. In making this claim, I consider how the discourse of âresourcesâ has influenced how architects and landscape architects engage in the design of distant landscapes. This engagement is fundamentally shaped by technologies of site observation and visualization that have evolved alongside settler colonial requirements for access to, and control over, land. I argue that as advanced technologies of aerialâand later digitalâsite observation allowed designers to âseeâ faraway landscapes and visualize material interventions, design became an increasingly important tool for political agendas of settler colonial state formation (Weizman 2014). Through rational and calculative techniques of landscape analysis, designers have been able to produce new territories of latent resource potential which served to secure the stateâs claim over land and legitimize its authority over the governance of human and nonhuman communities. At the same time, designers themselves have been transformed into a new kind of environment-making subject, capable of interpreting diverse forms of spatial data and projecting speculative fantasies for the futureâalbeit a future in line with hegemonic power structures associated with privileged positions of observation (Dyce 2013; Mirzoeff 2011). 56 In the following section, I review how the discourse of resources has evolved alongside innovations in landscape observation and visualization. Next, I explore these dynamics through case studies of the Mid-Canada Development Corridor and the Boreal Corridor Boréale which, I suggest, demonstrate a conceptual âdouble visionâ found throughout architectural histories of resource-making in Canada. Lastly, I conclude by speculating on the opportunitiesâand potential pitfallsâfacing designers seeking to advance an agenda of landscape design beyond the discourse of resources. 2.2 What Makes a Resource? According to the economist Harold Innis (1927), Canadians are mere âhewers of wood and drawers of waterâ (384); in other words, Canada is a nation of abundant natural resources ripe for the taking. Today, we recognize how Innisâ remark obscures important histories of spatial injustice, extractivism, and the Indigenous dispossession associated with processes of settler colonialism (Keeling and Sandlos 2009; Mascarenhas 2007; Teelucksingh 2007). However, despite its reductive nature, Innisâ comment does reflect certain normative perceptions of Canadaâs boreal landscapes. From the early fur trade to the contemporary pursuit of oil and natural gas, the boreal region has lured countless adventurers, prospectors, and venture capitalists with the promise of untapped resource wealth. But where did this promise originate? In his analysis of failed infrastructure projects in northern British Columbia, Peyton (2017) argues that popular ideas of the Canadian North as a lucrative, but underdeveloped landscape-in-the-making is rooted in the discourse of natural resources. In the parlance of capitalist modernity, âresourcesâ offers a shorthand to ascribe meaning and value to landscape. This value is not inherent in the landscape itself, but rather emerges through the application of 57 human labour to materials found in nature through processes such as extraction, manufacturing, and design (Marx 1992). Human labour valorizes inert materials into sought-after resources whose exchange value is determined by the logics of supply and demand within a particular market context. As the product of both social and natural forces, resources play a central role in structuring human-environment relations within capitalist economic systems. Similarly, the idea of a âresource landscapeâ enables the transformation of âlandâ into âterritoryâ through which humans and nonhumans may be managed in order to optimize profit. As Bridge (2013) suggests, resources are both the âproducts and tools of socionatural ordering [whose] origins are intimately associated with modernityâ (119). Hence, resources are more than valuable materials; they are also the tangible expression of power relations required to transform human labour and biophysical landscapes into raw commodities for capitalist accumulation (Bridge 2014). In the context of architecture, landscape architecture, and urban planning, the discourse of resources is historically associated with evolving concepts of nature and infrastructure. Since the turn of the nineteenth century, when the design disciplines began to shift away from purely formalist concerns towards the management of disease and hygiene in increasingly large urban environments (Gandy 2014), infrastructure has gradually emerged as the primary organizational framework to structure patterns of human settlement. In his discussion of the mid-century industrial metropolis, Foucault (2007) describes how the growing need to manage issues surrounding public health led engineers, epidemiologists, and other âtechnical expertsâ (including designers) to development new calculative and cartographic techniques for planning and governing urban infrastructuresâand, by extension, urban populations. The purpose of these techniques was not only, or primarily, to facilitate the design and construction of physical infrastructures, but rather âmaking possible, guaranteeing, and ensuringâ¦the circulation of 58 people, merchandise, air, etceteraâ (De Block 2016, 374). In this context, infrastructures provided both the physical armature to facilitate the circulation of resources and labour within the capitalist city, while simultaneously inaugurating a new idea of nature as something that could be mediated through technological intervention, and therefore optimized in the name of capital accumulation and societal modernization (Graham and Marvin, 2001). Mid-century architects and landscape architects played a central role in operationalizing these evolving ideas of nature. Wartime technological breakthroughs in aerial surveying and cartography were redirected toward large-scale mapping projects aimed at identifying natural resources to support post-war urban and economic growth (Sachs 2018). At the same time, growing awareness of concepts of âecologyâ and the interrelationship between humans and their biophysical milieu gave rise to new planning ideals that sought to improve human living conditions by capitalizing on found environmental conditions (Rabinow 1989). Together, these technological and conceptual developments led mid-century designers to conceive of the natural world in infrastructural terms: a kind of complex techno-ecological system that could be managed through the rational application of ecological science and engineering expertise. Physical infrastructures thus became the main tool to organize and control landscapes. By scientifically analyzing social and natural variables, designers could produce optimal spatial solutions to growing urban crises such as pollution, food security, overpopulation, and access to energy resources. As a result, mid-century architects and landscape architects quickly emerged as a new kind of environment-making subject, capable of synthesizing spatial and ecological data into infrastructure-based designs that could address various socioecological crises (Dyce 2013). The discourse of resources played an important role in driving mid-century Canadian infrastructure projects. Railways, highways, airports, and energy projects (and, as I discuss 59 below, designs for a pan-Canadian infrastructure corridor) were âexplicitly conceived to instigate broader spatial transformations and undertake a specific project of societal modernizationâ (Graham and Marvin, 2001, 374). In the context of Canadaâs boreal landscapes, large-scale infrastructure projects were guided by an ambition to improve peripheral geographies through technical interventions that could deploy advanced techniques of cartography and ecology in the name of the public good. Typically, this âgoodâ was articulated in terms of social and economic opportunities for northern residents enabled by the provision of modern infrastructures designed according insights from the ecological sciences (McHarg 1995). However, I argue that this positivist reading of mid-century infrastructure projects merely serves to reinforce the paternalistic and extractive ideologies and undergirded Canadian nation-building projects. As De Block (2016) suggests through her analysis of contemporary architectural concepts such as ecological urbanism and landscape infrastructure, technoscientific approaches to landscape design in the 1960s and 70s commonly approached infrastructure design âfrom a deterministic point of view, detached from societal developments and social agendasâ (371). Building on this insight, I argue that spatial interventions in Canadaâs boreal region must be contextualized within evolving ideas of nature as a set of resources, made visible by new technologies, that designers could manage in order to solve various urban crises. The discourse of resources has long provided a powerful epistemological frame for processes of landscape formation in Canada, as well as in other settler colonial states (Coulthard 2007; Curley 2021; Simpson 2019). In Canada, the transformation of boreal landscapes into resource landscapes is marked by histories of violence directed toward Indigenous peoples and nonhumans. In the past, this violence has taken the form of treaties between Indigenous peoples and the British Crown, which were designed to secure to colonistsâ access to land while simultaneously extinguishing Indigenous territorial 60 claims. As the Canadian state expanded westward, processes of lawful dispossession relegated Indigenous peoples onto reserves strategically located away from sites of valuable resources. This emergent landscapeâwhich Hunt (2014) characterizes as a colonialscapeâis predicated on the displacement of Indigenous peoples and the instrumentalization of dynamic landscapes into stockpiles of inert resources. Indeed, as Simpson (2019) suggests, violence is the âcondition of possibility though which resource[s] come into being and [are] sustainedâ (2). In other words, the formation of Canadian resource landscapes does not represent a specific act of settler violence, but rather a more fundamental act of ontological violence inherent to the concept of resources itself. Popular depictions of boreal resource abundance are therefore, at their core, violent abstractions of diverse and peopled landscapes. Yet this inherent violence is often hidden in technical design documentation for northern infrastructure projects. For example, design feasibility studies and environmental assessments often minimize the cumulative impacts of infrastructure projects on human and nonhuman communities (Dibo et al. 2018; Erlewein 2013); occasionally, the existence of these communities is omitted altogether (Baka 2017; Weizman 2014). Some suggest that these omissions are a by-product of contemporary environmental assessment practices that are unable to engage with relational, multiscalar, and spatiotemporal dimensions of landscape (Friess and Jazeel 2017; Robb et al. 2021). Others argue that the systematic underrepresentation of peoples and ecologies deemed to be âin the wayâ of development should be viewed as an attempt to depoliticize the design process by replacing sites of potential conflict with simplifiedâand politically convenientâspatial imaginaries (Oleson and Richardson 2011). More recently, critical scholars have demonstrated how the simplification of landscapes into resources denies the agency of nonhuman beings and undermines Indigenous 61 understandings of reciprocity within complex, multispecies networks of landscape relations (Brown 2014; Coulthard 2007; Daigle 2016; Wolfe 2006). Similarly, agendas of ecological modernization that animated architectural and landscape architectural designs for mid-century infrastructure projects have given way a set of ideas that Latour (2009) characterizes in terms of notions of dependence, entanglement, and care, yet which are nonetheless oriented towards late-capitalist modes of organizing and controlling territory. Under this schema, expert designers are increasingly merging technological and infrastructural functions with landscape ecology in order to address the risks related to imminent climatological crises through seemingly apolitical nature-based solutions. Yet in seeking to position ecological infrastructures as the primary mode to address climate change, designers risk elevating technical deliberations and considerations âthus excluding those groups and concerns that cannot be easily dealt with through techno-managerial proceduresâ (De Block 2016, 369). In order to theorize the relationship between the design disciplines and processes of Canadian resource-making, this chapter seeks to develop the concept of double vision. This concept was initially proposed by Braun (2002) in his analysis of late-nineteenth century mapping expeditions conducted by the Geological Survey of Canada (GSC) on the island of Haida Gwaii. Braun recounts the GSCâs expedition through the figure of George Mercer Dawson, a geologist and amateur ethnographer who mapped the Pacific coast of British Columbia on behalf of the Government of Canada. Dawson was highly trained in scientific techniques of cartographic and stratigraphic visualization, and his photographs and drawings of Haida Gwaii depict the islandâs physical geography with technical precision (Figure 2.1). Likewise, Dawson was a renowned ethnographer who made detailed notes of complex Haida social and cultural practices. Yet despite Dawsonâs reputation as a keen observer, he was unable 62 to perceive the ways in which Haida social, cultural, and political life were interconnected with the dynamic biophysical and spiritual landscapes of Haida Gwaii. Figure 2.1 Nature's "architecture." Diagram of strata north of Limestone Islands and section of Triassic rocks, Burnaby Island (Dawson 1880). Braun suggests that Dawsonâs inability to perceive a relational Haida landscape was the result of an epistemological diplopiaâor double visionâresulting from his education and technical training rooted nineteenth century philosophies of scientific rationalism and nature-culture dualism (Braun 1997). This double vision is evident in the journal entries Dawson wrote during his time on Haida Gwaii. These entries are structured as two parallel texts: an ethnographic account of Haida social practices on the left page, and scientific descriptions of the islandâs physical geography on the facing page. According to Braun, this physical separation 63 within the journalâs narrative structure is indicative of Dawsonâs inability to recognize how the biophysical landscapes of Haida Gwaii were mutually co-constitutive with Haida culture and society. Despite his observational skill and sophisticated technologies of landscape analysis, Dawsonâs journal entries reveal a bifurcated understanding of Haida Gwaii that âdistilled complex socionatural worlds into neat, unambiguous categories: primitive culture and pristine natureâ (Braun 2002, 54). Consequently, Dawsonâs visualizations of Haida Gwaii depict the island not as it actually existed, but as a speculative fantasy of resource abundance that was politically useful to the territorial ambitions of the Canadian settler state. I argue that Dawsonâs double vision is not an isolated historical example, but a chronic condition that pervades histories of architectural resource-making in Canada. Furthermore, I suggest that this condition has evolved alongside technological innovations in landscape representation, from the early cartographic and stratigraphic techniques used by Dawson, to innovative geospatial technologies now commonly used in design research and practice. To see a landscape as a repository of natural resources requires the ability to divide the world into discrete parts, and to assign value to each part in isolation from its relational context. This is a partial way of seeing the Earth, but one that is necessary to render landscapes legible to the capitalist state (Li 2007; Parenti 2016; Scott 1998; Tsing 2005). The discursive production of âresourcesâ therefore demands ongoing conceptual work to project certain knowledge claims onto the world, and to stabilize those claims against competing ways of knowing and relating to landscape. Architects and landscape architects have been key drivers of this process, and have emerged as powerful environment-making subjects within systems of settler colonialism. In the following section, I investigate two design speculative projects that demonstrate how architects and 64 landscape architects have transformed Canadaâs boreal landscapes into natural resources through the conceptual framework of double vision. 2.3 Constructing a Pan-Canadian Resource Landscape Canadaâs boreal region is home to many diverse and peopled landscapes with distinct histories, cultures, and ecologies. These landscapes are predominantly characterized by the boreal forest itselfâgenerally considered to be the largest intact forest on Earth (Global Forest Watch, n.d.). The boreal bioregion is home to a broad range of plant, animal, and microbial communities that have supported continued human occupation for thousands of years. These landscapes are a source of tremendous beauty and biodiversity; however, they are also sites of environmental degradation and socio-cultural fragmentation resulting from decades of intensive industrial activity. Most of this activity can be linked to resource extraction, particularly logging, mining, industrial agriculture, hydropower, and, more recently, the pursuit of conventional and unconventional fossil fuels. The spatial impacts of these industrial incursions are unevenly distributed across the boreal region, yet longstanding histories of extraction have had cumulative effects: approximately 70 per cent of global boreal forests now lie within one kilometre of the forestâs edge, resulting in significant adverse environmental impacts that span multiple spatial and temporal scales (Haddad et al. 2015). The degradation of boreal landscapes can be attributed to decades of uncoordinated industrial development, financial speculation, and politically-motivated agendas of northern modernization (Peyton 2017). Prior to the passing of the Canadian Environmental Assessment Act in 1992, large-scale engineering and infrastructure projects in the North proceeded within a relatively ad hoc regulatory environment, resulting was a patchwork of poorly integrated designs 65 (Matheson and Pollon 2019). As stated in the Presidential Address given at the 1962 Annual Meeting of the Canadian Association of Geographers, this âerratic and spottyâ trajectory of northern infrastructure development posed a significant obstacle to Canadaâs ânorthward course of empireâ (Wonders 1962, 98). By the late 1970s, the social and economic viability of the Canadian nation-state appeared to increasingly depend on the development of a coordinated northern infrastructure strategy: âIn recent yearsâ¦Canada has looked northward with a heightened sense of urgency. Her citizens reveal no strong desire to live in the north; indeed the margins of agricultural settlement have drawn back here and there. They are reasonably confident, however, in the ability of northern raw materials to undergird the growth of the Canadian nation and of the vast empty spaces of the region to accommodate an expanded national population. No doubt this largely subarctic region will undergo further development, but there is uncertainty about how it should proceed. Where and to what extent should development occur? Under whose auspices? For whose benefit? Will growth continue to be localized and uncoordinated or will it derive from regional policy and planning?â (Vanderhill 1979, 13). In the remainder of this section, I query two design projects that have responded to these open-ended questions. The first is the Mid-Canada Development Corridor (MCDC) proposed by Major-General Richard Rohmer in the late 1960s, and the second is the Boreal Corridor Boréale (BCB) proposed by the Toronto-based planning and design firm SvN Architects + Planners in 2018. The MCDC and the BCB are similar in many ways. Both projects propose a continuous 66 belt of urban and rural settlement organized along a linear corridor comprised of roads, transmission lines, telecommunications infrastructure, and oil and gas pipelines. This corridor would stretch across Canadaâs boreal forests from the Atlantic to the Pacific coasts, with a spur line along the Mackenzie River Valley toward the Arctic Ocean. Along the corridor route, new cities would be carved out of the boreal forest to house a growing northern population and labour force. Both the MCDC and the BCB legitimize the need for a northern infrastructure corridor by amplifying concerns and anxieties commonly expressed by southern Canadian politicians and industrialists; namely: 1) Canadaâs economic success is dependent on its ability to deliver natural resources to market; 2) Canadaâs social fabric is threatened by overpopulation in southern cities and underpopulation in northern regions; and 3) Canadaâs social and economic problems can be resolved through the coordinated redevelopment of boreal landscapes (MCDF 1971a; MCDF 1971b; Van Nostrand 2014). Numerous northern development schemes have been proposed in Canada over the past century in attempt to address these southern concerns (Wenner-Gren 1958). However, I have chosen to focus on the MCDC and the BCB for a number of reasons. First, the scale and ambition of the MCDC and the BCB are enormous compared to other speculative infrastructure proposals for the boreal region, amounting to a total reconfiguration of northern communities and landscapes around the spatial and temporal logics of resource extraction. Second, although these projects are separated by half a century, they are closely connected conceptually; proponents of the BCB explicitly invoke the MCDC as a formal and ideological precedent. Third, these projects demonstrate the convergence of a longstanding desire shared by a certain subset of Canadian politicians, industrialists, and designers to âimproveâ northern landscapes for the betterment of the nation and its citizens. This desire clearly demonstrates a 67 narrow and paternalistic view of boreal landscapes and peoples, yet its has nonetheless persistedâand evolvedâwithin Canadian design discourse alongside changing technologies of landscape perception and manipulation. Accordingly, I suggest that the MCDC and the BCB offer valuable and timely case studies to examine how designers conceive their role in shaping social and political outcomes through the production of landscape-scale infrastructures. In the following section, I analyze visualizations produced by the MCDC and BCB in order to elucidate representational and epistemological trends within recent histories of architectural resource-making. Through this analysis, I argue that when envisioning proposals for the future, designers often rely on narrow conceptualizations of landscape framed through the violent discourse of resources (a worrying trend as contemporary designers seek to advance speculative visions for a post-carbon future). While the MCDC and BCB claim to advance a progressive agenda of social and economic improvement, both projects, in fact, demonstrate how design can be co-opted by state and market actors pursue extractive and settler colonial agendas, while simultaneously eliding alternative political and ontological understandings of landscapes. 2.3.1 The Mid-Canada Development Corridor One of the most influential designs for a pan-Canadian resource landscape is the Mid-Canada Development Corridor (MCDC), developed by Major-General Richard Rohmer in the late 1906s. In his memoirs, Rohmer (2004) credits himself with conceiving the initial MCDC project following a casual encounter with a map: âOne evening I had a map of Canada spread out that showed, among other things, the location and shape of the vast boreal forestâ¦ As I looked at the map, the great green boreal forest jumped right out at me, and a concept emerged in my 68 mindâ (339). This tale provides an fitting, if perhaps apocryphal, origin story for the MCDC because it demonstrates the affective power of landscape visualizationsâas well as their potential to facilitate misinterpretations through double vision (Kitchin and Dodge 2007). In 1957, the Royal Commission on Canadaâs Economic Prospects determined that industrial development within the boreal forests was âunfavorableâ due to the regionâs challenging climate, remoteness, and lack of existing infrastructure (Azzi 1999). These findings greatly dismayed Rohmer, who believed, like his contemporaries, that Canadaâs future prosperity rested on its ability to capitalize on the abundant resources believed to exist in the North (Rohmer 1970). Rohmerâs map offered a âgreat greenâ expanse upon which he could project a fantasy of untapped resource wealth. The limitations of this imagined geographyâincluding detailed knowledge of the peoples and ecologies of the boreal regionâwas supplanted by the abstract visual language of the cartographic surface, allowing Rohmerâs speculative ambitions to opportunistically fill âthat nearly uninhabited sector of the forestâ (Rohmer 2004, 340). Although Rohmerâs map obscured many details about Canadaâs boreal landscapes, it nonetheless enabled him to perceive the region as a continuous terrain upon which he could project a high modernist ideology of ecological modernization (Scott 1998). However, before Rohmer could being to articulate his design vision, more detailed maps of the North needed to be drawn. In 1968, Rohmer commissioned the Toronto-based design consultancy Acres Research & Planning to begin a preliminary feasibility study and concept design for a pan-Canadian infrastructure corridor. Rohmer initially retained Acresâ services for a fee of $6,000, and when his personal funds were depleted, he persuaded the firmâs president, Norman Simpson, to temporarily continue working on the project on a pro-bono basis. In need of additional funding, Rohmer conceived of a week-long conference to entice members of Canadaâs business 69 community to contribute, both politically and financially, to his vision of northern infrastructural modernization (Pape 1969).7 Known as the Mid-Canada Development Conference, this meeting assembled leaders from rail, mining, agriculture, forestry, and energy corporations, as well as experts from multiple universities, municipalities, airlines, and design firms from across the country (MCDF 1971a). Over a two-year period, delegates met in a series of conferences and working groups to deliberate strategies for industrial and urban expansion in the region they termed Mid-Canada: an ambiguous area stretching from Labrador to Yukon between the 55th parallel and the northern tree line. Working alongside designers from Acres, this group would go on to conduct a series of physiographic and cartographic studies of the boreal region, and their final report would provide baseline data to guide the development of a pan-Canadian infrastructure framework for the countryâs northern hinterlands. Under Rohmerâs guidance, the MCDC project team was tasked with visualizing potential solutions to two perceived crises. The first crisis concerned the ad hoc nature of northern industrial development which, according to representatives from Canadaâs major financial institutions, negatively impacted their ability to attract investment to the boreal region (MCDC 1971b). The second concern addressed neo-Malthusian anxieties regarding Canadaâs burgeoning southern population and the anticipated need for a northern urbanization strategy and resettlement program (Moriyama 1971). These crises, however, predominantly reflected the concerns of southern Canadian politicians and financial institutions, and did not necessarily reflect the needs or desires of northern residents. Yet voices from the boreal regionâwhich 7 Conference fees were set between $5,000 per representative (equivalent to $34,000 in 2021 Canadian dollars), and seventy-five members ultimately attended. Revenue from this event enabled Acres to complete its feasibility study, and remaining funds were used to organize a series of âfield tripsâ for conference members to visit Scandinavia and Siberia âto see how other communities have dealt with the problem of northern livingâ (Pape 1969, 6). 70 comprises roughly ten per cent of Canadaâs total population and approximately eighty per cent of Canadaâs Indigenous population (Nitoslawski et al. 2019)âwere conspicuously absent from the Mid-Canada Development Conference. As a result, the Conference proceeded under the technocratic assumption that coordinated infrastructural interventions in the North would provide a panacea to the various social and economic challenges facing southern Canada. As part of its mandate, the MCDC funded extensive mapping exercises across the boreal region using cutting-edge techniques of orthophotography. Aerial surveys had been used in the North since the 1920s to map potential mineral and timber claims (Dyce 2013), however the MCDC deployed these technologies on a scale never before seen in Canada (Cronin 2007). In his memoirs, Rohmer (2004) details the significant logistical and technological resources that were mobilized to map northern landscapes, including low-altitude gridded flyovers using wing-mounted cameras. Part technical report and part travelogue, Rohmerâs memoirs capture the spirit of technological modernity and nationalism that animated the MCDC mapping project. Looking down from the cockpit of his airplane, Rohmer enthusiastically describes âthe promise of oil and gas development in the Mackenzie Deltaâ (347), the beneficial effects of âso-called global warmingâ (347) for opening the Port of Churchill, and the wonders of modern sanitation infrastructure under construction in Inuvik (348). These flights effectively enabled the MCDC mapping team to inhabit the âgreat greenâ expanse of Rohmerâs initial map form the privileged, planimetric âview from nowhereâ afforded by the airplane (Haraway 1988). 71 Figure 2.2 Mid-Canada Development Corridor (Mid-Canada Development Foundation Inc. 1971b, 52). After two years of work, the mapping project concluded with the publication of the MCDC Concept Report (MCDF 1971b). The Report consisted of a series of maps which visualized boreal geology, ecology, hydrology, climate, and infrastructural connectivity. With each turn of the page, new spatial information was layered on top of preceding maps, culminating in a final visualization depicting the logical spatial extents for the proposed Mid-Canada Corridor (Figure 2.2). This strategy of cartographic layering mirrors parallel innovations in landscape architectural representation developed by figures such as Ian McHarg at the University of Pennsylvania (1969). Known as a landscape suitability approach, designers would overlay transparent maps of physiographic and cultural landscape features in order to determine 72 an area most suitable for a particular intervention. This method was celebrated as a rational strategy of environmental design intended to reduce the impacts of development on sensitive landscapes; however, it also served to reduce complex landscaped into binary categories (i.e. suitable or unsuitable for development) without ground-truthing abstract cartographic data (Sachs 2019). The MCDC Concept Report defines the spatial extents for the proposed corridor according to various ecological and climatological thresholds. These thresholds appear in the Report as found conditions, however they are, in fact, the product of modern technological and scientific advancements in landscape observation. Yet the artificiality of these thresholds is obscured in the MCDCâs visual documentation. For example, the maps in the Concept Report mobilize the cartographic iconography of the isoline to evoke an impression of continuous measurement across the entire boreal forest, far exceeding the technical scope and ability of Acresâ mapping team (Grevsmühl 2014). With each turn of the page, broad swathes of colour wash across linework base maps of Canada, suggesting a comprehensive analysis of landscape features such as soils, vegetation, temperature zones, and permafrost limits. These maps present themselves as accurate representations of complex landscape processes, but in reality they are little more than highly aestheticized images of generalized landscape conditions. Barber (2016) characterizes these images as âquasi-technical objects,â or visualizations that appear to communicate scientific data with technical precision, yet whose purpose is primarily rhetorical. The maps within the MCDC Concept Report insinuate that their creators âhave the capacity to intervene in the complicated nexus of social patterns and resource availabilityâ (Barber 2016, 133) through the scientific management of the boreal landscapes, but the veracity of this claim is spurious. In effect, the Concept Reportâs maps and visualizations 73 leverage the truth-claims of western environmental science in order to persuade southern Canadian politicians and investors of the Corridorâs legitimacy, while simultaneously displacing situated environmental knowledge held by residents and Indigenous peoples on the ground (Nadasdy 2008; Kimmerer 2013; Friess and Jazeel 2017). I argue that this is not a bug of the MCDCâs visualizations, but rather a feature designed to render boreal landscapes as empty, sanitized spaces in need of modernization. The production of politically-desirable representations of boreal landscapes also extends to architectural proposals for new settlements along the MCDC route. Conceptual renderings of cities and towns depict idealized scenes of collectivized living in modern apartment blocks and shopping centres designed like âlife-support systems for a space voyageâ (MCDF 1971a, 53)âimplying that Canadaâs boreal region was as inhospitable to life as outer space (Figure 2.3). These renderings, based on Soviet and Scandinavian precedent projects (Conger 1967), depict an architectural vision of modern urban living in contrast to the so-called âmarginal lifestylesâ associated with boreal resource towns and First Nations reserves (MCDF 1971a, 54). Much like the quasi-technical visualizations produced by the MCDC mapping team, the Concept Reportâs architectural renderings were not intended as literal design proposals, but rather as symbols of futuristic prosperity meant to contrast and denigrate âsubstandardâ and ânomadicâ lifestyles attributed to transient resource workers and Indigenous populations (MCDF 1971b, 59). Images of urbanization along the MCDC route bear no resemblance to traditional northern housing or land-use patterns; rather, they advocate for the relocation of Indigenous communities away from valuable resource deposits, and for the transformation of northern bodies into a standing reserve of labour for a new extractive economy (Coulthard 2007). 74 Figure 2.3 Northern ânew townâ concept (Mid-Canada Development Foundation Inc. 1971b, 58). The tensions within the projectâs paternalistic social agenda and its extractivist goals are perhaps best exemplified by a report issued to the MCDC Conference by Raymond Moriyama (1971), a Toronto-based architect. Moriyama was selected to lead the Conferenceâs Ecological and Environmental Task Force to explore how development might impact northern ecosystems and Indigenous populations. Alarmed by emerging scientific evidence of the extent of human impacts on northern ecologies, Moriyama urged the MCDC team to avoid designing the proposed Corridor based on âpatterns of living and production processes that are obviously oriented towards deathâ (10). Moriyama âsensed a rashness and insensitivity that technologically- and corporate-oriented members [of the MCDC Conference] were bringing forth,â (13) and, as an alternative, advocated that development along the Corridor must be limited to the natural carrying capacity of the local environment. âIndian and Eskimo [sic] 75 culturesâ¦who had not been liberated by technology,â (13) he suggested, offered an idealized template for the Corridorâs development organized around principles of ecological restraint. The inclusion of Moriyamaâs report within the proceedings of the MCDC Conference reflects a contradictory undercurrent within the project itselfâand one that I suggest is indicative of a pervasive double vision. On one hand, elements of the MCDC Concept Report valorize Indigenous cultures and land-use practices (albeit in oversimplified and often racist terms) as a model for a sustainable northern living and industrial development. Indeed, in a report to the Royal Architectural Institute of Canada (1969), architect Gordon Atkins argued that it was essential for architects to âsave the indigenous qualities of the people and the regionâ and that designers should âbuilt to express the attitudes of those who are native to the regionâ (5). On the other hand, Indigenous peoples themselves are virtually absent in visualizations of the Mid-Canada Corridor, except when they appear in renderings as undifferentiated urban dwellers or resource workers. This is not to suggest that Indigenous peoples have been excluded from the MCDC project, but rather that diverse Indigenous spatial traditions and land-based knowledges have been distorted in ways that are convenient to the projectâs authors. This distortion is consistent with settler colonial logics of elimination, which do not seek to erase Indigenous identities and subjectivities, but rather to assimilate them into a dominant settler society (Wolfe 2006). Likewise, visualizations of the Mid-Canada corridor do not seek to deny the presence of northern populations, but rather to selectively represent them in ways that favourable to the MCDCâs political and economic agenda. 76 2.3.2 The Boreal Corridor Boréale Despite the significant financial and political resources directed toward the MCDC project by Canadian corporate and industrial interests, the final proposal failed to capture the attention of Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau and was subsequently abandoned (Rohmer 2004). However, over the past fifty years, various politicians, academics, and architects have revisited the idea of a northern infrastructure development strategy for Canadaâs boreal region. One of the most recent and substantial revivals of the MCDC concept has been championed by John Van Nostrand, principal of the Toronto-based design firm SvN Architects + Planners (Figure 2.4). In an article to The Walrus, Van Nostrand (2014) called for an updated version of Rohmerâs Mid-Canada Corridor in response to emerging economic and socioecological challenges facing northern Canada, including âclimate change, immigration, resource extraction, urban growth, andâperhaps most urgentlyâAboriginal relationsâ (Van Nostrand 2014). Van Nostrandâs explicit recognition of Indigenous resource relations is a significant point of departure from the MCDC. Whereas the 1968 MCDC Conference called for an infrastructure framework rooted in paternalistic and racist notions of northern âimprovement,â van Nostrandâs approach is grounded in the realpolitik of contemporary resource extraction. With reference to the cancellation of a proposed $3.3 billion-dollar chromite mine near Sudbury, Ontario due to local Indigenous opposition, van Nostrand writes that: ââ¦[t]his is what resource development is going to look like in the near future without comprehensive national and provincial strategies for infrastructure, environmental issues, and Aboriginal involvement. Every resource-based project in the country, from pipelines in British Columbia to fracking in New 77 Brunswick, is going to encounter resistance from First Nations, Metis [sic] and Inuit communities, as well as from many non-Aboriginal communitiesâ (Van Nostrand 2014). Figure 2.4 Precedent image of the Boreal Corridor Boréale (Van Nostrand 2014). In response to these challenges, SvN has produced designs for a new pan-Canadian infrastructure corridor through the countryâs boreal landscapes based on the MCDC template, but modernized to reflect contemporary political and ecological realities. This revised proposal, named the Boreal Corridor Boréale (BCB; Figure 2.5), has gained significant attention in 78 Canadian design and policy discourse. In 2016, Van Nostrand authored a report in collaboration with the Northern Policy Institute outlining the technical and political feasibility of a modern infrastructure corridor linking remote northern resource centres to major southern export facilities and shipping terminals. Building on this report, the Senate of Canadaâs Standing Committee on Banking, Trade, and Commerce (2017) issued a follow-up report calling for the Government of Canada to invest $5 million in the establishment of a northern infrastructure corridor research program. This funding (including additional support from other private sector and institutional donors) has since been directed toward the creation of the Canadian Northern Corridor Concept Research Program at the University of Calgaryâs School of Public Policy (https://www.canadiancorridor.ca/).8 Alongside these recent developments surrounding the policy dimensions of a boreal infrastructure corridor, SvN has simultaneously developed a series of concept plans for the BCB, which the firm recently entered in the CanInfra Ideas Challenge: a national design competition sponsored by various Canadian financial institutions including Brookfield Asset Management Inc., Deloitte LLP, the Royal Bank of Canada, and the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce (CanInfra 2018).9 8 This funding structure, it should be noted, bears a striking resemblance to the corporate, industrial, and government interests that bankrolled Acresâ development of MCDC Concept Report. 9 SvNâs entry into the CanInfra Ideas Challenge ultimately earned the firm and honourable mention. The Boreal Corridor Boréale submission can be viewed at https://www.caninfra.ca/canadas-boreal-corridor 79 Figure 2.5 Boreal Corridor Boréale. Image credit: SvN. Like the MCDC, the spatial extents of the BCB are co-extensive with an imaginary boreal landscape. However, unlike the MCDC, the boreal landscapes of the BCB are constructed using innovative digital technologies of landscape observation and predictive climate modelling (Figure 2.6). These technologies have revealed the disproportionate speed and scope of landscape transformations in Canadaâs northern regions due to climate change. Whereas the northern boundaries of the MCDC were defined by aerial analyses of permafrost limits, predictive visualizations of future climate thresholds have effectively shifting the northern extents of the BCB to the shoreline of the Arctic Ocean (Cunsolo and Ellis 2018; Ford et al. 80 2018). This territory for development can be seen in maps of the proposed BCB route, which feature north-south linkages connecting the boreal region to proposed deepwater ports in the high Arctic. In a promotional video submitted to the CanInfra Ideas Challenge, van Nostrand describes how this expanded geographic range provides new opportunities to connect the BCB with âthe eternal and now finally emerging Northwest Passageâwhich is really on the verge of opening up in a serious wayâ[creating] a whole new oceanfront and economic-front for the countryâ (Planet Greene 2018). Figure 2.6 Current and projected climate suitability zone of aspen. Image credit: Natural Resources Canada. For the BCB, climate change-induced transformations to northern landscapes and waterways are not perceived as an existential threat, but as an opportunity to expand Canadaâs export-oriented resource economy through new shipping infrastructures in the Northwest Passage, and new sites of resource extraction in the Arctic Archipelago. The strategy implies that failure to capitalize on newly-accessible resource landscapes would be irresponsible for the collective economic good of the country, and specifically the economic viability of northern 81 communities. Wainwright and Mann (2018) argue that this logic is typical of neoliberal resource extraction projects, which do not perceive climate change as a risk, but rather as an opportunity to remove previous spatial and temporal barriers to accumulation. The rapid warming of boreal landscapes conveniently thaws territory that was previously deemed to be inaccessible by the MCDCâs permafrost and temperature threshold maps, resulting in a new frontier of capital accumulation. This logic can be observed in the climate modelling maps referenced by the BCB (Figure 2.6), which depict a figure-ground representation of retreating conifer forestsâor an encroaching neoliberal extractivism. Much like the isolines found in the MCDC Concept Report, the climatological maps of the BCB delineate zones of human-induced landscape transformations as natural thresholds for design intervention. Shifting zones of conifer forest and sea ice coverage are represented as normative landscape conditions that exist apart from the human activities that have produced them. This approach both naturalizes and depoliticizes the anthropogenic effects of climate change, and obscure the uneven distribution of risk placed on northern communities that are most susceptible to disturbances in the global climate. This approach is problematic for a number of reasons, not least of which because it is predicated on the environmental destabilization of northern landscapes. For the BCB, the boreal forests are a sacrificial space can be salvaged through massive investments in extractive infrastructures. Likewise, northern Indigenous populations most vulnerable to climate change are framed as not as victims of climate change, but as perceived beneficiaries of new economic opportunities. While SvN does not name specific Indigenous communities in its BCB competition entry, it does refer to Indigenous peoples as one of three key stakeholders the future corridor, alongside government and industry. According to Van Nostrand, âwe can expect that in this period of growth [Indigenous nations] will be awarded 20 per cent through royalties of all 82 the resource profits that arise out of the area, and we think that theyâll also assume responsibility for the environmental areas and conservation lands associated with the corridorâ (Planet Greene 2018). This paltry compensation and devolution of stewardship responsibilities is emblematic of exploitative and colonial approaches to resource governance. For the BCB, northern prosperity is not defined in terms of traditional lifeways and land-based practices that have existed for generations, but instead through the rapid urbanization and industrialization of the boreal region to provide âpresent and future Northerners with an increased quality of lifeâ (CanInfra n.d.) modeled after the lifestyles of Canadaâs large southern cities. Within the BCBâs vision of northern prosperity, Indigenous communities are not represented as caricatures of sustainable living as they are in the MCDC, but as valued development partners and financial stakeholders. However, as Taylor and Friedel (2011) have argued, co-equal power sharing in resource development is faces is unlikelyâand perhaps impossibleâin the context of ongoing settler colonialism. The BCBâs approach to boreal infrastructure development appears to empower marginalized communities to exercise political autonomy and self-determination, yet critics argue that such attempts at engagement and consultation merely represent a neoliberal tactic whereby âIndigenous peoples are encouraged to throw away the yoke of colonialism by becoming successful entrepreneursâ (Altamirano-Jiménez 2004, 354). While the BCB proposal does not explicitly call for Indigenous peoples to relinquish their traditional land-based values and practices to participate in Canadaâs economic future, it does imply that this future is predicated on the fundamental transformation of boreal landscapes through climate changeâas well as the financial opportunities that these transformations enable. Yet perhaps the most troubling aspect of the BCB lies in its inability to envision northern futures beyond the paradigm of landscape as a resource (Simpson 2019). 83 2.4 Two Histories of Double Vision What can we learn from the MCDC and the BCB about the transformation of landscapes into resources? Furthermore, what do these projects reveal about architectsâ and landscape architectsâ complicity in Canadian settler colonialism and extractive capitalism? I suggest that potential answers to these questions can be found in the evolving forms of double vision that animate each project. The MCDC and the BCB are not defined in terms of specific sites; rather, they are coextensive with the boreal forest itself. But the boreal forest is not a political jurisdiction, nor does it have a fixed boundary: both projects require the production of a terrain of interventionâan imaginary boreal landscape constructed through statistical and legal technologies designed to render it visible to state and market forces (Harris 2002; Li 2007). In the case of the MCDC, this imaginary boreal landscape is constructed through mid-century techniques of aerial orthophotography and cartography (Dyce 2013); for the BCB, boreal resource landscapes are produced using modern technologies of predictive climate change modelling and multispectral satellite imagery. Yet despite their technological differences, the fundamental goal of both projects is the same: to reify landscapes as natural resources visible to the bureaucracy of the Canadian settler state, and to propose infrastructural interventions that would connect these remote sites to the global marketplace (Cowen 2014; 2020). The changing nature of double vision demonstrated by these projects is as much epistemological as it is technological. Although the MCDC and the BCB were never built, their visualizations reveal how advances in visual technologies determine how value is ascribed to landscape. Consequently, I suggest that the main achievement of the MCDC and the BCB is not architectural, but political. The projectsâ visualizations succeed in simultaneously articulating boreal landscapes as sources of abundant natural resources and as marginal spaces in need of 84 improvement. Cartographic icons representing cities, ports, and resource deposits are effortlessly connected by lines depicting highways and export markets; at the same time, contemporary northern crises such as substance abuse, food insecurity, and climate change are swept aside by idealized renderings of life in futuristic company towns. These images depoliticize boreal landscapes and legitimize extractive settler colonialism under the guide of benevolent economic development. As the MCDC and the BCB demonstrate, this violence is often inflicted by designers who, like George Mercer Dawson, believe they are using modern and politically-neutral technologies to depict landscapes when, in fact, they are (re)producing depoliticized terrain for the projection of capitalist and colonial fantasies. Just like the parallel texts in Dawsonâs journal, the double visions of abundance and marginality produced by the MCDC and the BCB overlook complex human-environmental interrelationships, and depict boreal landscapes as depoliticized stockpiles of natural resources. The persistent desire for a pan-Canadian resource corridor speaks to the question of how designers observe remote landscapes, and how those observations shape possibilities for the future. Yet, as Simpson (2019) suggests, despite the inherent violence of the resource concept, it is curious that designers seeking to address contemporary social and environmental crises in Canada consistently return to the discourse of resources. How can we explain this cognitive dissonance? In response to this question, I posit two possible answers. The first concerns the neoliberalization of the design professions, characterized by the increasing centrality of capitalist logics in structuring all aspects of design, from education to private practice (Soules 2021). As Spencer (2016) suggests, one significant consequence of this development is the governmentalizing effects of neoliberalism, specifically the subjectification of architects and 85 landscape architects according to capitalist ideologies. While this trend is not specific to the design disciplines, it is concerning because it suggests the formation of a professional creative class that is unable to articulate design futures beyond a market-based paradigm which can only conceive of relational landscapes as discrete resources. This perspective can be seen in the BCBâs management of potential obstacles to northern development, such as climate change, where âsubjects and populations regarded as problematic are, wherever possible, not excluded but incorporatedâ¦they are better managed and valorized in the game of the marketâ (Spencer 2016, 122). By reducing diverse human and their complex political worlds into abstract populations, remote landscapes become more malleable to technocratic design interventions (Alexander 2014). The result, much like Dawsonâs journals, is a flattening of the design imagination in ways that reproduceâand accelerateâprocesses of spatial injustice. The second theory I offer in response to designersâ persistent return to the resource concept is the growing instrumentalization of dynamic ecological and biological processes. Whereas twentieth century engineering projects sought to control environmental processes (McPhee 2011), more recent projects have attempted to co-opt natural systems as a productive force within infrastructural networks (Belanger 2016; Orff 2013). These projects seem to offer a design ontology that is more attuned to the role of biophysical dynamics in shaping the built environment, in which both humans and nonhumans play and active role. However, I, like others (Goldstein and Johnson 2015; Wakefield and Braun 2019), caution that the landscape-as-infrastructure approach signals an evolution of the âresourceâ concept where nonhuman life itself is valued based on its ability to render services to meet human needs. Carbon-sequestering parkland or breakwaters made of oysters appear to inaugurate a new paradigm of human-environment co-adaptation in the Anthropocene; however, such projects remain fundamentally 86 premised on the abstraction of nonhuman biological processes (i.e. life) into valuable commodities. This perspective is not only potentially depoliticising, it also denies landscapes their subjecthood as active agents that can shape social and political realities (Bennett 2010; Simard 2021). In his book Fossil Capital, Malm (2016) traces the origins of contemporary climate change to the simultaneous emergence of global capitalism. As growing demands for fuel (first coal, then oil) spurred processes of imperialism and colonialism, resource-rich landscapes around the world were transformed into new frontiers of extractive capitalism. Consequently, relational land-based practices rooted in these landscapes were violently supplanted by capitalist worldviews that rearticulated landscape as resources that could be controlled and exploited. As climate change transforms landscapes in Canadaâs boreal regionâand elsewhereâdesigners are presented with a rare opportunity to rethink these foundational human-environment interrelationships. However, as the MCDC and the BCB demonstrate, well-intentioned designers seeking to intervene in remote landscapes too often fall victim to the pitfalls of double vision. I do not mean to suggest that architects and landscape architects should abandon their tools and methods of site analysis, nor should they reject the possibilities offered by innovative digital technologies of landscape visualization. All modes of perception and representation exist within genealogies of power and ideology and, as a result, every visualization depicts the world through a partial perspective. Instead, I suggest that designers must recognize the forms of double vision that blur their ability to see landscapes through multiple perspectives and positionalities. By grounding our designs in place-based relations (as opposed to abstract digital and cartographic data), architects and landscape architects might envision landscape futures beyond the violent discourse of resources. 87 Chapter 3: Planetary Voyeurism At the back of the dâHarnoncourt Gallery in the Philadelphia Museum of Art, visitors will find a dim hallway sealed shut by a plaster wall. In the center of the wall is a pair of antique wooden doors ringed with brick. But the doors are locked, and there is no obvious way to open them. Confused, some visitors will turn away and resume browsing the gallery. But a careful observer might notice two small holes drilled at eye-level through the center of the doorway. The wood around the holes is worn smooth, presumably by the foreheads of previous visitors who peered through. Everything about the scene entices the visitor to take a look: the odd dead-end hallway, the old wooden doors, and the mystery of what lies beyond them. The visitor might feel apprehensive about touching the doors and violating gallery etiquette, but their curiosity is piqued. After a furtive glance behind their shoulder to make sure no one is watching, the visitor brings their face to the door and peeks through. Through the peepholes, the visitor sees a stone wall smashed open to reveal the nude body of a woman lying in a thicket. Her face is hidden by a lock of blonde hair, but her pale and oddly malformed body is otherwise exposed. In her left hand, she holds up a small gas lamp that emits a faint orange glow. Behind the woman there is a waterfall that flows into a small pool set within a forested landscape. Despite signs of apparent trauma, the scene is eerily calm. Alarmed, the visitor pulls their face away from the door, unsure about what they have just seen. Is the tableau transgressive, or the scene of a crime? After the initial shock has passed, the visitor might choose to walk away, but perhaps their desire to know more will persuade them to take a second look. It is in this moment that their desire to look changes from innocent curiosity to incipient 88 voyeurism. Called to bear witness to a catastrophe behind a mysterious door, but unable to participate or intervene, the visitor must satisfy their desires through observation alone. These paragraphs describe an encounter with Marcel Duchampâs (1966) artwork entitled Ãtant donnés: 1° la chute d'eau, 2° le gaz d'éclairage... (Figure 3.1; In English: Given: 1. The Waterfall, 2. The Illuminating Gas, or simply Ãtant donnés). Duchampâs work has been widely discussed and critiqued from a variety of perspectives, including important feminist critiques that expose the work as an apparatus of the male gaze (Haladyn 2016; Jones 1994; Zabunyan 2012). Ãtant donnés beckons us to behold the scene of a catastrophe, and in turn transforms our curiosity to know into a voyeuristic desire to watch. The scene, of course, is completely artificial: Duchamp skillfully manipulates light, shadow, and foreshortening to fabricate a tableau that feels disturbingly realistic. Yet we do not realize (or care) that the myopic view provided by the doorway disguises a trompe-l'Åil: the peepholes conveniently facilitate observation, and this partial view satisfies our need to look, transforming the viewer into a voyeuristic spectator. Figure 3.1 Woman peering through peephole of Ãtant donnés: 1° la chute d'eau, 2° le gaz d'éclairage... by Marcel Duchamp (1966). Image credit: New York Times. 89 In revisiting Duchampâs artwork, my intention is to develop an analogy for contemporary methods of observing and depicting the Anthropocene. I am particularly concerned with the methods and techniques used by geographers and landscape architects; specifically, the smooth digital spaces of geospatial data and computational representation. I coin the term planetary voyeurism to describe the (unintended) consequences of abstract visualizations of environmental impacts. In my analogy, the large and small catastrophes of the Anthropocene are represented by Duchampâs tableau, digital technologies of global environmental perception are represented by the doorway and its peepholes, and we (geographers, landscape architects, and others engaged in the visualization of Earth) are the voyeurs. The word voyeur is a relatively recent addition to the English language, thought to have entered the language from the French root word voir (meaning âto seeâ) in the early twentieth century (OED n.d.). My intention in this chapter is to ground my analogy in the original French meaning of the word, referring to someone who surreptitiously observes something that is generally considered to be private and intimate. However, by invoking the concept of voyeurism, it is important to acknowledge the additional sexual connotations that have been ascribed to English meaning of the word via Freudian psychoanalytic theory. In this definition, a voyeur refers to someone who obtains sexual gratification by observing unsuspecting individuals; longstanding feminist scholarship his connected this definition to the concept of the male gaze and the objectification and victimization of women (Mulvey 1989). As a result, it is possible to interpret my analogy through a gender-based perspective wherein the degraded landscapes of the Anthropocene are equated with a passive female identity that is rendered as the victimized pleasure-object of a perverse masculine observer. 90 This interpretation, rooted in the English definition of voyeur, is not my intention in crafting my analogy. However, it raises a number of important critiques and extensions of the planetary voyeurism concept, the first of which concerns the identity and agency of the viewer. As feminist standpoint scholarship has demonstrated, it is critical to interpret scenes of environmental degradation from multiple vantage points in order to reveal how certain narratives of reality (including the Anthropocene concept) are constructed and reinforced through hegemonic male-biased perspectives that subordinate other ways of seeing and understandingâand hence intervening in the world (DâIgnazio and Klein 2020; Harding 2004). How might different viewers observe and interpret Duchampâs tableau through their own forms of situated knowledge (Haraway 1988; 2015), or through intersectional dimensions of identity and privilege (Mirzoeff 2011)? Will all viewers be uniformly interpellated as passive voyeurs, or might different positions of observation lead to more proactive thoughts and actions? In my analogy, the possible reactions of the planetary voyeur are limited by their presumptive desire to observe; however, in the absence of this desire, more radical alternatives are possible (for instance, the viewer also has agency to call for help, or to try breaking down the door). The second critique concerns the myopic perspective afforded by the doorway and its peepholes, which limit the field of observational possibilities to a single individual. This singular perspective reflects the universalizing viewpoint afforded by digital technologies such as Google Earth and Google Street View, which reduce the multisensorial complexity of the world to visual images mediated by opaque algorithms of data collection. However, my analogy does not assume that such images are perceived by a single, universal viewer, but rather that the highly abstracted visualizations of the Anthropocene are subject to simultaneous interpretations from multiple viewers. I argue that these plural and potentially contradictory perspectives are a 91 strength, and not a limitation of the planetary voyeurism concept. As Haraway (1988) suggests, acknowledging the contingency of oneâs perspective on the world reaffirms the contestable nature of individual knowledge claims, and contributes to the formation of a collective knowledge that is more democratic than knowledge grounded in claims to so-called neutral objectivity. Furthermore, foregrounding viewpoints that have been rendered subordinate to dominant paradigms of visuality (i.e. white, male, and heterosexual perspectives) can challenge the colonial and patriarchal power structures that underwrite the contemporary climate emergency, and enable more just and inclusive ways of imagining and depicting possible futures. Why do I invoke this analogy? Because, I argue, it reveals something important about environmental visualizations that have now become ubiquitous and increasingly powerful. Over the past decade, innovative digital technologies such as satellites, drones, and distributed environmental sensing networks, combined with ever-cheaper cloud-based computing, have enabled geographers and designers to âseeâ environmental changes on a planetary scale. This trend has only accelerated over the course of the COVID-19 pandemic as personal and professional life has become increasingly mediated by digital information and surfaces. An unprecedented amount of geodata is now available, at rapidly decreasing cost (Adams 2019; Ash, Kitchen and LeszczyÅski 2018; Cantrell and Holzman 2016; Gabrys 2016). These data have enabled a broad range of innovative visualization techniques to represent complex patterns of human impacts upon Earth. Those developing these visualizations are often well-intentioned, seeking to draw attention to the catastrophic effects of the Anthropocene. But when we visualize Earth, which perspectives do we privilege, and what perceptions and actions do these visualizations enable? Global environmental change trendsâsuch as unchecked carbon emissions or biodiversity 92 lossâhave become focal points for geographers and landscape architects who seek to represent and intervene in processes of ecological degradation (De Block 2016). I query the visualizations that are mobilized in response to that desire; specifically, I caution that technologically-mediated ways of seeing and perceiving global environmental change, while certainly valuable and informative, often arise from and/or produce an unintended voyeurism. In this chapter, I offer the concept of planetary voyeurism in order to spark a dialogue about how visual practices of abstraction and aestheticization might obscure the intimate and variegated dimensions of the Anthropocene. Where might planetary voyeurism be encountered? I argue that we can observe this concept in recent trends in geographic and landscape architectural visualization and discourse. One example is recent writing on the concept of planetary urbanism and its predilection for top-down, orthographic visualizations that imply a comprehensive planetary perspective (Brenner, 2014). Similar trends can be seen in visualizations produced under the banner of landscape urbanism, landscape infrastructure, and cognate fieldsâincluding human geography (Bélanger 2009; Waldheim 2016). Across these disciplines, scholars and practitioners utilize visualizations of complex socioecological relationships to guide the analysis, planning, design and, more rarely, construction of eco-technical environments. The implicit purpose of these visualizations is to translate our contemporary moment of crisis (i.e. the Anthropocene) into a site for action: âsomething we must take responsibility for, something we can designâ (Weller 2019). The images produced through planetary voyeurism are simultaneously beautiful, abstract, and authoritative (Figure 3.2). They convey an impression of omniscience and technocratic expertise that can be leveraged to legitimize designed interventions in a landscape. Alexander (2014) broadly characterizes these images as âneo-naturalist,â in which the traditional sources of 93 design inspiration have been replaced by a new evidentiary regime grounded in quantitative data. I build upon Alexanderâs argument to suggest that digital visual technologies not only provide a new lexicon for designers and geographers, but also actively interpellate viewers as passive witnesses to catastrophe. Planetary voyeurism implicates the viewer in âwantingâ (and hence âreinforcingâ) the Anthropocene as a primarily human creation, as well as a knowable and therefore controllable condition. Figure 3.2 Representative visualization enabling planetary voyeurism. Image credit: Harvard Graduate School of Design Urban Theory Lab. 94 This is not an entirely new phenomenon. The material and discursive power of environmental visualizations is a longstanding focus of critical geographic and landscape architectural inquiry (consider, for example, the role of cartography in rendering landscapes legible to colonization, regulation, and resource extraction) (Cosgrove 2012). However, the ubiquity of innovative digital technologies coupled with the existential threats posed by climate change appears to have produced a new and urgent impulse to visualize in order to exert control. I suggest that this impulse derives from a voyeuristic desire to find and observe the messy spaces of environmental catastrophe so as to render such spaces technical and sanitized (Li 2007; Robbins and Moore 2013). Through our efforts to visualize and ameliorate the effects of the Anthropocene, geographers and designers risk committing a secondary act of violence by erasing the multiple dimensions of knowledge and identity that cannot be captured through digital data alone. The absence of relationality in these visual abstractions recalls the masculinist gaze of Duchampâs artwork. Planetary voyeurism purports to illuminate our present condition, but there is much that it also obscures. Art historian Irmgard Emmelheinz (2018) argues that the Anthropocene does not inaugurate a new image of the world, but rather âa radical change in the conditions of visuality.â To illustrate this point, I situate contemporary digital visual technologies within a broad historical arc of militarized sight. Many of the technologies now common in geography and design (such as GIS and remote sensing) originated within the military as a way to perceive and support interventions in an enemy territory. These technologies have long since migrated to civilian applications, but their social and cultural resonance as tools of surveillance, discipline, and control continue to exert a powerful influence (Monahan 2018). For example, aerial drones designed for combat operations have been repurposed to conduct landscape surveillance for 95 environmental conservation (Adams 2019). Automated (or semi-automated) drones can easily outpace the speed and territorial coverage of a human on foot, and provide a wealth of geodata for designers and cartographers. However, as Gregory (2011) has demonstrated, the use of drone technology for landscape surveillance reconstitutes environmental conservation under a scopic regime of militarized sight. Multispectral data collected by the drone provides an âobjectiveâ basis for interventions in a landscape, while multispecies relations on the ground are rendered invisible by the droneâs limited perceptual capabilities (to say nothing of the heterogeneous ontologies that also exist on the land) (Escobar 2018). But who empowers digital information as the basis for designed interventions in the material world? How are our attempts to mitigate the effects of the Anthropocene conditioned by our technologically-mediated perceptions? We can observe how planetary voyeurism operates in architecture and landscape architecture through visual techniques of resilient design. The concept of resilience has emerged as a prominent discourse through which the acute effects of the Anthropocene can be triaged through landscape interventions, such as green infrastructure (SCAPE 2019). Just as the threat of attack is used to justify military action, resilience requires the presence of an imminent but unrealized catastrophe in order to legitimize preventative interventions in a landscape. And so, we turn to digital visual technologies to find and identify these threats (i.e. biodiversity loss, sea level rise, deforestation, etc.) in order to stage our tactical interventions (be it a designed landscape, an infrastructure, or a research article). This is not to suggest that the threats themselves are not real; on the contrary. However, I argue that digital visual technologies transform how we see and relate to the world around us, enabling yet simultaneously constraining our ability to perceive ecological relationships, and imagine alternative political and material worlds. Hence, I query the desire to visualize the Anthropocene as a pervasive and 96 imminent threat without also interrogating the âactors, objects, practices, discourses and affects that entrain the people who are made part of it and constitute them as particular kinds of subjectsâ (Gregory 2011, 196) I do not mean to suggest that the solution to planetary voyeurism is simply to power down our digital devices, or reject technologically-mediated modes perception in favor of a romantic return-to-nature. Moreover, I recognize that by framing planetary voyeurism through an analogy to Duchampâs Ãtant donnés, I risk being misinterpreted as invoking a distinction between experience and representation of the natural world; hence, it might be possible to misread my critique of planetary voyeurism as a rejection of digital visual technologies. I do not seek to tacitly uphold a false binary between visual representation and embodied experiences of nature. Rather, my intention is to advocate for modes of multi-sensorial representation that transcend the representation/experience binary. In other words, I want to dismantle Duchampâs door. What do I mean by âmulti-sensorialâ modes of representation? Imagine walking through a forest. Recall the feeling of dappled light on your skin, and the fresh smell of leaves and buds unfurling in the sun. What produces that scent? Terpenes. Trees are natureâs master perfumers, and each tree produces a unique mix of terpenesâa class of volatile organic compoundsâwhich act like signals. Trees use terpenes to fulfil a variety of needs: to summon insect bodyguards to fend off predators, to control air temperature (some terpenes can seed clouds and cool the forest), attract pollinators, fight infections, and even warn neighboring trees of pest invasions. Each tree 97 acts as its own pharmacy, dispensing medicine as needed.10 Terpenes are not only useful for trees; they are also valuable for humans. When we walk through a forest and inhale terpenes, measurable effects are produced in our bodies. For example, terpenes are antibacterial. Research demonstrates that they are effective in combating respiratory tract pathogens, E. coli, and in breast cancer chemoprevention. Scientists also argue that terpenes are neuroprotective: they act as chemical modulators of nervous system damage, helping protect and regenerate nerve cells (Burt and Reinders 2003). Inhaling the scent of trees re-makes us at the cellular level. Just as the act of speaking facilitates human connection through linguistic abstraction (making use of our sense of hearing and mobilizing air to transmit sound waves), terpenes constitute an arboreal mode of communication through biochemical signaling (making use of our sense of smell and mobilizing air to transmit volatile organic compounds).11 Terpenes are thus an example of a multi-sensorial mode of communication that transcends the limited perceptual range of digital visual technologies, which rely on the sense of sight. This example illustrates an important point for scholars engaged in representing the Anthropocene: our experience of forests is multi-sensorial and embodied, but our representations of those same forests impacted by the Anthropocene are largely visual and disembodied. For example, trees affected by climate change emit different, or fewer terpenes maladapted to new pests and predators in dynamic anthropogenically-influenced processes of ecological change. 10 This is an insight long recognized in Indigenous knowledge, and which Western science is recently (re)discovering (Ghirardo et al. 2010; Kimmerer 2013). 11 Trees also communicate in other ways, for example through mycorrhizal networks. See: (Selosse et al. 2003; Simard 2006; Simard 2021). 98 Visual representations can capture only part of this complex set of processes, which are olfactory (and indeed sometimes sonified) as well as visual. Skeptical readers may ask: by emitting terpenes, are trees engaging in self-representation? To begin to formulate an answer, consider Aldo Leopoldâs (1949) famous question: âhow do mountains think?â In exploring responses to this question, Wenzel (2014) reminds us of the dangers of imposing anthropocentric qualities onto the non-human world. Through her critique of literary personification, Wenzel cautions against modes of representation that evacuate the radical alterity of nature in order to substitute it with human values, intentions, and desires. This sleight of hand, she argues, is profoundly un-ecological: in seeking to acknowledge the agency of non-humans, human modes of representation may (ironically) obscure natureâs autonomy. I argue that planetary voyeurism is guilty of this fallacy. By envisioning Earth as an object that can be seen and understood in its entirety, planetary voyeurism occludes the possibility of natureâs autonomy. In this way, it appears to empower designers and geographers to âseeâ the catastrophic effect of the Anthropocene. Yet by privileging the visual apprehension of environmental degradation over more relational and multi-sensorial forms of knowledge, planetary voyeurism reduces the designer or geographer to a detached voyeur: all-knowing, all-seeing, yet sensing little or nothing. It would be unfair of me to critique planetary voyeurism on the grounds that it over-simplifies complex socio-natural relations through visual representation. Indeed, all modes of representation require some degree of abstraction and simplification (whether in the form of digital data, vocalized language, or terpenes released into the air). Rather, I offer this analogy to draw attention to the risks of reducing natureâs representational agency to questions of metaphor or aesthetics. I have also drawn a distinction between planetary voyeurismâs technical 99 visualizations versus embodied forms of multi-sensory apprehension. Our vast geospatial datasets and powerful computational tools convince us of our ability to experience and âknowâ the world through technologically-mediated vision. But in many instances this experience is uni-dimensional. Digital visualizations require us to simplify and abstract the vibrant materiality of the world. They deny us the biophysical presence and radical otherness of the non-human. In this sense, I eschew conventional forms of digital visualization not to assert the superiority of ânature experienceâ over representation (thereby invoking a false binary). Rather, I seek to provoke a dialogue about how we might deploy technical intermediaries to more fully engage with modalities of multi-sensorial representation and distributed agency. Why does this matter? My concern is that, like the Greek pharmakon that provides both a remedy and a poison, the production of endless visualizations of environmental catastrophes satisfies our desire to confront the Anthropocene, yet redirects creative attention away from the critical task of designing a more just and sustainable future. I challenge the belief that more complex visualizationsâmore technology, more sensors, more dataâwill produce a deeper understanding of environmental change. Calling for more data merely depoliticizes the Anthropocene as a primarily technical challenge. This depoliticization is, I argue, so ubiquitous as to seem entirely unremarkable; we often overlook the ironic fact that digital visual techniques developed by industrial sectors to extract resources and architect the technosphere are the same ones used by planetary voyeurs to apprehend, depict, and engage with processes of ecological degradation (Goldcorp 2019). My reference to Duchampâs artwork at the outset raises several questions. Will future generations feel a similar sense of unease when they look at our visualizations of environmental degradation? Will the inherent violence, anthropocentrism, and speciesism embedded in our 100 visualizations be as obvious in the future as the misogyny of Duchampâs artwork is to us today? Those who offer affirmative answers to these questions (as I do) might feel called upon to explore more integrative visual practices that âseeâ the Anthropocene in different ways. A lively debate over these issues has been underway in geography since the mid-1990s, and responses to these critiques have fundamentally altered the visual, technical, and intellectual trajectory of GIScience (leading, for example, to new techniques such as participatory GIS and counter-mapping) (Elwood 2006; Peluso 1995; Thatcher et al. 2016). Similar debates and parallel innovations can be found in contemporary landscape architectural discourse, but this difficult work is far from complete (Ganton et al. 2018; Raxworthy 2018). I am not suggesting that we should abandon the possibilities offered to us through emerging visual technologies. Rather, we must remain attentive to the fact that these technologies are cultural artifacts that interpellate us toward specific beliefs, attitudes, desires, and practices. Failure to acknowledge and contextualize the artifice of Anthropocene visualizations is tantamount to a kind of myopia. Furthermore, as feminist scholarship on visuality has made abundantly clear, images of the Anthropocene can inadvertently reinforce patriarchal and colonial narratives of environmental degradation that subordinate other essential perspectives, and limit the possibilities for alternative futures grounded in practices of care and reciprocity. I offer this critique of planetary voyeurism as a reminder that the Anthropocene manifests itself in many different ways: some large and spectacular, and others small, intimate, but nonetheless destructive. By stepping away from the technicianâs lens (or peephole) and into the vibrant materiality of the world, we might find that seeing through (and with) many different perspectives can transform how we view and value our earthly relationships. 101 Chapter 4: Visualizing Water-Energy Nexus Landscapes 4.1 Introduction Over the past decade, the water-energy nexus (WEN) has emerged as a prominent framework with which to analyze interconnections between water use, energy generation, and other variables such as land, food, climate change, and environmental security (Leese and Meisch 2015; Rasul and Sharma 2016). Conceptually, the WEN refers to an environmental governance strategy that assumes trade-offs between resource sectors (for example, water for biofuel production versus water for agricultural production), and seeks to problematize conflictual trade-offs (e.g. climate change mitigation versus food security in situations of limited water availability). Policymakers often refer to the WEN in order to optimize sustainable development pathways through integrated planning across distinct, yet fundamentally interconnected resource sectors. A core methodological pillar of WEN analyses is the use of visualizations. Visual representations play a crucial role in shaping our understanding of the movement of water and energy within hydrological cycles and infrastructural systems. These flows are often invisible (such as âembodiedâ or âvirtualâ stocks of water and energy embedded in global commodities trading) and unfold across spatial and temporal scales that exceed humansâ perceptual capabilities. As a result, WEN visualizations provide an essential tool to illustrate complex flows of water and energy and guide sustainable resource policymaking (Harold et al. 2016). Indeed, visualizations are as central to WEN analysis as they are to analyses of the hydrological cycle more generally. 102 Through the use of visualizations, nexus scholarship has made important contributions to ongoing debates concerning water use and governance. However, in this chapter I argue that the spatial, temporal, and hydrosocial dimensions of the WEN are often elided or overlooked in contemporary visualizations.12 The result, I argue, is that many WEN analyses oversimplify hydrosocial processes and relationships into a simplified ledger accounting of resource inputs and outputs. In other words, as with other modes of visual abstraction, WEN visualizations are susceptible to disciplinary biases, methodological blind-spots, and representational inaccuracies that have material implications for how water and energy resources are utilized and managed (Abbot et al. 2019; Fantini 2020). This argument is similar to, but distinct from Abbott et al.âs (2019) recent analysis of depictions of the global water cycle, which identified significant gaps in visual representations: notably, the absence of human activity despite human domination of the global water cycle. This chapter addresses key analytical gaps in WEN scholarship through a meta-review of over 500 unique WEN visualizations found in the interdisciplinary academic literature. I argue that current trends in WEN visualizations are symptomatic of a broader tendency in nexus scholarship to deny the hydrosocial and embodied dimensions of landscapes and places, and to recast landscapes as a neutral terrain for technocratic interventions (Wilson et al. 2019). Specifically, I suggest that in seeking to more accurately depict the WEN through statistical and computational analyses, WEN visualizations risk obscuring forms of situated knowledge 12 Nexus approaches have also been the subject of additional academic criticism, ranging from their perceived lack of methodological innovation (Albrecht et al. 2018) to their technocratic fetishization of âintegrativeâ environmental governance (Williams et al. 2019), and the pitfalls of using the nexus as a simplistic buzzword (Cairns and Krzywoszynska 2016). 103 (Haraway 1988), including socio-natural relationships and local power dynamics. As a result, the place-based dimensions of WEN visualizations remain relatively under-investigated. In making this argument, I am not suggesting that contemporary scholarship on the hydrosocial cycle, sociohydrology, place, and landscape offers a panacea to the challenges facing nexus scholarship. Landscape is a fraught and often exclusionary concept that has historically marginalized non-Western perspectives and spatial traditions (Friess and Jazeel 2017). Furthermore, longstanding theories and practices of landscape representation are currently being reassessed in the context of digital technologies of environmental observation and computational modes of image production (Leszczynski 2019; Ãelik Alexander and May 2020). Rather, I seek to offer a nuanced critique of water-energy nexus landscape visualizations as a means of deepening and advancing interdisciplinary debates on the WEN. This chapter proceeds as follows: in Section 4.2, I examine the relationship between contemporary landscape visualizations and the conceptual development of the WEN, and trace this relationship through recent approaches to WEN visualization. In Section 4.3, I assess the relationship between landscape and the WEN through a meta-review of 503 water-energy nexus visualizations sourced from 336 scholarly articles. Lastly, in Section 4.4, I turn to contemporary scholarship on landscape representation to formulate a set of recommendations to help guide the production of more theoretically-informed nexus visualizations grounded in three concepts: spatiality, temporality, and hydrosociality. 4.2 Water-Energy Nexus Visualizations and the Question of Hydrosociality At their core, nexus approaches to resource governance seek to maximize beneficial synergies and minimize negative externalities, while also improving resource-use efficiency and 104 security. Initially, nexus approaches focused on the optimization of physical infrastructures and supply chains (Hoff 2011), whereas more recent work has broadened to include social, institutional, financial, and ecological variables (Leck et al. 2015; Bleischwitz et al. 2017; Kurian 2017). This expanded scope has fostered productive interdisciplinary collaboration, but it has also introduced greater complexity into the production of WEN visualizations. Visualizations play a central role in shaping our understanding of the water-energy nexus, as they represent complex spatial and temporal relationships, such as linkages between human activity, biophysical processes, and technical systems. However, all visualizations depend upon some degree of abstraction that can lead to potential misrepresentation or misinterpretation. For example, visual representations of the global water cycle routinely overrepresent the availability of freshwater resources and often fail to depict the full impact of human activities on hydrological systems (Abbott et al. 2019). These misrepresentations obscure humansâ influence over the global water cycle and have the potential to exacerbate water resource mismanagement. Limited data availability and aesthetic preferences can also influence how water resources are visualized, and can propagate broad societal misconceptions about global water quality and availability (Cardak 2009; Harold et al. 2016). I suggest these deficiencies can be traced back to the notion of the WEN as both an analytical concept and as web of hydrosocial interrelationships embedded in physical landscapes. WEN landscapes are fluid and multiscalar, and hence difficultâif not impossibleâto holistically quantify and describe. For instance, a systematic review of the tools and methods employed in nexus research identified 44 distinct methodologies across a broad range of academic disciplines (Albrecht et al. 2018). These fragmented methodologies âfrequently fall short of capturing interactions among water [and] energyâ¦the very linkages they conceptually 105 purport to addressâ (Albrecht et al. 2018, 1). Other studies have labelled the nexus as an immature mode of environmental analysis in which important debates have yet to be resolved (Chang et al. 2016; Klenk and Meehan 2015). I argue that this idea of the WEN as an abstract and controllable space (as opposed to a physical and, to some degree, unpredictable sociohydrological landscape) stems, in part, from the recent proliferation of environmental sensing technologies and computational approaches to landscape visualization (Bakker and Ritts 2018). Digital visualizations can facilitate unprecedented precision in viewing the real-time movement of living beings, water, capital, and raw materials across a landscape which, in theory, can highlight opportunities for improved resource-use efficiency (Kitchin 2014). Whereas earlier generations of resource visualizations depicted sociohydrological processes as stable, predictable cycles (Abbot et al. 2019), contemporary nexus visualizations depict water-energy landscapes as fluid, inefficient systems in need of optimization (Wilson et al. 2019). Those who seek to advance the nexus concept must therefore grapple with the challenge of how to collect, synthesize, and communicate vast amounts of dynamic digital data pertinent to the WEN, including socio-economic, ecological, and climatological data. As I discuss in this chapter, this work is often performed through static visualizations such as graphs, diagrams, maps, and illustrations. The recent proliferation of WEN visualizations has prompted discussions on the methodological and semiotic challenges inherent in their production (Soundararajan 2014; Alemasoom 2016; Yang and Wi 2018). However, these discussions tend to focus on technical aspects of landscape modelling to the exclusion of place-based knowledge that may evadeâor resistâabstraction as digital data (Friess and Jazeel 2017; Haraway 1988; Kimmerer 2013). 106 One prominent attempt to codify the production of WEN visualizations is the US Department of Energyâs Energy-Water Nexus Knowledge Discovery Framework (EWN-KDF). This framework represents a collaborative effort between state, academic, and institutional partners to mobilize technological innovations toward new modes of digital environmental observation and visualization (Bhaduri et al. 2018). According to the EWN-KDF, the central challenge currently facing the WEN is not the ambiguous definitional nature of water-energy landscapes, but the âexponential growth in the volume, acquisition rate, variety, and complexity of scientific dataâ used to describe the WEN, including âdistributed geospatial Earth science and critical infrastructure data, socioeconomic data, and emergent ad-hoc sensor dataâ (Bhaduri et al. 2018, 17). This explosion in the quantity and variety of data relevant to the WEN reflects a broader shift in global environmental governance toward the use of Smart Earth technologies, Big Data analytics, and machine learning (Kitchin 2014; Bakker and Ritts 2018; UNEP 2020). Within this literature, visualizations are often positioned as the most effective way to synthesize and communicate vast amounts of data to heterogeneous audiences engaged in resource use planning and management (OâNeill et al. 2017; Allen et al. 2018; UNEP 2020). Innovative technologies of landscape visualization thus have the potential to greatly enhance our ability to observe and intervene in dynamic landscapes of water and energy and, by extension, can help disrupt conventional and unsustainable practices of resource governance. However, these technologies also pose novel risks. Currently, representational issues in WEN scholarship are primarily framed as technical challenges which reduce âthe complex nature of landscapeâ¦ to phenomena that can be mapped and explained in terms of quantitative, nomothetic, generalizing scienceâ (Vicenzotti 2017, 81). I believe this poses a significant threat to the conceptual development of the WEN by directing critical attention away from the politics 107 of resource representation; consider, for example, the long-standing complicity between mapping, colonialism, and extractivism (Li 2014; Baka 2017; McCarthy and Thatcher 2019). In the absence of these considerations, WEN visualizations risk perpetuating a reductive conception of water-energy landscapes as abstract, depoliticized spaces readily amenable to forms of technical control (Wilson et al. 2019). In so doing, they simplify and occlude the complex political and sociohydrological dimensions of the WEN. In making this argument, I draw from scholarship on hydrosocial theory and sociohydrology (Budds and McDonnell 2014; di Baldassarra 2013; Linton 2014; Pande and Sivapalan 2017). Scholars studying water in both the social and natural sciences have developed the concept of the hydrosocial cycle as an alternative to the hydrological cycle. The former, in contrast to the latter, explicitly acknowledges and seeks to incorporate human impacts on (and indeed human dominance over) water. The hydrosocial cycle may be defined as an expanded hydrological cycle, including abstraction, use, and disposal of water by humans. Analyses of the hydrosocial cycle thus trace water flows through human uses (e.g. drinking water, water use in oil and gas extraction, irrigation water) as well as ecosystems, atmospheric, and marine processes. Urban hydrosocial analyses, for example, examine water treatment plants, distribution networks, and amenity uses of surface water. The hydrosocial cycle is, in other words, a socio-natural process whereby water and human societies continuously interact and are mutually co-constitutive. Sociohydrology is an emerging interdisciplinary science which studies the interactions of humans and water, deploying the hydrosocial cycle as a foundational concept. Building on Integrated Water Resources Management and eco-hydrology, sociohydrologists argue that hydrologists should expand their analyses of water systems in a fashion that includes human 108 action as an integral component of water cycle dynamics, rather than as an external force. Coupled humanâwater systems co-evolve: the state of the water system feeds back into the human system, and vice versa. This âtwo-way couplingâ requires us to reject stationary models of hydrology and explore the co-evolution of waterscapes, landscapes, and human societies as twinned dynamic systems. It is impossible to predict water cycle dynamics (particularly over longer time periods) without considering interactions and feedbacks among natural and human components of the water system. Research into the production of sociohydrological landscapes mirrors literature on the geographical and socio-technical production of energy landscapes (Bridge and Gailing 2020; Meadowcroft 2009). These landscapes are defined through the material accumulation of infrastructures and biophysical transformations associated with historical patterns of energy production and consumption (Castán Broto 2019), including the social and cultural values attached to them (Haarstad and Wanvik 2016). Similar to research on hydrosociality, this literature broadly frames energy systems as landscape-making processes, articulated through spatially-differentiated dynamics of uneven development, capital accumulation, and political contestation (Kuchler and Bridge 2018; Smith 1984; Turnheim and Geels 2018). Energy scholars argue that landscapes co-evolve alongside changing technological systems and asymmetrical social and political power dynamics. As Baka and Vaishnava (2020) observe, a significant amount of energy landscape research is devoted to the study of visual representations of these complex socio-spatial dynamics. Often, this is accomplished through cartographic and photographic techniques (Apostol et al. 2016; Calvert et al. 2019; Pasqualetti et al. 2002), or through visualizations of place-based attitudes and opinions regarding the siting of energy projects (Devine-Wright and Batel 2017; Sherren et al. 2016). 109 How could WEN scholarship be advanced through insights from sociohydrology, the concept of the hydrosocial cycle, and theorizations of energy landscapes? I argue that WEN analyses in general (and WEN visualizations in particular) could be expanded by incorporating the concept of hydrosocial landscapes (Budds et al. 2014; Friess and Jazeel 2017; Pande and Sivapalan 2017). These landscapes include biophysical configurations of land, water, labour, people, and capital, as well as the spatial, temporal, and relational interconnections between these entities (Massey 2004; Massey 2005). Why is the term âlandscapeâ helpful? Because, I suggest, the terms ânexusâ and âlandscapeâ already share significant conceptual overlap. For example, nexus research often invokes a âlandscape approachâ to evaluate cumulative environmental impacts (DeFries and Rosenzwieg 2010), as a guide for financial investment (Bizikova et al. 2013), or as a framework to reconcile competing land uses (Sayer et al. 2013). I therefore suggest that contemporary nexus scholarshipâand WEN visualizations specificallyâwould benefit from deeper engagement with parallel interdisciplinary research on concepts of landscape and place. In making this argument, I do not mean to suggest that the âhydrosocial landscapeâ and the âwater-energy nexusâ are equivalent terms; on the contrary, I caution that the casual interchangeability between landscape and nexus in the current literature obscures important points of distinction. Furthermore, recent writing on hydrosocial theory suggest how the concept of landscape might be reinvigorated in ways that are pertinent and valuable to WEN scholarship (Friess and Jazeel, 2017). I welcome this call for renewed engagement with landscape and offer three axioms to guide my review and analysis of WEN visualizations: 1) hydrosocial landscapes contain multiple, intersecting spatialities and spatial scales; 2) hydrosocial landscapes contain 110 simultaneous and overlapping temporalities; and 3) hydrosocial landscapes are constituted through relational processes that unfold across space and time. 4.3 WEN Visualization Approaches and Methods 4.3.1 Meta-review of WEN visualizations 4.3.1.1 Methodology My analysis is based on a meta-review of visualizations sourced from the academic literature on the water-energy nexus. I began this meta-review by conducting a search on the Web of Science using the terms âwater energy nexusâ with and without hyphenation. This initial search yielded 842 unique results. A preliminary scan was conducted to remove non-peer reviewed documents (such as patents and schematics), as well as articles not written in English. The abstracts of the remaining 711 articles were manually reviewed to determine whether or not they focused specifically on the WEN to the exclusion of other resource inputs, such as food or land. My rationale for excluding additional resource inputs was to produce a focused review of visualization techniques specific to landscapes of water and energy; further analysis of the methodologies used to visualize other resource inputs offers a potential avenue for future research. This secondary scan reduced the total number of articles to 413. I then constructed a database of the visualizations found within each article. Of the 413 articles reviewed, 336 (81 percent) contained at least one visualization of the WEN. I used Appleâs Automator application to extract these images from the article PDFs. The results of this extraction were manually verified to remove duplicate images, and any images not automatically recognized by the application were copied into the database by hand. Text-based visualizations (i.e. mathematical equations) were also removed. This resulted in a total of 503 unique images. 111 The images collected in the database were manually reviewed, and each was given a numerical code based on the criteria outlined in Table 4.1. I developed a coding scheme to capture visual representations of my landscape axioms, including spatial scale, time period, and change over time, and empirical basis (i.e. is an image conceptual, empirical, or both?). I also coded the visualizations based on their image typology, including diagrams (flow charts, Sankey diagrams, etc.), graphs (pie, chart, bar), cartographic images (maps, aerial imagery), and illustrative images (drawings, renderings). For each criterion, a null value was included to account for visualizations that did not clearly conform to the coding scheme. The 5-digit numerical codes assigned to each image were then aggregated and reassigned to their respective article (this was done to account for individual articles that included different kinds of visualizations; a single article could receive multiple numerical codes under each criterion). Lastly, the coded articles were paired with bibliometric data obtained from the Web of Science. With this information, I was able to identify visualization trends in the WEN literature. Spatial Scale Time Period Change over Time Image Typology Empirical Basis 0: Null 0: Null 0: Null 0: Null 0: Null 1: Site 1: <1 year 1: Yes 1: Diagrammatic 1: Conceptual 2: National 2: >1 to <5yr 2: No 2: Graphical 2: Quantitative 3: Continental 3: >5 to <10yr 3: Illustrative 3: Both 4: Global 4: >10yrs 4: Cartographic Table 4.1 Water-energy nexus visualization coding scheme. 112 4.3.1.2 Audiences My meta-review identified 139 different academic journals that have published articles featuring WEN visualizations. As seen in Figure 4.1, the number of scholarly articles on the WEN has steadily increased over the past decade. These articles are primarily published in journals that focus on the technical, institutional, and policy dimensions of water and energy, including (in order of descending frequency) the Journal of Cleaner Production, Applied Energy, Water, Environmental Research Letters, Science of the Total Environment, Energy, and Energy Policy. Given the diversity of journals publishing WEN visualizations, my review also sought to determine the types of images that appear most frequently in the literature. To do this, I conducted a bibliometric analysis of citations for each article in my databaseâa total of 7,957 citations. Figure 4.1 Number of water-energy nexus publications in the academic literature, 2008-2019. 113 This bibliometric analysis revealed a number of citation trends, which I summarize in Figure 4.2. Articles featuring atemporal visualizations were most frequently cited (90 percent of total citations). Articles featuring nonspatial visualizations accounted for 72 percent of total citations. With respect to image typology, 27 percent of citations refer to articles that utilize some combination of diagrammatic, graphical, cartographic, and/or illustrative techniques, closely followed by articles that solely utilize diagrammatic visualizations (25 percent of total citations). While it is tempting to draw certain inferences from this bibliometric analysis, it is difficult to determine whether these numbers reflect the inherent efficacy of different visualizationsâ ability to communicate information about the WEN, or if variances in citation count can be attributed to more practical factors. For example, there may be more diagrammatic images circulating in the literature simply because they are relatively more straightforward to produce than graphs, maps, or illustrations, which require specialized statistical, cartographic, and/or artistic training. 114 Figure 4.2 Bibliometric analysis of water-energy nexus citation trends. The vast majority of WEN articles are published by academics housed at large American research universities located regions with acute issues of water and energy scarcity; specifically, the University of California system (7.2 per cent of total publications) and the University of Texas system (5.9 per cent). However, it is worth noting that the WENâs visual discourse is also characterized by an extensive grey literature. Although images from the grey literature were not included in my database, their popularity merits a brief discussion. The WENâs non-academic visual discourse stems from an active network of international conferences, webinars, 115 workshops, and industrial journals supported by various state agencies and organizations. One prominent example is The Water, Energy and Food Security Resource Platform (https://www.water-energy-food.org/) funded by the European Union and the German Federal Ministry of Economic Cooperation and Development. The purpose of the Platform is to provide multidisciplinary audiences with access to WEN resources (including visualization tools and infographics), in addition to international WEN conferences and events. Similarly, the WaterEnergyNEXUS International Conference Seriesâfunded by the UNESCO World Water Association Programme, the International Water Association, and Springer Publishingâalso seeks to enhance technological cooperation between researchers and policymakers engaged in nexus-based environmental governance. Within the grey literature, visualizations are an important tool to enable the broad dissemination of the WEN concept to disparate audiences of researchers, policymakers, and stakeholders engaged in water governance and energy resource development. 4.3.2 Analysis My meta-review was designed to assess the extent to which contemporary WEN visualizations communicate core concepts of landscape defined by our axioms of spatiality, temporality, and hydrosociality. The most significant trend I observed in my analysis is the relative atemporality of WEN visualizations. Only 19 percent of the articles in my sample include visualizations that refer to a specific time period or to change over time. While many visualizations imply the passage of time (e.g. a flowchart depicting sequential linkages in an infrastructure network or commodity chain), these images are often decontextualized from their real-world setting. For instance, diagrammatic visualizations, such as Sankey diagrams (Figure 116 4.3), are the most common image typologyâthey appear in 59 percent of all articles reviewedâhowever they are also the least likely typology to explicitly depict temporality. (It is worth noting that, through the use of line weights, Sankey diagrams are able to convey information about scale, but these scalar relationships are highly abstracted). Graphical visualizations, such as histograms and line graphs, are the most likely to depict change over time. However, this is largely a by-product of their structure; temporal relationships are abstracted as variables along an x-y plane. Figure 4.3 Generalized Sankey diagram depicting flows of water use. Another trend I observed is the absence of spatial variables in WEN visualizations. Over half of the images that I analyzed (61 percent) make no reference to geographical space. Of the four image typologies we identified in my review, only cartographic visualizations are inherently spatial. However, they are the second least common image typology. When cartographic images do appear, they are paired with non-spatial graphs or diagrams 90 percent of the time. 117 Cartographic and illustrative images, such as maps and renderings, are predominantly used to provide high-level context to statistical and diagrammatic information. A common example is the use of simple linework maps superimposed with bar graphs or pie charts, where the viewer is meant to infer meaning based on the spatial arrangement of the pie charts in relation to the underlying map. Spatialized visualizations are most often drawn at the scale of the nexus site and its surrounding landscape (52 percent), however these images nearly always lack contextualizing information about the site itself, such as photographs or other ethnographic data. Despite the increasing availability and sophistication of digital visualization techniques, the majority of the images included in my database assume a detached âview from nowhereâ (Haraway 1988). I demonstrate these spurious spatial relationships in Figure 4.4 using data of water-energy landscapes of northeastern British Columbia, Canada. In this rhetorical image, hydraulic fracturing well pads are represented as blue dots proportionally scaled to their volume of water consumption. Underlying watershed management basins are shaded yellow in proportion to the cumulative volume of water withdrawn from them for hydraulic fracturing purposes. While the image suggests a spatial relationship between the number and density of hydraulic fracturing sites and cumulative water withdrawals, it fails to communicate more nuanced landscape impacts to environmental and socio-cultural processes, as well as other competing demands on water. 118 Figure 4.4 Representative âconventionalâ WEN visualization, drawing on the Authorsâ research on the water-energy nexus in northeastern British Columbia, Canada. Hydraulic fracturing sites are represented as blue dots proportionately scaled by volume of water consumed; underlying watershed management basins are shaded yellow in proportion to the cumulative volume of water withdrawn from them for hydraulic fracturing purposes. 119 Perhaps the most striking characteristic of contemporary WEN visualizations is their fundamental lack of hydrosociality. Despite the nexusâ claim to reveal complex socioecological interconnections, the vast majority of WEN visualizations depict water-energy nexus landscapes as abstract, depoliticized spaces: less than 2 percent of the articles examined depict the people or places impacted by the recommendations they propose. Sankey diagrams, for example, attempt to show interrelationships between different resource flows, but they often exclude human and environmental values, such as biodiversity or cultural and aesthetic attributes. By failing to represent nuanced socio-natural dimensions of water and energy, nexus visualizations often (inadvertently) frame water-energy landscapes as abstract technical systems requiring âoptimizationâ along narrowly-defined logistical terms (Williams et al. 2019). 4.3.3 Strengths My critique does not mean to imply that WEN visualizations are inherently pernicious, nor do I suggest that those who seek to represent the nexus are wilfully engaging in over-simplification. Rather, I offer these observations in the hopes of fostering a constructive dialogue toward new modes of image production that reflect the plural and indeterminate nature of hydrosocial landscapes. At the same time, I seek to showcase the unique strengths of nexus visualizations, including their conceptual utility across a wide range of geographic and disciplinary contexts. For example, WEN visualizations can translate complex hydrosocial interrelationships into comprehensible images. Unlike modernist approaches to resource governance, which view natural resources as compartmentalized sectors (Forest and Forest 2012), the WEN is grounded in the dynamic interplay between water and energy. Recent studies have demonstrated how water 120 use and energy generation are uniquely coupled across different spatial and temporal scales, and therefore require site-specific strategies to reconcile local concerns (i.e. water availability) with broader resource planning objectives (i.e. the transition to renewable energy sources) (Scott et al. 2011; Siddiqi and Anadon 2011; Conway et al. 2015). This ability to reveal site-specific interrelationships within hydrosocial landscapes is a defining characteristic of WEN visualizations, and perhaps their most valuable (albeit underdeveloped) contribution to environmental governance. Indeed, the nexusâ ability to synthesize linkages between society, capital, and the environment reflects long-standing conceptual and empirical work in political ecology, particularly with respect to the materiality of natural resources (Bakker and Bridge 2006) and the spatial politics of environmental justice and resource extraction (Cutter et al. 2000; Pulido 2000). I demonstrate one possible example of this approach in Figure 4.5, which depicts the same area as Figure 4.4, but with additional layers of contextualizing information. Hydraulic fracturing well pads are again represented as dots proportionately scaled to their volume of water consumption, however here they are coloured on a red-blue gradient based on their proximity to water-intensive agricultural lands. First Nations (FN) reserves and traditional territories (i.e. land reserved by the Canadian government for the use and occupancy of Indigenous peoples) have also been included alongside urbanized areas, revealing a complex landscape of competing demands on water for natural gas extraction, irrigation, ecological processes, and Indigenous traditional cultural practices. 121 Figure 4.5 Representative WEN landscape visualization, drawing on the Authorsâ research on the water-energy nexus in northeastern British Columbia, Canada. Hydraulic fracturing sites are represented as dots coloured on a red-blue gradient based on their proximity to water-intensive agricultural lands (shown in green). These sites are proportionately scaled based on their volume of water consumption. Urbanized areas and First Nations reserves (orange) are also depicted. 122 4.3.4 Limitations Despite the growing number of WEN publications (see Figure 4.1), the methodological development of nexus scholarship is largely constrained by existing disciplinary techniques (Keairns et al. 2016; Kling et al. 2017). â[F]ew new tools or methods have been developed specifically to address [WEN] linkagesâ (Albrecht et al. 2018, 6) beyond the normative methodologies used in environmental management and ecological economics. While a handful of studies propose novel approaches to nexus-based ecological modelling (Bekchanov and Lamers 2016) and participatory stakeholder engagement (De Strasser et al. 2016), there have been few relatively attempts to advance experimental or transdisciplinary methods. Furthermore, the viability of reproducible ânexus methodsâ remains uncertain given the high degree of variability across different water-energy landscapes (Albrecht et al. 2018). Building upon these methodological and epistemological limitations, I offer two additional critiques based on the results of our meta-review. My first critique addresses the ambiguous representational status of WEN visualizations. The vast majority of images included in our meta-review fall under conventional image typologies (maps, charts, diagrams, etc.). Despite the prevalence of these familiar typologies in the literature, I suggest that they are inadequate tools with which to represent the novel data architectures used to construct the WEN. According to May (2019), historical modes of visualization emerged through specific genealogies of technology and temporality: photography, for example, utilizes chemical and mechanical processes to capture light at a specific moment in time. Unlike drawing or photography, computational visualizations of digital dataâincluding the biophysical, financial, and demographic pertinent to the WENâdo not seek to represent the 123 world as a static entity, but instead offer âa presentation of the world [as] an automatic and up-to-date, real-time modelâ (May 2020, 231). This transition away from static representations of the Earth toward dynamic presentations of real-time resource flows constitutes a profound shift in the nature and function of environmental visualizations. Whereas earlier generations of resource visualizations depicted ecological processes as stable, predictable cycles (Abbott et al. 2019), WEN visualizations are designed to provide a snapshot of the dynamic movement of water, energy, and capital across space and time. Yet the dynamism and visual complexity of nexus visualizationsâperhaps best demonstrated by the intricate webs of Sankey and chord diagramsâdisguises a reductive understanding of landscapes as aggregations of discrete material inputs. Computational nexus visualizations depict the Earth as a statistical object in which socio-natural relations are reduced to a series of calculations and probabilistic outcomes (Wilson et al. 2019). Hence, nexus visualizations claim to offer an objective view onto water-energy nexus landscapes in order to facilitate sustainable planning and development; however, as demonstrated through work by feminist (Haraway 1988) and environmental justice scholars (Cutter et al. 2000; Pulido 2000), visual representations of landscapes are never politically or ideologically neutral. Rather, they are embedded within the intersectional power dynamics inherent to the image-maker, the image-viewer, and the context in which images are produced and interpreted (Kitchen and Dodge 2007). My second critique queries the computational models used to simulate nexus visualizations. Nearly all of the empirical case studies of the WEN included in my review acknowledge that it is difficultâif not impossibleâto comprehensively manage the sheer volume and heterogeneity of data required to accurately model water-energy nexus landscapes 124 (Chang et al. 2016; Miralles-Wilhelm 2016). Gaps in the data used to model the WEN can occur at multiple points, including a lack of baseline data, inconsistencies in data collection and data transparency, or structural issues regarding the classification and/or exclusion of marginalized populations (DâIgnazio and Klein 2020). While these limitations are occasionally discussed in the text accompanying a WEN visualization, they are rarely apparent in the images themselves. Consequently, nexus visualizations are often presented as stable and didactic depictions of real-world phenomena, despite their dependence on imperfect datasets and models. Computational modelling can indeed be used to inform more sustainable resource use practices, such as revealing hidden synergies and inefficiencies within commodity chains. However, digital modelling can also obscure important parts of landscape, such as biodiversity, by prioritizing quantifiable variables over social and cultural values (Howells et al. 2013). For instance, current environmental assessment practices struggle to account for hydrosocial dynamics in the management of water and energy resources, particularly with respect to health, poverty, gender, and education (Boas et al. 2016). This challenge is exacerbated by the inclusion of stochastic variables in nexus models, such as climate change or natural disasters (Liu et al. 2017). Yet gaps in the data used to visualize the WEN data are rarely articulated as fundamental barriers to representation; rather, they are framed as âthe contours of an engineering problemâ (Ãelik Alexander and May 2020, 201) that necessitates greater investment in technologies of environmental observation and data collection. I query the argument that more investment in sensory technologies will necessarily produce more accurate depictions of water-energy nexus landscapes. Rather, I argue that overreliance on digital modes of environmental observation and modelling might âselectively reduce the sphere of possible intervention and analysis within a particular landscapeâ (Bakker 125 and Ritts 2018, 208) by eliding forms of place-based knowledge. Computational models may be able to approximate the indeterminate relationships that make up the water-energy nexus. However, by failing to acknowledge the limitations of particular technologies and datasets, nexus visualizations contribute to the ongoing marginalization of ontologies and epistemologies associated with so-called non-technical, non-expert perspectives (Kimmerer 2013; Friess and Jazeel 2017; Andermann et al. 2018). 4.4 Recommendations: Future Directions for WEN Visualizations In this section, I offer a series of guidelines for the production of WEN visualizations to take forward my suggestion that nexus scholarship could be advanced by incorporating the concept of hydrosocial landscapes. While I hope this advances WEN scholarship, I also recognize the potential limitations of a landscape-based approach. As discussed above, the concept of landscape has contributed to the longstanding marginalization of certain land-based ontologies and spatial traditions (Friess and Jazeel 2017). The challenge of integrating landscape scholarship into the production of nexus visualizations is therefore a deeply political task that cannot be solved with a one-size-fits-all approach. 4.4.1 Recommendation 1: Spatiality Nexus visualizations should address the interconnected spatialities of water and energy beyond narrowly-defined sites of water withdrawal and energy generation. This recommendation may seem somewhat redundant given the WENâs putatively integrative approach to resource management across multiple spatial scales. However, this integrative spatial approach is not 126 borne out in the WENâs visual discourse; recall that 61 percent of images included in my meta-review make no reference to geographical space. The techniques and politics of spatial representation are longstanding themes in landscape research, and a comprehensive review is beyond the scope of this paper (Corner 1998; Cosgrove 1998; Mitchell 2003; Della Dora 2009; Smith 2010). Scholarship on cultural landscapes typically define space as the open-ended product of social, cultural, and biophysical interconnections (Massey 2005; Smith 2010). This constructivist definition posits the nexus as a physical space constituted through dynamic relationships between humans and nonhumans, yet the nuanced spatialities of water and energyâincluding social and political conflicts associated with resource extractionâare largely absent in the WENâs visual discourse. The conspicuous absence of sociopolitical dynamics may be attributed to the prevalence of non-spatial image typologies, such as graphs and flowcharts. While these typologies may be useful to communicate certain quantitative data, they also have a deeply depoliticizing effect insofar as they articulate the nexus as an imaginary place separate from real-world sites of conflict and struggle. Scale is also implicated in the representational politics of the WEN. A water-energy nexus landscape includes multipleâoften incommensurableâpolitical, ecological, and technical scales. These scales are variously defined by geopolitical borders, infrastructure service areas, watershed boundaries, and natural resource deposits (to name a few). Often, multiple scalar referents appear within a single visualization. These overlapping and inconsistent scales can be attributed to a number of possible factors. For example, they may suggest a pragmaticâor perhaps arbitraryâapproach to visualization predicated on the availability of pre-existing geospatial datasets. Others have suggested that the WEN relies upon (and perhaps enforces) established political scales of resource management as a by-product of its consensual approach to 127 policymaking (Boas et al. 2016). Both cases demonstrate different ways that WEN visualizations rescale complex landscapes to fit normative strategies of environmental governance. This rescaling not only undermines the nexusâ ability to generate innovative approaches to sustainable resource management (Wilson et al. 2019), but also highlights the power of visualizations to render water and energy visible through the language of dominant spatial imaginaries, such as capitalist property regimes (Li 2014). As a result, WEN visualizations often inadvertently reproduce the spatial and scalar asymmetries they seek to resolve. As critical GIS and environmental justice scholars have argued, visual representations are fundamentally linked to processes of social and political contestation (Tilley 2020). What is needed, I suggest, are visual methods that can address contested spaces of water and energy. These visualizations could take many forms, but in general they should attempt to contextualize quantitative data of water and energy through photographs, participatory drawing, or other visual ethnographic approaches. Datasets used to construct abstract visualizations should be thoroughly vetted: who collected the data, and for what purpose? What kind of information is represented and, importantly, what forms of knowledge are missing? These questions are not intended to undermine an imageâs efficacy, but to query its authority and acknowledge plural interpretations of space. 4.4.2 Recommendation 2: Temporality As with visual abstraction, temporal abstraction can similarly work to depoliticize spatial data and further obfuscate nexus visualizations. Lines between nodes in a Sankey diagram, for instance, imply temporality insofar as it is understood that resources cannot be instantaneously transmitted between locations. But what arises from these schematic depictions of nexus 128 relationships is a âsmoothingâ of temporal dynamics, wherein the disjunctions, vagaries, and mutability of space-time become flattened and homogenized, especially when plotted against a common axis on a graph. Bunge (1971, xxiv) observes that âmaps attempt to integrate over time, that is, maps assume an average span of timeâ. Indeed, due to their reductive nature, visualizations necessarily elide at least some of the historical conditions and trajectories that characterize various relationships between whatever is being mapped, thereby privileging certain perspectives over others. In other words, while it is understood that nexus visualizations do not seek to provide an exhaustive chronicle of whatever phenomena they represent, I argue that they nevertheless frequently align with more technocratic ontologies and epistemologies that either fail to prompt or simply foreclose any further nuanced conceptualizations of the same phenomena. In contrast, temporally contextualized visualizations would ideally elucidate the uneven terrain of temporality within the nexus and the power dynamics inherent in being able to âaccelerateâ or âslowâ temporality in the service of oneâs interests. Some examples: from an operations perspective (i.e. running power plants, processing plants, pumping stations etc.), temporal scales for considering nexus components could range from minutes to decades for factors including rainfall, interception, evapotranspiration, groundwater flow and climate change (Mekonen 2016; Khan et al. 2018). Bureaucratic processes, such as public comment periods, legislative approvals, impact assessments and land acquisition can take weeks, months, or years, and in the meantime, scientific research on the safety and efficacy of certain practices may not keep pace with the implementation of the practices in question (Lachapelle et al. 2003; Davenport and Anderson 2005; Scott et al. 2011). At a community level, temporal considerations more often reach into the generational scale, especially when considering sustainable agriculture, aquifer management, water scarcity (Halbe 129 et al. 2015), land degradation, economic development, and local sovereignty, identity, and history (Baka 2017). And of course, while one of the aforementioned processes may involve little activity for several months with a burst of activity in a handful of days, another process may require sustained action over the course of years. It quickly becomes clear that visualizing temporality in terms of discrete units, such as days or weeks, can obfuscate the power dynamics and struggles inherent to navigating these temporal frames. So, how might one mobilize temporality within new practices of WEN visualization? In the case of static visualizations (neither animated nor interactive), the methods for visualizing spatiotemporal datasets are limited, which may help explain the high incidence of atemporal WEN visualizations. Amongst the visualizations reviewed for this paper, the two most common methods used for maps were small multiples and feature symbolization (e.g. darker symbols to signify older data), although the former was used much more extensively. However, bar and line charts were more popular than either cartographic method. One possibility for combining the advantages of both maps and line charts may come in the form of the space-time prism (STP), which was formalized as a visualization tool in the late 1970s (Hägerstrand 1970). The STP aggregates data into a multidimensional grid wherein space is represented on a cartesian plane of two axes, and time is represented on a third axis that is perpendicular to the first two. STPs were not used for any visualization that we reviewed. This may be due to the fact that they are most often used for visualizing the movement of individual agents, such as pedestrians moving around a city (Kveladze 2019) or geolocated instances of particular phenomena (Nakaya 2013; Delmelle et al. 2014). While STPs have previously been used to map flows (Mullaw 2008; Demšar and Virrantaus 2010), the flows are typically those, again, of agents rather than resources. That is to 130 say, studies using STPs are usually concerned with geospatially precise data, which is not always possible or even useful in the context of the nexus given that resources can come from many different locations, traverse different routes between nodes, and have different spatial scales of influence. Some nexus research may indeed find this information to be useful (for instance, how logistics infrastructure impacts communities), but the fact that there are multiple manifestations of nexus-related data means that multiple methods need to be used. A justice-oriented approach to temporally contextualized nexus visualization may therefore benefit from enrolling participatory, phenomenological, and experimental visualization methods, not in pursuit of claims to comprehensiveness, but rather to incorporate struggles over environmental justice and tangibly articulate the multiple spatial imaginaries therein. Beyond static 2D mapping, digital visual technologies such as augmented and virtual reality (AR/VR) can also be used to simulate sensory-rich encounters with nature that enable decision-makers to âseeâ and interact with distant environments and ecological processes (Wallgrün et al. 2019). Researchers have demonstrated that encounters with digital nature can elicit a heightened sense of personal identification with the nonhuman world and produce pro-environmental attitudes and behaviours that persist over time (Ahn et al. 2014). Digital visual technologies can offer an innovative, albeit imperfect pathway to bridge the gap between an individualâs perception of complex biophysical processes and the practical governance of water-energy landscapes (Ahn et al. 2016). Yet these technologies also carry novel risks: by privileging the visual comprehension of landscapes over more relational and multisensory forms of knowledge, visualization tools such as AR/VR can result in a unidirectional, and ultimately voyeuristic engagement with the spaces they claim to represent. 131 4.4.3 Recommendation 3: Hydrosociality The WENâs hydrosocial approach to resource management is perhaps its most important conceptual innovation. However, based on the results of my meta-review, I suggest that contemporary nexus visualizations demonstrate a constrained interpretation of hydrosociality. For example, nearly every image included in my database assumes the perspective of a detached observer. These visualizations tend to represent complex landscapes in terms of quantifiable use-values that can be added and subtracted to achieve a desired policy outcome, while eliding the social and political ramifications of those policies. This âview from nowhereâ articulates WEN landscapes from a singular perspective associated with a privileged or expert position of observation (Andermann et al. 2018; Haraway 1988) and obscures alternative ways of seeing and knowing a landscape. I suggest this perspective ultimately limits the range of policy innovations the WEN is able to produce: what canât be perceived canât be acted on. Nexus visualizations typically represent the hydrosocial dynamics of water and energy through static, two-dimensional images. To some extent, this representational abstraction may be seen as a potential strength. For example, Davoudi and Strange (2008) suggest that abstraction and ambiguity in spatial visualizationsâwhich they term âfuzzinessââsignals a break from rigid Cartesian conceptions of space and time, and represents a more fluid understanding of hydrosocial landscape processes. I similarly welcome more open-ended forms of landscape representation; however, I caution that tacit acknowledgement of hydrosociality through representational âfuzzinessâ will not necessarily result in more just or sustainable practices of resource governance. To the contrary, vague spatial and temporal visualizations may depoliticize resource management by blurring sites of conflict and replacing them with simplifiedâand politically convenientâspatial imaginaries (Oleson and Richardson 2011). 132 Consider, for example, a hypothetical visualization of a hydraulic fracturing project, depicted through a series of bar graphs showing water use relative to natural gas output. Here, the concept of hydrosociality is tacitly mobilized, albeit in a diminished way: linkages between water and energy are framed as the outcome of statistical analysis, and not as the product of social and political contestation. While this image may provide useful descriptive information (i.e. the volume of water consumed per unit of gas produced), it also camouflages the situated power dynamics implicated in the project, such as debates concerning the social acceptance of fracking, or the cumulative ecological impacts of water withdrawals. I am not suggesting that the visual simplification of complex landscapes is of no value. Reductive, yet easily-digestible images can provide a space of shared understanding among disparate stakeholders engaged in resource planning and policymaking (Boas et al. 2016). However, in an effort to build consensus, nexus visualizations often depict landscapes in terms of narrowly-conceived synergies and trade-offs that ignore broader discourses of conflict, care, and reciprocity in human-environment relations (Pascual et al. 2017). The challenge, therefore, is not to introduce the concept of hydrosociality to the WEN as the nexus is already essentially hydrosocial. Rather, I argue that WEN visualizations must adopt a broader understanding of hydrosociality that embraces the full complexity of human-environment entanglements. 4.5 Conclusion In the Introduction to this chapter, I offered two definitions of the WEN: first as a conceptual framework, and second a set of flows embedded in landscapes and places. I also demonstrated in my analysis that the former (conceptual) definition overshadows the latter (place-based) definition. Specifically, my meta-review reveals that the majority of WEN 133 visualizations in the academic literature are non-spatial, atemporal, and decontextualized from the hydrosocial landscapes they purport to describe. Empirical analyses of water-energy nexus landscapes are routinely prioritized over qualitative approaches, and social data (whether economic, political, sociocultural, or ethnographic) are often absent or relegated to a supporting role in the accompanying text. I suggest that this emphasis on empirical methods can be attributed to the recent proliferation of digital environmental sensing technologies and the associated data architectures used to construct the WEN. While digital technologies and methodologies can indeed facilitate novel insights into the interrelationships between water and energy (Bhaduri et al. 2018), I caution that an overreliance on these methods might obscure more than they reveal. In order to foster new approaches to nexus visualization, I offer a series of recommendations organized around the axioms of spatiality, temporality, and hydrosociality. To varying degrees, these concepts are already present in contemporary nexus visualizations. However, as I have discussed above, they are often mobilized in overly-constrained ways that have limited the conceptual and methodological development of nexus scholarship. Nearly all the visualizations included in my meta-review seek to optimize resource use sustainability by abstracting broad patterns from specific times and places. Yet, as my analysis indicates, these visualizations also appear to favour non-spatial and atemporal images that render nuanced hydrosocial relationships abstract or invisible. While many of the images included in this study strive to offer a clearer picture of complex landscape dynamics, they also succeed in blurring the uneven power relations involved in the production of these spaces. This partial view depoliticizes sites of conflict and struggle, and depicts contested landscapes as a blank slate for technocratic interventions. 134 The limitations I identify in WEN visualizations could also be attributed to a mismatch between the medium of representation (i.e. static images) and the processes being depicted (i.e. dynamic sociohydrological and technical systems). Landscape architects have developed various strategies to depict movement through static images; while these interpretive techniques suggest exciting directions for future experimentation in WEN research, they are presently absent in the WENâs academic literature. Another way to rethink the production of WEN visualizations is through a medium that is more effective at representing dynamic flows, such as video or virtual reality. The WEN is not static, but rather dynamic; if we can adequately represent these fluxes (which vary spatially and temporally) and their multiple dimensions (social and hydrological) we will have a more effective tool to support decision-making processes. In the near future, the hydrological sciencesâand WEN research in particularâmight utilize emerging technologies such as interactive flow video diagrams and augmented and virtual reality platforms rather than static images. Some may argue that by analyzing water-energy nexus visualizations in isolation from their accompanying texts, I am engaging in similar processes of abstraction and decontextualization that this chapter seeks to critique. Indeed, the relationship between image and text is a crucial component of knowledge formation, where visualizations play an important role in facilitating the metacognition of abstract concepts (Keller and Tergan 2005). However, by focusing my attention solely on visual representations of the WEN, I hope to draw attention to their proliferation and growing influence. Nexus visualizations are able to integrate diverse forms of knowledge from multiple fields to construct a persuasive and synoptic view of distant landscapes; in short, they have the power to transform how we see, relate to, and govern our environments. 135 I recognize that my recommendations are not necessarily easy to implement, nor do they address all of the critiques directed at WEN analyses. However, I hope this chapter usefully calls attention to the limitations of mainstream nexus visualization practices and methodologies. In the context of global climate change and biodiversity decline, the conceit of a detached âview from nowhereâ is no longer possible, or even ethical (Haraway 1988). To that end, I call for new methods of environmental planning and governance that incorporate plural hydrosocial perspectives. The nexus is a powerful, albeit imperfect concept that invites us to consider the Earth as a series of interdependent relationships. These relationships are not easy to understand. They are simultaneously spread across vast landscapes and embedded within the specific qualities of a place; they exceed our perceptual capabilities, yet they are implicated in our everyday lives. Perhaps this is why visualizations are so prevalent in nexus scholarship: in an attempt to describe the complexity, nuance, and beauty of water-energy landscapes, we must turn to research methods that begin to resemble art. By drawing attention to contemporary scholarship on place and landscape, I hope to advance debates on the evolving role of digital technologies in environmental governance and to engender new and innovative ways to visualize interconnected landscapes of water and energy. 136 Chapter 5: Recarbonizing landscapes? Carbon Neutrality, Settler Colonialism, and Cumulative Environmental Effects in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River Region, Canada 5.1 Introduction According to a recent report by the International Energy Agency, global decarbonization efforts must reach net-zero carbon emissions by the year 2050 in order to avoid the catastrophic effects of climate change (IEA 2021). This will require a fundamental reconfiguration of the international energy landscape, including the massive deployment of renewable energy infrastructures, carbon capture, utilization, and storage (CCUS) technologies, and the immediate halt to further investment in fossil fuel projects. For oil and gas-producing countries, the IEAâs recommendations pose a significant risk to economies and labour markets that depend on fossil fuel extraction. In response, governments and corporations have sought to legitimize continued oil and gas production through strategies of net-zero decarbonization, also referred to as âcarbon neutrality.â This approach seeks to balance carbon dioxide emissions through carbon offsetting, coupled with CCUS technologies designed to sequester atmospheric CO2 in biological and geological sinks (Clarke 2014). In theory, net-zero decarbonization allows for continued hydrocarbon extraction so long as increased emissions are offset by carbon reduction countermeasures (Davis et al. 2018; Wilcox et al. 2021). While the technical and policy dimensions of the net-zero decarbonization agenda have emerged as areas of intense scholarly debate (Ã hman et al. 2017; Bataille et al. 2018; Buck 2021; Payne 2020), its socio-spatial impacts remain relatively under-investigated (Becker et al. 137 2016; Bridge 2018). Energy transitions are space-making processes, embedded within multiscalar, spatiotemporal, and relational landscapes (Castán Broto 2019). Political economic analyses of energy landscapes have attempted to theorize decarbonizationâs space-making capacities in terms of the changing infrastructures (Atkins and Hope 2021; Kirshner et al. 2020), institutions (Andrews-Speed 2016), and land-use patterns (Harvey et al. 2014; Seddon et al. 2020) associated with the shift away from fossil fuels. However, as Calvert et al. (2019) note, âemphasis on the sociotechnical dimensions of energy transition has not been balanced by emphasis on the socioecological dimensions of energy transitionâ (192). As a result, political economic accounts of the low-carbon transition often struggle to address (or simply overlook) the ways that decarbonization transforms and destabilizes existing landscape patterns and relationships, resulting in the production of new ecological disturbances and social inequalities (Bridge and Gailing 2020). I seek to address this gap by articulating net-zero decarbonization as an inherently spatial and relational phenomenon, embedded in landscapes where the biophysical, socionatural, and political economic dimensions of energy intersect. Drawing from fieldwork in the western Canadian provinces of Alberta and British Columbia, I query landscapes of renewable energy production and CCUS that arise alongsideâand as a result ofâparallel investments in fossil fuel production. Specifically, I suggest that these landscapes offer a socio-ecological fix to the oil and gas sector by offsetting, and therefore legitimizing, emissions generated by hydrocarbon extraction. The result, I argue, is the production of novel landscapes that absorb (both biophysically and figuratively) the impacts of fossil fuel production, while simultaneously enabling private companies to reposition their activities as carbon neutralâand hence sources of 138 increasing rather than declining profitability.13 I term this processâwhich is simultaneously socio-economic, ecological, and spatialârecarbonization. This chapter seeks to advance political economic scholarship on energy transitions by theorizing how processes of decarbonization are shaped and constrained by the material and relational dimensions of landscape. Central to my argument is the notion that landscapes are not only important in articulating the spatial form of decarbonization, but also in shaping the social and political power relations that circumscribe energy transitions (Calvert et al. 2019; De Boer et al. 2018; Harrison and Popke 2018). By interrogating energy transitions through the material and relational dimensions of landscape, I demonstrate how agendas of putative decarbonization can obscure adverse cumulative environmental impacts and ongoing forms of colonial violence. In making this argument, I do not intent to discredit the work currently being done by governments, academics, and environmental organizations to advance a legitimate decarbonization agenda, such as the Government of Canadaâs Net-Zero Emissions Accountability Act (2021) and ongoing efforts by the federal Net-Zero Advisory Board (ECCC 2021a). I also recognize that some might question my focus on landscapes of decarbonization instead of landscapes of oil and gas production: to the extent that continued fossil fuel production is enabled by parallel investments in renewable energy infrastructures and CCUS technologies, drawing a distinction between these spaces may appear to invoke an artificial binary. Indeed, I agree that maintaining an analytical distinction between de- and recarbonizing landscapes is conceptually counterproductive. While landscapes of decarbonization and fossil fuel production 13 Noting, of course, that increased profitability also rests on significant federal and provincial subsidies and incentive programs for fossil fuel production (see Alberta Energy 2020a; Government of British Columbia 2021). 139 might seem to represent opposing environmental agendas, I suggest they are, in fact, fundamentally linked through processes of recarbonization. Landscapes matter, both conceptually and ethically. I illustrate this argument through a case study of the Peace River, or Saaghii Naachii as it is known in the Dane-zaa language (Behn and Bakker 2019). The Saaghii Naachii/Peace River is a tributary of the Mackenzie River watershed: a cold Amazon that flows north through the Peace-Athabasca Delta, the worldâs largest freshwater inland delta and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Within this broader region, the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River is unique in that it flows east-west (rather than north-south), creating distinct microclimatic conditions found nowhere else above the 55th parallel. These conditions have created a haven for biodiversity and for Indigenous cultures; however, this landscape is also the heartland of Canadaâs oil and gas industry and a frontier of extractive capitalism. As a water-energy nexus landscape, struggles over the control and exploitation of fossil fuels in this region are intensifying as new industrial processes and decarbonization initiatives reshape landscapes already dominated by intensive hydraulic fracturing and agricultural activity. Hence, the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region is also a deeply colonial landscape, home to the traditional territories of Indigenous peoples whose communities have been disproportionately affected by industrial and agricultural development, and whose ongoing legal battles are testament to the complexities of simultaneous resource extraction and decarbonization agendas. In briefly telling the story of this place in the Introduction, I am seeking to model the place-based analysis that, I feel, is urgently needed and lacking in many analyses of decarbonization. Disregarding landscape, I argue, enacts a conceptual and colonial violence that perpetuates unequal regimes of accumulation and dispossession. 140 This chapter proceeds as follows: in Section 5.2, I develop my conceptual framework by reviewing political economic scholarship on decarbonization, which I then bring into dialogue with recent interdisciplinary literature on materiality and relationality. In Section 5.3, I situate these literatures within the cumulative environmental effects of colonization and recarbonization in the landscapes of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region. In Section 5.4, I apply my conceptual framework to an analysis of Indigenous-led efforts to rectify the colonial and environmental violence of Canadaâs net-zero decarbonization agenda. Lastly, in Section 5.5, I discuss how greater attention to the concept of landscape can enhance our ability to envision a just, low-carbon energy transition. 5.2 Landscapes of Decarbonization Agendas My conceptual framework bridges political economic analyses of energy transitions with recent scholarship on the social production of landscapes, and long-standing debates over socio-ecological fixes. First, I review concepts of variegated capitalism and socio-ecological fixes in order to frame net-zero decarbonization as a political economic agenda, mobilized by different actors for distinct and often disparate goals. Second, I bring these concepts into dialogue with scholarship on the material and relational dimensions of landscape. I simultaneously frame decarbonization through ongoing processes of colonial landscape exploitation. These concepts allow me to examine net-zero decarbonization agendas through the interplay between capitalist social relations, colonialism, and biophysical processes which, I suggest, enables deeper theoretical engagement with our concept of recarbonizing landscapes. 141 5.2.1 Variegated Capitalism and the Ecological Fix Decarbonization is an inherently spatial phenomenon that manifests in a variety of ways in response to different social and environmental contexts. A hydroelectric dam, a carbon-sequestering timber plantation, and subterranean salt cavern used to store greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions can all be considered landscapes of decarbonization to the extent that they are each designed, constructed, and managed to offsetâand hence legitimizeâCO2 emissions (generated, for example, by oil and gas production). Given the heterogeneity of these spaces and the multiple forms of knowledge, labour, and capital required to maintain them, how can we analyze the production of these diverse landscapes through generalized discourses of carbon neutrality? Energy scholars have attempted to address this variegation by defining decarbonization as a socio-technical process (Baker et al. 2014; Lawhon and Murphy 2012; Meadowcroft 2009). Scholars of socio-technical transitions suggests that energy systems evolve in nonlinear ways, both spatially and temporally, depending on the interplay between different governance regimes, technologies, and socio-cultural norms (Geels 2005; Geels 2014). This literature seeks to explain how diverse decarbonization strategies emerge from the fabric of already-existing energy systems by articulating energy transitions in terms of recursive cycles of innovation and creative destruction (Labussière et al. 2018). However, by framing energy transitions as the result of technological and policy feedback loops, socio-technical perspectives have been criticized for âdownplaying the plural, messy and contested characterâ of decarbonization. As Bridge and Gailing (2020) suggest, this results in a âpolitical blind spotâ (1039) that often fails to articulate decarbonization as a socially contested and power-laden process. Scholarship on the geographical political economy of energy has attempted to address this gap by foregrounding the âirreducibly politicalâ nature of energy transitions (Meadowcroft 142 2009). This literature conceptualizes decarbonization as the material expression of asymmetrical power dynamics, rather than as the product of formal governance mechanisms (Stirling 2014; Stripple and Bulkeley 2019). Drawing from research on the variegated nature of neoliberal capitalism (Brenner, Peck, and Theodore 2010), this literature reveals how heterogenous landscapes of decarbonization are shaped by processes of uneven development, accumulation, and political contestation (Kuchler and Bridge 2018; Smith 1984; Turnheim and Geels 2018). Here, net-zero decarbonization is framed as a space-making process, embedded within particular biophysical contexts shaped by capitalist social relations and geopolitical economic forces (Scholten and Bosman 2016; Vakulchuk 2020). These analyses have largely focussed on the transition from âverticalâ hydrocarbon regimes of oil and gas extraction (Huber and McCarthy 2017) to the production of spatially-extensive renewable energy landscapes (Calvert and Simandan 2010; McCarthy 2015; Truffer et al. 2015). For example, Carter (2020) explores the ways that incumbent fossil fuel interests organize and exercise power over the material and discursive production of renewable energy projects, while Kirshner et al. (2019) demonstrate how energy infrastructures serve to territorialize state power by enrolling diverse landscapes into agendas of ecological modernization (Childs 2019; Christiansen and Unger 2020; Scott 1998). These socio-spatial dynamics are often articulated through the concept of the socio-ecological fix (Bakker 2009; Bakker 2010; Ekers and Prudham 2017). In succinct terms, a socio-ecological fix can be defined as a physical intervention in a landscape designed to alleviate barriers to capital accumulation by, for example, temporarily resolving capitalismâs inherent tendency to erode environmental conditions (Cohen and Bakker 2014; Johnson 2017; OâConnor 1991). As Carton (2019) suggests, discourses of net-zero decarbonization can provide cover to incumbent oil and gas producers seeking to defer the devaluation of their fixed capital assets. 143 Socio-ecological fixes enable this process by transforming landscapes and their socioecological conditions in order to enable new cycles of investment and accumulation (i.e. through processes of capital switching), and internalizing these transformations as sources of increased profitability. For example, fixes such as CCUS technologies that claim to remove CO2 emissions from the atmosphere can enable short-term economic growth by âallow[ing] for higher total carbon emissions, and/or a later peak in emissionsâ (Gough and Vaughan 2015, 2). In short: a socio-ecological fix turns a potential threat (i.e. carbon emissions) into a source of profit by fixing capital in landscapes, enabling firms to and internalize and commodify harmful environmental externalities. To illustrate the concept of the socio-ecological fix in terms of de/recarbonizing landscapes, consider enhanced oil recovery (EOR): a CCUS technology where carbon dioxide is injected into depleted oil fields, forcing any remaining crude oil to the surface while simultaneously trapping CO2 emissions underground. EOR rearticulates the environmental externalities of fossil fuel production (i.e. carbon emissions) as valuable commodities to advance putative net-zero decarbonization. This, in turn, incentivizes processes of capital switching toward the production of new EOR infrastructures, such as carbon trunk pipelines and injection wells, which temporarily resolveâor âfixââcrises of accumulation posed by degrading environmental conditions. In this example, EOR internalizes the ecological and atmospheric threats posed by carbon emissions as valuable inputs to the âcircular carbon economyâ (Lee et al. 2017), while simultaneously producing new landscapes defined by the material infrastructures, labour practices, and socioecological transformations resulting from unconventional hydrocarbon 144 extraction.14 It should be noted, however, that EORâs effectiveness is compromised when overall life cycle emissions are taken into consideration. While EOR can significantly reduce emissions generated from specific point-sources (Horn and Steinberg 1982), it has been shown to actually increase net emissions in the long run through fugitive emissions, and by enabling the continued extraction of hydrocarbons (Jaramillo et al. 2009). However, the cumulative environmental impacts of EOR (and other CCUS technofixes) are often overlooked in analyses of the socio-ecological fix, which tend to focus on individual infrastructure projects and not on the cumulative interrelationships between multiple projects across their lifecycles, or at multiple spatial and temporal scales. Hence, political economic accounts of variegated capitalism and the socio-ecological fix offer valuable, albeit partial insights into the spatial differentiation of net-zero decarbonization agendas. Importantly, this work articulates landscapes of decarbonization as highly contingent and politically-contested terrain linked to broader processes of uneven geographical development (Smith 1984). However, as Calvert et al. (2019) suggest, political economic analyses of energy transition are often profoundly anthropocentric and depict the nonhuman world as âpassive and entirely socially constructedâ (193). The result, I suggest, is tendency to overlook or downplayâand hence depoliticizeâthe centrality of coupled human-environment relations in decarbonization agendas. To address this gap, I turn to concepts of materiality and relationality to critically theorize the formation of energy landscapes. 14 Critics of EOR are less optimistic, arguing that overreliance on unproven CCUS technologies may prove to be a significant political distraction from the ultimate goal of decarbonization (Mac Dowell et al. 2017). 145 5.2.2 Materiality and Relationality Landscape has emerged as a valuableâalbeit underdevelopedâconcept to theorize how societies, cultures, and environments interact with changing patterns of energy production and consumption (Baka and Vaishnava 2020). Energy scholars typically define landscape as the material expression of technological and socioecological relations across multiple spatial and temporal scales (Mitchell 2011; Smil 2018). Within the energy transition literature, landscapes are generally conceived as products of the material accumulation of labour and capital within specific biophysical contexts (Castán Broto 2019), as well as through the normative values ascribed to land and the built environment within particular energy regimes (Haarstad and Wanvik 2016). However, as I discuss above, these approaches have been critiqued for framing landscape as a passive terrain; and for often overlooking the role of nonhumans in shaping processes of energy transition (Stripple and Bulkeley 2019). Building on these critiques, I seek to advance place-based scholarship on energy transitions by articulating landscapes as political subjects with agency to actively shape decarbonization agendas (Bennett 2010). Specifically, I suggest that nonhuman landscapes possess agency: they exercise power and influence over the social, political, and material outcomes of energy transitions. Summarizing the debates over the definition of the âagency of natureâ is beyond the scope of this chapter. For the purposes of my analysis, I summarize these debates as follows: (i) natureâs constraints upon human action (e.g. material/biophysical aspects of landscapes constrain human behaviour); (ii) relational impacts of nature on humans (e.g. social constructions of psychosocial interpretations and beliefs about landscapes guide human action); (iii) the intentional shaping of landscapes by non-humans, interacting within ecosystems with both biotic and abiotic elements (e.g. the role of top predators such as wolves in shaping 146 landscapes, including both plant and animal biodiversity). By foregrounding landscapesâ agency, I argue that the diverse spatial manifestations of the low-carbon transition can be attributed to more than merely the physical properties of a given site. Rather, whereas political economic approaches theorize decarbonization as the result of a dialectical relationship between nature and capital (Malm 2018), I argue that energy transitions emerge through the material and relational entanglements between humans and nonhumans across space and time. This analytical perspective is in dialogue with Indigenous ontologies of landscape. Ascribing agency to landscape, from an Indigenous perspective, requires acknowledging both the personhood of landscapes (i.e. their status as non-human persons, with whom humans may have individual and collective relationships); and the fundamentally place-based nature of our relationships with landscapes. Mohawk/Anishinaabe scholar Vanessa Watts (2013), for example, offers the concept of âplace-thought,â which expresses the context-rooted specificity of Indigenous legal frameworks and sociocultural practices. There is, from this perspective, no such thing as âLandscape.â Rather, there are multiple landscape relationships that form a necessary precursor for communication with non-human beings. Failing to acknowledge the personhood and place-based nature of landscapes risks replicating the psychological dissociation of colonialism. In other words: landscapes are sites of subject-subject relations, rather than subject-object relations. My analysis is further guided by two interdisciplinary bodies of literature. The first draws on theories of relationality to consider landscapes as spatial expressions of âintertwined causalities, constantly grounded and crystalized through ongoing and co-produced power relationsâ (Jacobs 2019, 25). Framing decarbonization agendas through a relational ontology forces us to ground processes of energy transition in specific sites, and to engage in modes of 147 place-thought that resist the epistemic violence associated with universalizing discourses of âglobalâ or ânationalâ energy transitions (Todd 2015; Watts 2013). For example, relational perspectives reveal how affective attachments embedded in landscapes shape particular decarbonization pathways. Selman (2010) describes how the siting of renewable energy infrastructures can engender fierce opposition over concerns regarding the loss of aesthetic and cultural values, resulting in new land-use regulations and conservation strategies grounded in changing place-based identities. Conversely, Sherren et al. (2016) observe how transformed landscapes may come to be accepted, and even beloved over timeâparticularly when transformed sites appear ânaturalâ and become incorporated in everyday life, such as the blurred distinction between a reservoir and a lake. In both of these analyses, decarbonization agendas are modified through the relational interplay between material interventions and changing social and cultural practices within specific biophysical contexts. Concepts of relationality allow us to examine how the cumulative effects of decarbonization agendas are mediated through diverse and interconnected forms of situated knowledgeâboth human and nonhumanâwithin particular landscape contexts (Haraway 1988). For example, in their analysis of carbon farming,15 Jackson et al. (2017) demonstrate how Indigenous Australians leverage traditional landscape management practices in order to participate in international carbon markets. Within these landscapes, nonhuman situated knowledges also play a crucial role in shaping human understanding of landscape Wright et al. (2012). According to the Jackson et al., this approach suggests how marginalized groups might 15 Carbon farming refers to a wide range of agricultural and land-use management practices aimed at sequestering carbon dioxide in soils and organic plant matter, generally defined under the umbrella category of ânature-based solutionsâ (Toensmeier 2016). 148 reconfigure traditional notions of environmental care and reciprocity in order to co-opt national decarbonization agendas to further specific community goals. However, the study also reveals how the production and maintenance of de/recarbonizing landscapes is intertwined within systems of colonialism and capitalist resource accumulation that undermine Indigenous relational ontologies (for instance, by instrumentalizing nonhuman landscapes as material inputs for technical processes of renewable energy generation or carbon sequestration) (Cosgrove and Daniels 1988; Mitchell 2002). This insight is especially important in settler colonial contexts, such as the landscapes of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River, where decarbonization agendas are implicitly framed through the continued occupation and exploitation of Indigenous lands. Foregrounding the agency of landscape also enables a deeper and more nuanced theorization of the cumulative socioecological effects of decarbonization. To do this, I turn to writing on concepts of materiality. This literature draws broadly from posthuman and decolonial scholarship in order to de-centre human beings as the primary agents of landscapes change, and instead foreground the dynamic agency of nonhumans in shaping situations and events (Bakker and Bridge 2006, Bakker and Bridge 2021; Bennett 2010). Consider my previous example of enhanced oil recovery. In EOR, the chemical properties and spatial distribution of crude oil shapes particular configurations of infrastructure, labour, and technical knowledge required for extraction. In this example, the materiality of oil plays an active role in structuring socio-spatial relations needed to control and access subsurface resources (Simpson 2019). A number of recent studies have similarly explored the agential capacities of âlivelyâ materialities in spatializing decarbonization agendas, from the industrial management of forests for carbon sequestration (Carton and Andersson 2017) to the enclosure of vegetal life for biofuel production (Palmer 2021). These studies reveal how decarbonization agendas often instrumentalize biotic and abiotic 149 entities and subsume them into capitalist circuits of production (Boyd, Prudham, and Schurman 2001). But perhaps more importantly, they also demonstrate an alternative to the inherent speciesism and anthropocentrism that dominate political economic literatures on energy transition. By collapsing the foundational dualisms that underpin western conceptions of landscape (i.e. life/nonlife), concepts of materiality allow âdiverse forms of life andâ¦contrasting notions of sociabilityâ (Escobar 2018, 3) to enter debates over competing pathways toward decarbonization. Greater attention to the agential capacity of nonhumans expands the boundaries of whoâand whatâcounts when designing landscapes of the low-carbon transition. This has important implications for how we measure and evaluate the trade-offs of various decarbonization agendas, whose impacts often extend far beyond individual sites into the surrounding landscape. Yet today, the cumulative effects of energy transitions are routinely overlooked (Larsen and Johnson 2017). Often, technical environmental impact assessments serve to abstract the relational and material dimensions of landscapes through colonial technologies of mapping, surveying, and, more recently, computational modelling. For example, in their case of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River, Behn and Bakker (2019) demonstrate how environmental assessment and regulatory frameworks stabilize western colonial understandings of landscape while simultaneously displacing Indigenous understandings of the river as nonhuman kin. The result: a ârendering technicalâ of Indigenous land-based ontologies, which are subsequently subsumed within so-called âexpertâ scientific discourses of environmental impact assessment. Landscape provides a valuable conceptual lens through which to understand the place-based impacts and power relations that shape decarbonization agendas. However, I also recognize that landscape is a fraught concept that has historically been used to marginalized non-150 western spatial traditions, and to advance colonial ways of representing and ordering Indigenous land (Friess and Jazeel 2017). As numerous scholars have demonstrated, visual technologies of colonial landscape formation have been central to the discursive production of resource frontiers (Dyce 2013; Simpson 2019); more recently, we can observe their use in decarbonization agendas that implicitly advance settler colonialism (Curley 2018; Curley 2019). McCarthy and Thatcher (2019) illustrate this process through their analysis of digital cartographic practices used to map potential sites of wind and solar energy development. These maps work to rearticulate already-existing landscapes as sources of untapped and underutilized resources, thereby enabling flows of capital into the construction of new renewable infrastructure projects (further illustrating the concept of the socio-ecological fix). Yet the formation of renewable energy landscapes merely masks a new iteration of accumulation by dispossession, or a kind of a âgreenâ colonialism inflected with environmental imperatives. As Dang (2021) suggests, in the case of renewable energy mapping (and other forms of visual representation), the very concept of landscape can be read as an âinstrument and agent of powerâ whereby the ârendering of land as landscapeâ¦enacts colonial power formations onto that landâ (6). Theories of relationality, materiality, and Indigenous ontologies challenge conventional political economic understandings of how energy landscapes emerge and evolve. I argue that decarbonization agendas often overlook or wilfully ignore the agential capacity of nonhumans in shaping processes of energy transition. In order to counteract this oversight, I echo calls to âunlearnâ colonial theories of landscape by articulating decarbonization in terms of the plural, place-based interrelationships between humans and nonhumans (Friess and Jazeel 2017). In the following section, I situate these concepts in an overview of the cumulative environmental impacts of decarbonization agendas in the landscapes of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region. 151 5.3 Colonization and Recarbonization in Saaghii Naachii/Peace River Landscapes Decarbonization is an inherently forward-looking project; it seeks to mitigate the future risks posed by climate change by staging interventions in the present. This future-oriented temporality has been widely discussed from a variety of perspectives, including important environmental justice critiques that expose decarbonization as a technique of colonial and capitalist violence (Grove 2010; Scott and Smith 2017; Wakefield 2018). Yet by focussing on the future, decarbonization agendasâand their criticsâoften elide the cumulative environmental histories that have shaped current landscape conditions, and which influence potential pathways toward the low-carbon future. Similarly, by focussing on individual energy projects to the exclusion of broader energy landscapes, energy scholars often overlook the cumulative adverse environmental effects of previous energy projects. In this section, I turn my attention to the cumulative social and environmental effects of energy development in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region. By shifting my focus away from individual energy projects and toward interconnected energy landscapes, I seek to model the kind of place-based analysis that, I feel, is currently lacking and needed in critical analyses of decarbonization agendas. 5.3.1 Hydropower Once considered peripheral, the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region has emerged as the epicentre of contemporary debates surrounding potential pathways toward net-zero decarbonization in Canada. The Saaghii Naachii/Peace River flows east from its headwaters in the Rocky Mountains of British Columbia toward the Peace-Athabasca Deltaâthe worldâs largest freshwater inland river delta and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The unique 152 microclimatic conditions of this landscape have provided a haven to biodiversity and Indigenous cultures for millennia; as a result, the river holds significant cultural and spiritual value for Indigenous peoples who rely on it for hunting, fishing, and other traditional practices. European settlers arrived in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River valley shortly after the northeastern region of British Columbia was opened for settlement by the 1899 signing of Treaty 8 (one of a series of numbered treaties between the British Crown and Indigenous peoples in order to facilitate westward colonial expansion). Since then, it has emerged as one of Canadaâs northernmost agricultural regions and an important source of staple crops and grazing land. Yet as recently as the late 1960s, the landscapes of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River were viewed by the Canadian state as a peripheral and âvast tract of unexplored and uninhabited countryâ in urgent need of investment and modernization (Wenner-Gren 1958, 14). Beginning in the 1960s, demand for reliable hydropower motivated significant infrastructure investment along the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River. This demand culminated in 1968 with the construction of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam (the ninth-largest earth-filled dam in the world) and the Williston Reservoir (the second, smaller Peace Canyon Dam was constructed downstream in 1980). The W.A.C. Bennett and Peace Canyon dams were initially celebrated for ârolling the frontier back 500 miles to the northâ and for bringing new lands and peoples into the purview of the Canadian state (Wenner-Gren 1958, 14). Today, we recognize how histories of hydroelectric development on the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River have utterly transformed the regionâs hydrological and hydrosocial landscapes. Flooding of the Williston ReservoirâNorth Americaâs third-largest artificial lakeâdrowned thousands of hectares of subalpine boreal forest, destabilized river valley embankments, altered local weather patterns, and diminished downstream freeze-thaw cycles (Beltaos 2014; Sims 2018). Seasonal flood regimes in the Peace-153 Athabasca Delta have also been severely compromised; the UNESCO World Heritage Committee is currently debating whether to add the Delta to its list of endangered landscapes (UNESCO 2021). The cumulative effects of this damage are reflected in histories of colonial violence inflicted upon Indigenous communities across the region, including the ongoing infringement of Indigenous rights under Treaty 8. Prior to the passing of the Canadian Environmental Assessment Act in 1992, large-scale infrastructure projects proceeded in a relatively ad-hoc regulatory environment (Peyton 2017); this lack of oversight was compounded by the rapid pace of mid-century development in so-called âfrontierâ landscapes (Macfarlane and Kitay 2016). Recognition of the damsâ impacts on Indigenous communities went largely undocumented and, as a result, entire settlements and cultural sites were lost beneath the rising waters. Indigenous peoples found themselves in a landscape utterly transformed, and lacking in basic amenities such as connection to the provincial electricity grid. Take, for example, the community of Tsay Keh Dene, which suffers from windstorms and dust pollution caused by fluctuating water levels in the Williston Reservoir. Despite Tsay Keh Deneâs proximity to one of Canadaâs largest hydroelectric power stations, the community continues to rely on shipments of expensive and polluting diesel fuel to meet its energy needs (Izony and Dowlatabadi 2016). 5.3.2 Site C Dam Approximately 100 kilometres downstream from the W.A.C. Bennett Dam lies the Site C Dam: Canadaâs newest hydropower project and the largest hydroelectric dam currently under construction in North America. Since its initial conception in the 1950s, Site C has faced decades of opposition from landowners, environmental groups, and Indigenous communities. Critiques of 154 the dam are manifold, including its weak business case, which rests on flawed assumptions of electricity demand and pricing (Hendricks et al. 2017); its unprecedented number of significant environmental impactsâthe most of any hydroelectric development in Canadian history (CEAA 2014); and its infringement of traditional treaty rights in landscapes already irrevocably transformed by decades of hydropower development (Eliesen 2017; Prophet River and West Moberly First Nations 2017). Although Site C initially faced significant legal opposition and negative media attention, the project was able to bypass various regulatory processes through political manoeuvring to get the dam âpast the point of no returnâ (Palmer 2017). Construction works began in 2015 and have continued despite glaring geotechnical issues (Cox 2020) and unfavourable economic forecasts (Lee 2017). One of the persistent debates surrounding Site C concerns the extent to which the projectâs cumulative environmental effects on the surrounding landscape were considered (or wilfully overlooked) in its regulatory approval process. Under Canadaâs Environmental Assessment Act, major projects are subject to independent assessment by a joint review panel (JRP). In the case of Site C, the JRPâs mandate was notably constrained, both in terms of time and resources: the three-person panel was required to conduct public hearings, review over twenty-seven thousand pages of documents, and issue its assessment within eight monthsâa significantly shorter time frame than comparable infrastructure projects.16 Members of the JRP expressed concerns over this expedited process and recommended that Site C undergo further regulatory reviews; however, these calls went largely unheeded by the provincial government, 16 The Joint Review Panelâs assessment of the Site C Dam took eight months, versus thirty-two months for Manitobaâs Keeyask Hydroelectric Project and the forty-one months for Newfoundland and Labradorâs Lower Churchill Project (Behn and Bakker 2019). 155 which granted construction approvals without undertaking additional economic or environmental assessments. Most notably, the assessment methodology used by the JRPâdeveloped by BC Hydro, Site Câs proponentâdid not include the effects of previous hydroelectric developments on the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River (BC Hydro 2012). Indigenous groups and environmental organizations protested this decision, stating that the W.A.C. Bennett and Peace Canyon dams had fundamentally transformed the regionâs landscapes (Treaty 8 Tribal Association 2012); failure to include them in assessments of Site C effectively naturalized their impacts as âbaseline environmental conditions.â Nonetheless, the cumulative effects of these earlier projects were ultimately excluded from the JRPâs assessment;17 this is ironic, since technical justification for Site C relies partly on the argument that it will âre-useâ water stored in the Williston reservoir, implicitly acknowledging the existence of upstream environmental impacts (BC Hydro, n.d.). Despite Site Câs controversial assessment and approvals process (Gunn and Nobel 2011), proponents of the project argue that it is a necessary element of British Columbiaâs low-carbon transition strategy, and important part of Canadaâs overall decarbonization agenda. However, the cumulative environmental effects of hydroelectric development on the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River paint a different picture. Contrary to the projectâs narrative, Site C is not part of a decarbonizing landscape: hydroelectric dams are a significant source of greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions associated with construction activities, concrete usage, and the decomposition of biomass in newly-flooded reservoirs (Bakker and Hendriks 2019). According to BC Hydro (2013), Site C will produce between 5.3 and 7.3 million metric tonnes of carbon dioxide 17 Despite the exclusion of historical impacts from the W.A.C. Bennett and Peace Canyon dams in the JRPâs assessment methodology, the panel nonetheless identified numerous cumulative environmental effects on aquatic and terrestrial plant communities, wildlife, geological features, heritage sites, and the use of lands and waterways for traditional purposes by Indigenous peoples (CEAA 2014). 156 equivalent emissions over the first 100 years of the projectâs operational lifetime; far more than solar and wind alternatives of equivalent size (Hendriks et al. 2017). The rapid expansion of liquified natural gas (LNG) production in the region must also be factored into an assessment of Site Câs cumulative impacts to the extent that electricity from the dam plays a central role in British Columbiaâs strategy of unconventional fossil fuel extraction and, increasingly, Albertaâs agenda of increased petrochemical and biofuel production. 5.3.3 Oil and Gas In addition to hydropower, the landscapes of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River are also profoundly shaped by the extraction of oil and natural gas. As the river flows east from the Rocky Mountains, it passes over the Western Canadian Sedimentary Basin: a geological formation home to the largest hydrocarbon deposits in Canada. Tremendous volumes of water are withdrawn from the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River and its tributaries for use in both conventional and unconventional forms of oil and gas extraction, especially hydraulic fracturing in the Montney Shale Formation and steam-assisted gravity drainage (SAGD) in the Peace River Oil Sands (Rivard et al. 2014).18 Consequently, this region has emerged as Canadaâs foremost water-energy nexus landscape, in which the socio-spatial dimensions of hydropower and fossil fuel extraction are fundamentally intertwined with relational and material geographies of water. In addition to hydrological impacts, oil and gas extraction have contributed to extensive 18 Unconventional natural gas extraction in western Canada is concentrated in the Montney Shale Formation, which straddles Alberta and British Columbia along the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains. Tight gas production using hydraulic fracturing from the Alberta Montney is forecast to grow from 1.95 Bcf/d in 2020 to 3.11 Bcf/d in 2020 (59 percent increase), whereas production from the British Columbia Montney is forecast to grow from 4.58 Bcf/d to 9.16 Bcf/d (100 percent increase) over the same period (CER 2020). 157 biodiversity decline across the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River drainage basin as a result of landscape fragmentation caused by roads, pipelines, seismic lines, drill pads, pumping stations, impoundment dams, effluent treatment ponds, and other infrastructures of fossil fuel production (Macdonald 2016). Further impacts include surface and groundwater contamination (Wisen et al. 2019), methane and hydrogen sulphide emissions (Atherton et al. 2017), and induced seismicity from hydraulic fracturing (Atkinson et al. 2016). The physical impacts of oil and gas extraction amplify the cumulative environmental effects of hydropower development across the region. These impacts are further compounded by recent landscape transformations associated with Canadaâs decarbonization strategy. The onset of the COVID-19 pandemic exposed a number of structural vulnerabilities in Canadaâs oil and gas sector (Jefferson 2020; Le Billon et al. 2021), prompting federal and provincial governments to introduce a series of industrial diversification programs. These programs seek to incentivize incumbent oil and gas firms to shift production toward CCUS technologies and various commodities derived from âclean fossil fuels,â including petrochemicals, biodiesel, and blue hydrogen (Alberta Energy 2020a; Government of British Columbia 2021).19 These commodities form the basis of western Canadaâs net-zero decarbonization agenda, which seeks to balance continued fossil fuel extraction with investments in CCUS countermeasures designed to sequester atmospheric CO2 in biological sinks, or in oceanic and/or geological reservoirs (Clark et al. 2014). Proponents argue this strategy is compatible with Canadaâs overall decarbonization 19 Blue hydrogen is a relatively recent concept that refers to the production of hydrogen fuel using natural gas or coal feedstocks in combination with carbon capture, storage, and sequestration technologies. Blue hydrogen is described as carbon natural, yet recent studies suggest its greenhouse gas footprint is âmore than 20 per cent greater than burning natural gas or coal for heat and some 60 percent greater than burning diesel oil for heatâ (Howarth and Jacobson, 2021). There are currently only two operational blue hydrogen facilities in the world, one of which is operated by Shell in the province of Alberta. 158 targets, so long as future emissions are offset with CCUS technologies and/or the electrification of carbon-intensive sectors using renewable sources of electricityâincluding hydropower from Site C (AIHA 2019; IEA 2021). Consequently, net-zero decarbonization in western Canada has been largely driven by incumbent oil and gas firms that possess the resources and technical capacity to rapidly construct new low-carbon infrastructures on a landscape scale. Critics, however, are less optimistic, citing the massive landscape transformations required to implement this agenda. The potential spatial impacts are difficult to assess; statistical modelling of the land area required to decarbonize Albertaâs energy sector forecasts a tenfold increase by the year 2060, not including the footprint of spatially-extensive renewable energy production, transmission lines, or ancillary infrastructures and their cumulative environmental effects (Palmer-Wilson 2020). There are also significant concerns regarding the efficacy of CCUS technologies designed to re-use carbon emissions and other industrial by-productions as feedstock for unconventional oil and gas extraction (Atkinson et al. 2016; Alessi et al. 2017; Atherton et al. 2017). As Mac Dowell et al. (2017) suggest, carbon leakage from EORâamong other techno-fixesâcontributes significant amounts of harmful fugitive emissions and may prove to be âa costly distraction, financially and politically, from the real task of mitigationâ (243). In addition to the GHG emissions associated with unproven CCUS technologies, investment in the production of new hydrocarbon-derived commodities also poses a significant risk to the health of surrounding landscapes. For example, petrochemicals and blue hydrogenâtwo pillars in the Government of Albertaâs (2020b) natural gas vision and strategyârequire tremendous amounts of methane, ethane, and propane derived from water-intensive hydraulic fracturing operations (Gagnon et al. 2016). Increased production of plant-based biodiesel will also require significant water inputs, placing additional strain on landscapes already threatened 159 by unprecedented drought conditions due to climate change (Brownell 2021; Nenzén et al. 2020). 5.3.4 Recarbonizing Landscape The race to implement Canadaâs agenda of net-zero decarbonization offers a textbook example of capital-switching to produce a socio-ecological fix. Oil and gas firms seeking to capitalize on western Canadaâs emerging low-carbon marketplace have begun to construct new infrastructures that will sustain processes of capital accumulation linked to hydrocarbon extraction. This continued extraction is justified by federal and provincial commitments to invest in new CCUS technologies that use carbon as a feedstock; at the same time, this strategy is used to legitimize the construction of controversial renewable energy projects that will provide renewable electricity to western Canadaâs burgeoning recarbonization sector. Contrary to government and industry narratives, I argue that this approach to net-zero decarbonization is not, in fact, carbon neutral, particularly when the cumulative effects of broader landscape transformations are considered. By considering the broad range of place-based impacts associated with energy transitions, I seek to move âbeyond carbonâ in our assessment of net-zero decarbonization agendas, as processes of decarbonization-cum-recarbonization degrade landscapes and ecosystems in multiple ways (Iturbe 2019). Recarbonizing landscapes are distinct from sites of extraction commonly associated with Canadaâs oil and gas sector. Just as a hydroelectric reservoir might be mistaken for a lake (Sherren et al. 2016), recarbonizing landscapes appear as novel environments that serve to naturalize the impacts of continued fossil fuel production, while simultaneously enabling oil and gas firms to internalize these impacts as sources of increased profitability. In many ways, 160 recarbonizing landscapes replicate many of the same logics (and critiques) of contemporary neoliberal biodiversity offset programs that valorize nature as a commodity for âsustainableâ forms of extraction (Le Billon 2021). The Site C Dam offers a case in point: Canadaâs agenda of net-zero decarbonization agenda depends on the electrification of oil and gas extraction coupled with economic diversification towards new fossil fuel-derived commodities; Site C satisfies these requirements by providing renewable electricity for âdecarbonizedâ industrial activities while simultaneously internalizing their environmental impacts. Specifically, Site C illustrates the concept of the socio-ecological fix by demonstrating how capitalist systems attempt to resolve degrading environmental conditions by embedding capital in landscapes, and subsequently transforming existing socioecological relations in order facilitate the processes of capital accumulation. The socio-ecological fix provides a useful way to theorize how recarbonization manifests in diverse and heterogenous ways, from investment in speculative EOR technologies to massive infrastructure projects such as the Site C Dam. Yet the socio-ecological fix is limited by its inability to account for the interrelationships between these projects across their respective lifecycles; as an analytical concept, the fix mesmerized by individual infrastructure projects and cannot account for infrastructuralized landscapes. By focussing on single projects rather than on the relational landscapes that connect them, these analyses often overlook the important question of cumulative effects. My recounting of energy development along the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River reveals that recarbonization is, in fact, a multiscalar and spatiotemporal process that materializes through the layering of multiple fixes over time in disparate, yet fundamentally interconnected landscapes. By situating my analysis of recarbonization in the landscapes of Saaghii Naachii/Peace River, I seek to honour the particularities of place in order to more fully 161 apprehend the aggregated histories, actors, and relationships that shape processes of energy transition in the region. In the following section, I demonstrate how attention to cumulative landscape impacts offers as a way to challenge dominant narratives of net-zero decarbonization. 5.4 Blueberry River First Nations and the Question of Cumulative Effects The Saaghii Naachii/Peace River flows through the traditional territory of the Dane-zaa, in what is now northeastern British Columbia. Over the past century, this landscapeâwhich is the homeland of the modern Blueberry River and Doig River First Nationsâhas been utterly transformed by successive waves of colonialization and industrialization. In 1899, the Dane-zaa became signatories to Treaty 8 in an attempt to safeguard their territory against increasing social and cultural upheaval spurred by the Klondike Gold Rush (Ridington and Ridington 2013). Per the terms of the Treaty, the Dane-zaa would retain their right to continue practices such as hunting, trapping, and fishing throughout their traditional territories, yet this guarantee has been systematically infringed upon by decades of industrial development and, more recently, recarbonization. Throughout the middle decades of the twentieth century, the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region was gradually transformed by the arrival of white settlers who brought with them modern practices of agriculture, logging, and mining. This gradual transformation was accelerated by the construction of the Alaska Highway in 1942 which bisected Dane-zaa traditional territory and opened the landscape to more intensive forms of resource extraction (Treaty 8 Tribal Association 2012a). The arrival of the highway coincided with the discovery of vast oil and natural gas deposits in the region, prompting demand for investment in infrastructure and electricity to support new industrial activities; hence the construction of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam in the mid-1960s and the Site C Dam today. 162 Throughout this century of breath-taking landscape transformation, including forms of genocide perpetrated against Indigenous peoples by the Canadian government through the reservation and residential school systems (Dang 2021), members of the Blueberry River First Nations (BRFN) have sustained their land-based cultural practices and traditions. However, the cumulative effects of industrial development have made it increasingly difficult for members to exercise their rights as guaranteed under Treaty 8. Decades of resource extraction have destroyed critical wilderness areas and drastically reduced the health of plant and animal communities throughout the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region; a report by Macdonald (2016) determined that 73 per cent of the BRFN traditional territory lies within 250 metres of an industrial disturbance. Ongoing construction of the Site C Dam, coupled with the recent expansion of hydraulic fracturing and LNG production, threatens to further exacerbate processes of landscape fragmentation, biodiversity decline, and ecological instability (Bakker et al. 2021). In response to this systematic infringement of treaty rights, the BRFN filed a legal claim in 2015 against the Province of British Columbia for breaching the terms laid out in Treaty 8. Following years of hearings and failed talks, the case was finally decided in favour of BRFN in summer 2021. This precedent-setting case, known as Yahey v British Columbia, marks the first time a Canadian court has found infringement of Indigenous treaty rights resulting from the cumulative environmental effects of government policies over space and time, rather than as the result of a specific project. According to the final ruling issued by the B.C. Supreme Court: â[i]n causing and/or permitting the cumulative impacts of industrial development on Blueberryâs treaty rights, the Province has breached its obligation to Blueberry under Treaty 8, including its honourable and fiduciary 163 obligations. The Provinceâs mechanisms for assessing and taking into account cumulative effects are lacking and have contributed to the breach of its obligations under Treaty 8; the Province has taken up lands to such an extent that there are not sufficient and appropriate lands in the Blueberry Claim Area to allow for Blueberryâs meaningful exercise of their treaty rights. The Province has therefore unjustifiably infringed Blueberryâs treaty rights in permitting the cumulative impacts of industrial development to meaningfully diminish Blueberryâs exercise of its treaty rightsâ (Yahey v British Columbia 2021). The courtâs ruling in Yahey v British Columbia offers a number of conceptual and analytical insights. It readily demonstrates how a place-based analysis of cumulative environmental effects can challenge popular narratives of the low-carbon transition that seek to deflect responsibility for climate change away from corporate and political actors. By acknowledging the impact of industrial activities across time and space, the court ruling reveals that net-zero decarbonization cannot be conceived as a constellation of individual projects, but rather a dynamic and accumulative process. The ruling not only has significant implications for how the Province of British Columbia must address legacies of social and environmental damage resulting from decades of industrial development, but also how questions of cumulative effects will be addressed in the subsequent assessment and regulation of energy infrastructure projects. This is particularly relevant for Canadaâs decarbonization agendas which, as I have demonstrated, often seek to externalize environmental impacts onto surrounding landscapes. Furthermore, and perhaps most significantly, the ruling is likely to influence future court cases by Indigenous groups, including ongoing legal proceedings led by the West Moberly First 164 Nations against the cumulative environmental impacts of the Site C Dam (West Moberly First Nations v British Columbia 2018). Yahey v British Columbia also demonstrates the value of analyzing energy transitions through a relational ontology, where human and non-human well-being is linked to corresponding transformations in the landscape. By framing renewable energy infrastructures and CCUS projects within relational landscapes shaped by histories of settler colonialism and extractive capitalism, the court case enables a critical re-examination of decarbonization agendas which are often seen as progressive environmental policy. This perspective begins to outline a practical framework for the design of more just and plural low-carbon futures. For instance, a relational approach to energy transitions can broaden the possibilities for the design of future low-carbon landscapes and communities, including the anticipatory effects of these designs of the potential investability of landscapes for de/recarbonization projects (Le Billon and Sommerville 2017). Similarly, by decentering human needs and embedding processes of energy transition within more-than-human landscapes, decarbonization can be viewed as a strategy to simultaneously advance ecosystem health, improve multispecies wellbeing, and begin to address past injustices to Indigenous communities in culturally-appropriate ways. Through both their legal cases and subsequent grassroots projects of reciprocal landscape restoration, BRFN have demonstrated that this work is best undertaken by local communities who are deeply attuned to the subtle relational dynamics embedded within particular places, and not by far-removed state or corporate actors (Blueberry River First Nations 2021). 165 5.5 Conclusion Engaging with discourses of carbon neutrality through the lens of landscape highlights the ambivalence of contemporary decarbonization agendas. Under the guise of climate-friendly policies, these processes may re- rather than decarbonize landscapes, while furthering colonial processes of accumulation by dispossession. In the Canadian case, as I have discussed in this chapter, decarbonization can serve as a kind of eco-colonialism where socio-ecological fixes in the landscape, legitimated by a net-zero discourse, result in the infringement of treaty rights as well as significant landscape disruptions with compounding adverse environmental effects. What is the broader significance of this argument? The urgent and necessary implementation of decarbonization agendas will have significant impacts on landscapes in Canada, and around the world. As historical energy transitions have demonstrated, the shift from one energy regime to another holds the power to transform societies and environments across space and time (Mitchell 2011; Smil 2018). Net-zero decarbonization is no different: the collective shift away from fossil fuels toward renewable sources of energy will fundamentally reconfigure familiar cultural and socioecological patterns that have emerged under fossil capitalismâat least in theory. As my analysis of Canadian energy landscapes suggests, recent financial investments and technological innovations in net-zero decarbonization are often linked to the continued extraction of oil and gas; similarly, new renewable energy infrastructures are often narrowly conceived as sources of clean electricity to subsidize emerging hydrocarbon markets. In both instances, broader impacts on human and nonhuman communities are displaced by the illusion of reduced GHG emissions associated with individual projects, or a reduction in the carbon intensity of specific industrial activities. This singular focus on individual emissions reductions over cumulative environmental effects signals an inability (or unwillingness) to see 166 the forest for the trees. Despite billions of dollars spent in federal and provincial subsidies for low-carbon investment, in 2019 Canada emitted 730 Mt of equivalent emissionsâthe largest annual amount recorded over the previous decade (ECCC 2021b). In this chapter, I seek to problematize contemporary agendas of putative decarbonization by situating energy transitions within landscapes transformed by cumulative social and environmental injustices. By weaving the concept of landscape into analyses of decarbonization, I build upon political economic scholarship by examining how material and relational dynamics shape the ways that energy transitions unfold in particular places. In doing so, I reveal net-zero decarbonization to be an ambiguous environmental strategy when enacted across landscapes transformed by historical and ongoing processes of colonialism and environmental degradation. These processesâmobilized by disparate actors, for different purposes, across multiple spaces and timesâdo not all contribute equally, or indeed at all, to the realization of a just and sustainable low-carbon future. This implies that decarbonization is not necessarily, or simplistically, a positive process; as my analysis of Saaghii Naachii/Peace River landscapes demonstrates, contemporary decarbonization agendas often result in processes of recarbonization that obscure histories of environmental violence and enact new forms of settler colonial injustice. Similar to colonial narratives of ecological modernization (Peyton 2017), decarbonization in Canada exhibits an enormous gulf between its stated goals of GHG emissions reductions and its actual actions on landscapes. Decarbonization agendas claim to offer a pathway toward carbon neutralityâand, implicitly, no net environmental harmsâyet these strategies often overlook their cumulative effects, including increased carbon emissions, adverse impacts on biodiversity and hydrological systems, and, most notably, infringement on Indigenous treaty rights. 167 At the same time, I suggest that foregrounding the concept of landscape in designs for the low-carbon future can foster forms of place-based decision-making that empowers plural voices and perspectives over the narrow interests of government and corporate actors. As demonstrated by BRFN and other Indigenous groups currently working to oppose colonial agendas of recarbonization, the twin goals of climate justice and energy justice cannot be achieved if the reciprocal interrelationships between humans and nonhumans are excluded from debates over potential decarbonization pathways. Landscapes play a central role in this project as both a terrain of intervention and as dynamic political agents in their own right, capable of exercising power and influence over the shape of our future energy system. Externalizing, or simply ignoring the cumulative impacts of decarbonization on landscapes overlooks this critical insight and, ultimately, undermines any attempt to realize a just and sustainable post-carbon future. 168 Chapter 6: Conclusion The act of returning to oneâs home is a timeless and universal experience that spans diverse cultures, societies, and communitiesâboth human and nonhuman. It is a driving force behind the rhythms of everyday life, from the seasonal migration of people and animals across vast distances, to the familiar patterns of oneâs daily commute (at least, before the COVID-19 pandemic forced many of us to remain homebound). Going home can be an uneventful routine or a profound experience, particularly after a long period of separation. Yet as demonstrated by the unprecedented wildfires that have recently ravaged the Pacific Northwest, homelands around the world are rapidly being transformed by climate changeâand, increasingly, climate change mitigation measures. These transformations beg the question: what happens if it is no longer possible to return home? What if, by some overwhelming force, the place that one once called home is altered beyond recognition? What does this mean for oneâs identity and sense of place in the world? 169 Figure 6.1 Construction of the Halfway River Bridge as seen from the current banks of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River. Image credit: Douglas Robb, August 2021. Figure 6.2 Digital rendering of the Halfway River Bridge. Approximate location and viewshed of Figure 5.1 indicated in red. Image credit: BC Hydro / YouTube. 170 These questions were at the forefront of my mind as I paddled down the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River during the summer of 2021. As I have discussed in the preceding chapters, this landscape has experienced significant transformations over the past century, and continues to be altered through contemporary decarbonization agendas. My relationship to this place is fundamentally one of an outsider, but, over the course of my research, I have encountered dozens of individuals (some human, some nonhuman) whose families have lived in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River valley for generations, and who have experienced firsthand the cumulative effects of industrial activities on their homeland. Evidence of these effects are ubiquitous in both subtle and dramatic ways. Upstream from the Site C Dam construction site, massive land clearing works and highway upgrades are rewriting the landscape in anticipation of the future reservoir (Figures 6.1 and 6.2). Pipelines traversing the river valley indicate the omnipresence of intensive oil and gas extraction. Strange lines along the riverbank reveal traces of fluctuating water levels caused by the regulated outflow from the W.A.C. Bennett Dam, scouring the shoreline of vegetation (Figure 6.3). The amount of water in the river is no longer determined by seasonal precipitation or melting snowpack as it once was, but rather by provincial demand for electricity; higher demand equals more water. Travelling through this landscape is a sobering experience. As I paddled toward the Site C Dam through a soon-to-be-flooded section of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River valley, the conceptual and epistemic forms of violence I have explored in the pages of this dissertation became overwhelming real. The air around me was thick with smoke from hundreds of wildfires that burned across British Columbia, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision. Despite being in the middle of a wide river valley, I felt claustrophobic at the through of all the water in the future reservoir pressing down on me. How does one describe the feeling of knowing that everything 171 they can see, hear, touch, and smell will soon be drowned under an artificial lake? Andri Snær Magnason (2021) offers the word angurværdâor âtender-sadnessââto describe the melancholic nostalgia he experienced when a pristine valley in the Icelandic highlands was flooded by the Kárahnjúkar hydroelectric dam. Similarly, the Canadian author Anik See (2004) uses the Portuguese word saudade (for which there is no English equivalent) to describe the sensation of longing for a place that is gone and can never be revisited. These words carry a profound sense of loss, but do not adequately capture the complex feelings I had as I paddled down the river, nor do they reflect anger and frustration expressed to me by the individuals who live in this landscape. Perhaps, as my former graduate student DâArcy Hutton (2020) suggests, the most appropriate word to describe the actions taking place along the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River is topocide, or the deliberate destruction of the unique qualities of a place, akin to an act of war. Figure 6.3 Fluctuating water levels scour lines into the riverbank, impeding vegetation growth. Image credit: Douglas Robb, August 2021. 172 6.1.1 Key Findings Decarbonization is an urgent and necessary project that has profound implications for how humans and nonhumans coexist within evolving energy landscapes. Spatially expansive renewable energy projects and infrastructures of carbon capture, storage, and sequestration are rapidly changing coupled human-environmental systems around the world. Landscapes play a crucial role in this process by mediating practices of construction, care, and reciprocity. However, as projects like the Site C Dam (and others) demonstrate, landscapes can also be harnessed and instrumentalized by extractive and colonial decarbonization agendas. As a result, much like climate change itself, pathways toward decarbonization rooted in anthropocentric, speciesist, and settler colonial logics can (inadvertently) reproduce patterns of injustice and inequality, especially when cumulative landscape impacts are considered. This dissertation offers a critical analysis of contemporary decarbonization agendas through contemporary practices of landscape visualization, manipulation, and valuation. Whereas global decarbonization agendas are often articulated in abstract terms such as GHG emissions reduction targets or atmospheric carbon concentrations, I have endeavoured to situate energy transitions within physical landscapes where material, ecological, and capital flows intersect with cultural values, nonhuman politics, and colonial histories. By engaging directly with landscapes themselves, this dissertation seeks to make abstract processes of global energy transition real in order to open them up to critique and creative reimagination. Research on these themes is rapidly emerging as societies race to confront the catastrophic effects of climate change. However, the frantic pace of investment and technological development, driven predominantly by incumbent fossil fuel interests, often has unintended or perverse effects. These effects are exacerbated by discourses and design projects that overlook or 173 downplayâand hence depoliticizeâthe cumulative environmental impacts of the low-carbon transition. Landscapes are a powerful lens through which to interrogate these ambivalent processes. I have sought to address these topics through an interdisciplinary analysis situated between geography and landscape architecture. This analysis is grounded in four concepts which I use to investigate the material-discursive production of energy landscapes: double vision (Chapter 2), planetary voyeurism (Chapter 2), the water-energy nexus (Chapter 4), and recarbonization (Chapter 5). In mobilizing these terms, my intention is not to coin more cumbersome academic neologisms. Rather, I seek to understand the multiple ways that geographers and landscape architects can intervene in processes of energy transition in order to advance more just and inclusive post-carbon futures. Accordingly, this dissertation mobilizes a relational, place-based analytical framework to examine how contemporary decarbonization agendas result in processes of landscape change. This research builds on concepts from human geography (particularly political economy and political ecology scholarship) in order to challenge the abstract discourses used to articulate the climate crisis and our various design responses to it. As Haraway (2015) suggests, universalizing concepts such as the Anthropocene overly emphasize the power and agency of particular humans (i.e. white males) in shaping biophysical landscapes, to the exclusion of situated power dynamics. Similar criticisms have been made against academic and policy literatures on decarbonization, where discourses of anthropocentric exceptionalism exclude other essential perspectives from the design of post-carbon futures (Calvert et al. 2019). This dissertation echoes these critiques; as Escobar (2018) suggests, design transitions that fail to incorporate a plurality of voices and perspectives will inevitably reproduce the power structures of patriarchal 174 capitalist modernity that underwrite our current conditions of social inequality and socioecological instability. My research offers a partial counterweight to the tendency toward abstraction, anthropocentrism, and depoliticization in contemporary decarbonization discourse. Following Escobarâs (2017) call âto nourish designâs potential [beyond] the functionalist, rationalistic, and industrial traditions from which it emerged, and within which it still functions with ease,â my dissertation endeavours to model an interdisciplinary approach to energy transition research âattuned to the relational dimension of lifeâ (ix). Specifically, it seeks to embed contemporary decarbonization debates within the asymmetrical social and political power dynamics of contested landscapes. I argue that focusing these debates through the prism of landscape re-politicizes decarbonization agendas by foregrounding the complex interactions between place-based actors and globalized flows of emissions, energy, and capital. Moreover, a landscape approach reveals how the burdens and benefits of energy transitions are unevenly distributed across time and space; in the case of the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River, these dynamics are visible in the continuation of historical injustices associated with reckless resource exploitation and the infringement of Indigenous treaty rights. By documenting how designs for decarbonization unfold in particular placesâled by diverse actors, often for divergent and potentially contradictory purposesâthis research challenges geographer and landscape architects to confront the ways in which their work contributes to the production of social and environmental injustices. At the same time, it offers suggestions for how landscape education and practice might be enhanced through deeper engagement with contemporary social theory and forms of land-based knowledge. 175 6.1.2 Theoretical Implications and Contributions In the coming years and decades, decarbonization will fundamentally transform Earthâs landscapes. My research integrates archival, ethnographic, and geospatial research methods to examine the effects of this coming energy transition on coupled human-environmental systems. Drawing on theories and concepts from geography and landscape architecture, my dissertation endeavours to better understand how the multi-scalar and spatiotemporal impacts of decarbonization drive processes of uneven development and environmental disturbance. Building on the three argument I present in the Introduction, my research makes several contributions to unresolved questions surrounding the design of post-carbon landscapes: 1. How do geographers and designers produce the conditions necessary for decarbonization, both materially and discursively? This dissertation investigates previously overlooked objects and themes beyond the traditional bounds of landscape architectural scholarshipâfrom the Mackenzie Tree Crusher to experimental technologies of enhanced oil recoveryâto understand how designers transform landscapes into sites of energy transition. In doing so, my research unpacks the ideologies and worldviews latent to material-discursive practices of landscape formation, and examines how these practices shape decarbonization agendas. As Hill (2005) suggests, our conception of landscape is largely determined by the language and metaphors we use to perceive environments and reify them as terrain for design interventions. Similarly, in his analysis of resource landscapes, Bridge (2011, 821) argues that there is ânothing natural about natural resources;â rather, they are produced through the application of specific cultural, economic, and political technologies that render the nonhuman world available to forms of human control and 176 management. My research builds on these insights to suggest that landscapes of energy transitions emerge through onto-epistemological conditions, modes of governance, and political economic systems that shape how geographers and landscape architects relate to the world and imagine future possibilities. The extent to which these relationships are structured by the consumptions of fossil fuels will inevitably dictate the kind of energy transition pathways that designers are able to envision. Overcoming the âcarbon formâ will require a significant amount of work and discomfort on the part of designersâand everyone elseâcomplicit in the production of unjust and unsustainable landscapes and built environments (Barber 2020; Iturbe 2019). In questioning the epistemological and ontological production of site, my work challenges prevailing design responses to the global climate crisis by demonstrating how agendas of putative decarbonization often lead geographers and landscape architects to produce and reinforce conditions of socioecological instability; for instance, through the production of landscapes of recarbonization that actively contribute to a net increase of greenhouse gas emissions. In this example, as in the case of many other controversial energy projects, environmental harms function as a proxy for social and political inequalities that become spatialized in the production of material landscapes. This dissertation therefore seeks to âunlearn landscapeâ (Friess and Jazeel 2017) in the context of energy transitions, and to advance a decarbonization agenda grounded in a more plural understandings of site. 177 2. How do geographers and landscape architects âseeâ climate change? Do these methods improve or deepen intersectional inequalities? This dissertation explores how decarbonization agendas are shaped by practices of landscape observation and visualization. Over the past century, technical advances in cartography and aerial photogrammetry have enabled a broad range of landscape visualization techniques (Dyce 2013). More recently, digital technologies such as satellites, drones, and distributed environmental sensing networks have enabled designers to âseeâ environmental changes on a planetary scale (Gabrys 2016). The disciplines of geography and landscape architecture have evolved alongside these innovations and, for better and for worse, it has been profoundly shaped by the theoretical paradigms embedded within methodologies of landscape perception and representation (Hill 2005). On one hand, forms of technologically-mediated vision allow geographers and landscape architects to observe and intervene in urgent environmental crises that exceed the perceptual capabilities of an individual human. However, as Figure 6.2 demonstrates, landscape visualizations can also obscure narratives of conflict and environmental violence, and function as powerful tools of persuasion in support of particular decarbonization agendas. Images such as these mobilize highly technical forms of data and expertise to legitimize certain energy futures, while simultaneously excluding other forms of knowledge from participating in the design of post-carbon futures. My research calls attention to these conceptual pitfalls by modelling practices of place-based analysis that engage multiple ways of perceiving and visualizing landscape. In doing so, this dissertation seeks to dismantle decarbonization agendas that rely on representational paradigms rooted in extractive and colonial traditions. These techniques often fail to disclose the relationship between contemporary decarbonization pathways and the cumulative effects of 178 violent landscape transformations. Yet as Yahey v British Columbia (2021) demonstrates, greater attention to the relational dimensions of landscape can shape decarbonization agendas is powerful ways. Learning to âseeâ landscape through diverse ontologies and epistemologies, including multisensory and more-than-human forms of perception, will expand the possibilities for geography and landscape architecture to intervene in processes of environmental governance, and will engender new opportunities for nonhumans to influence decarbonization agendas. 3. How might decarbonization decentre humans from the design of nonhuman landscapes? The transition from one energy regime to another induces parallel transformations in the ways that humans relate to their environments (Smil 2018). As Malm (2016) describes, the origins of our fossil fuel-based energy system are fundamentally linked to the simultaneous emergence of global capitalism, which exported Enlightenment paradigms of nature (i.e. subject-object dualism) around the world through western imperial expansion. As a result, relational land-based ontologies were violently supplanted by capitalist worldviews that instrumentalized and exploited nonhuman life in order to secure the conditions necessary for the production of capitalist modernity; a process which persists to this very day (Mitchell 2011). The task of desining a post-carbon future therefore requires more than simply substituting one fuel source for another, but rather demands a fundamental reconceputalization of human relationships to land beyond the paradigms of fossil capital. Accordingly, this dissertation offers a critique of decarbonization agendas rooted in logics of extraction and colonialism that underwrite our current energy regime. Building on insights from Indigenous knowledge and the ecoloigcal sciences (Kimmerer 2013; Simard 2021; Todd 2015; Watts 2013), my research begins from an understanding of landscapes as sites of 179 subject-subject relations, rather than subject-object relations. I argue that a relational understanding of landscape is a necessary precondition for the design of post-carbon futures. As such, my research looks to integrate technologies and ontologies that enable greater agency for nonhumans in landscape architectural practice, such as multi-sensorial modes of nonhuman communication (Ahn et al. 2016) or Indigenous concepts of reciprocal landscape restoration (BRFN 2021). As Blaser (2013) suggests, every design tool and concept is ontological in the sense that it âinaugurates a set of rituals, ways of doing, and modes of beingâ (108) that shape conditions of possibility. Geographer and landscape architects, I argue, therefore have a responsibility to reject practices that uphold narrow and exclusionary definitions of agency that contribute to the instrumentalization of nonhumans in designs for decarbonization. This important work not only applies to the nonhuman world, but also to contemporary injustices pertaining to issues of labour, race, and settler colonialism that are rooted in the inequalities of neoliberal design production (Spencer 2016). 6.1.3 Future Directions This dissertation provides a critical analysis of contemporary decarbonization agendas through interdisciplinary concepts of landscape, visualization, and the production of space. Drawing from interdisciplinary scholarship in human geography and landscape architecture, this research critically analyzes how contemporary decarbonization agendas (re)produce conditions of uneven development and socioecological instability. Building on this analysis, my research also considers how geographers and landscape architects might foreground questions of place and landscape in designs for the low-carbon transition in order to elucidate more just and inclusive energy futures. I offer this dissertation as a provocation. I believe that it is both possible 180 and necessary for geographers and landscape architects to critique their disciplineâs complicity in processes of colonialism, extractivism, and capital accumulation, while also working towards the realization of more just and inclusive energy futures. Failure to do so, I suggest, risks inadvertantly replicating the constituative logics and injustices of our current fossil fuel-based energy system in our designs for the low-carbon transition. As I write these words from my home in Vancouver, the Pacific Northwest is experiencing an unprecedented âbomb cycloneâ causing flash floods and mudslides in landscapes recently ravaged by wildfires. Similar stories of ecological destabilization are currently unfolding around the world as political leaders assemble at COP26 to debate potential pathways toward decarbonization. Geographers and landscape architects can play a central role in shaping the outcomes of these debates. 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Thesis/Dissertation
eng
Geography
Vancouver : University of British Columbia Library
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
Graduate
Bakker, Karen J.
Dam to delta : visualizing landscapes of decarbonization in the Saaghii Naachii/Peace River region, Canada
Text
Still Image