Words: Hanna Ibrahim (she/her)
Cities may appear to evolve naturally, but their transformation is always guided by choices. Each planning decision determines which buildings endure and which disappear.
Cities change constantly, though rarely by accident. Streets disappear, buildings are cleared, and new developments rise where older structures once stood. Behind these transformations lie decisions about what should remain and what can be removed. Glasgow’s landscape has been recast many times over the past century, through redevelopment projects that promised progress. Yet, every change carries a quieter consequence. When buildings vanish, the lives and communities that once filled them risk dissolving into the periphery of the city’s memory. Demolition is about something more than construction work, it’s a question of memory. What parts of a city are preserved, and which are permitted to fade?
Few projects illustrate this more starkly than the construction of the M8 motorway. Built during the 1960s and 1970s as part of a modernisation programme, the road promised to move Glasgow into a “new urban future.” To make room for it, entire terraces of Victorian tenements were cleared around Charing Cross and Anderston. For planners of the time, the reasoning seemed straightforward. Cars symbolised progress, and the dense streets of the 19th century city were seen as obstacles rather than communities.
More than changing traffic routes, the motorway altered the everyday geography of the city. Neighbourhoods that once flowed naturally into one another were divided by concrete and fast-moving lanes. Streets connecting families, corner shops, and local pubs disappeared almost overnight. Today, the M8 cuts across Glasgow, its constant stream of vehicles passing above places where ordinary life once unfolded. What remains is not only infrastructure but the trace of a planning vision that valued speed over the continuity of neighbourhood life.
Housing policies during the same period followed a similar logic. In an attempt to tackle overcrowding, Glasgow replaced traditional tenements with high-rise estates. In Sighthill, ten tower blocks rose between 1962 and 1966 as part of this experiment in modern living. The towers promised heating, indoor bathrooms and open space around the buildings: improvements many older homes lacked. For a time, they appeared to represent a brighter chapter for the city.
The reality proved more complicated. Over the following decades, many high-rise estates became associated with isolation, declining maintenance, and economic hardship. By the early 21st century, the same buildings once presented as solutions were coming down. The Red Road flats – formally among the tallest residential buildings in Europe – were dismantled between 2012 and 2015. Sighthill has since been rebuilt again, this time with redesigned streets. Glasgow’s skyline has formed a cycle of removal and rebuilding, each generation reshaping the ambitions of the previous one.
Behind these transformations lies a political truth rarely spoken aloud: the remaking of the city demonstrates who it ultimately serves. Urban change is often framed as improvement, yet it is tied to land values, investment strategies, and the priorities of those with the authority to reshape the city. Empty ground can become more valuable than occupied buildings, particularly in city centres, where redevelopment promises higher returns. In this sense, the disappearance of older structures is often part of a wider economic calculation.
Occasionally, something breaks the surface. In March this year, a fire tore through Forsyth House at 105 Union Street, cutting through the Victorian building and shutting down surrounding streets. Reports suggested the blaze began in a small ground-floor shop selling vapes and other goods, some unregistered. What first appeared isolated instead exposed a pattern: unclear ownership, loosened oversight, and ageing structures resting on valuable ground. It is a reminder that parts of the city are not so much planned as tolerated, where responsibility thins and neglect settles into the spaces left behind.
Walking through Glasgow today can feel like moving across overlapping versions of the same city. Under motorway bridges lie neighbourhoods that once connected communities across the West End and City Centre. For many residents displaced during earlier clearances, relocation meant more than a new address. Families moved from familiar streets into tower blocks on the edges of the city, leaving behind networks of neighbours and everyday routines that had defined their lives. Some communities never fully reformed after these moves.
The future of these spaces remains uncertain. Discussions around the ageing M8 viaducts now include proposals to repair them, redesign the surrounding areas, or even remove sections entirely to reconnect long-divided neighbourhoods. Elsewhere, regeneration projects promise new housing, public spaces, and greener streets in areas like Dalmarnock. Whether these plans succeed in restoring community life, rather than repeating earlier cycles of disruption, remains an open question.
Cities may appear to evolve naturally, but their transformation is always guided by choices. Each planning decision determines which buildings endure and which disappear. Over time, those choices shape how a city remembers its past. Glasgow’s skyline tells this story in fragments: a surviving tenement, a rebuilt neighbourhood, and the occasional empty space where something familiar once stood.
