On 28 January 1596, Francis Drake died at sea. For England, Drake is a national hero: a bold navigator, a decisive strategist, a symbol of the maritime rise of a modern power. For Spain, he is a villain: a pirate, a plunderer of cities, a direct enemy of the Spanish Monarchy. One man, two narratives. One life, two memories.
This anniversary once again allows me to raise one of my recurring questions: does a neutral interpretation of the past exist? And, when translated into our own field, does a neutral, objective restoration exist, one entirely free of point of view?
Two historians—one Spanish and one English—can study Drake with identical documentary rigor and yet arrive at profoundly different conclusions. Not because one lies and the other tells the truth, but because the framework from which history is read conditions its meaning. The archive is the same; the interpretation is not. Historical heritage is not merely a collection of facts, but a field of meanings in dispute.
In the same way, two restorers can intervene in the same monument with identical technical rigor, the same historical knowledge and the same material means, and return to society two different understandings of the building. Not two different buildings, but two different narratives. One may emphasize continuity; another, rupture. One may privilege one historical phase; another, a different one. Both can be honest.
Absolute neutrality is a comforting fiction. There is no restoration without interpretation, just as there is no history without a point of view. Even the decision “not to intervene” is already a form of intellectual intervention.
Objectivity in restoration does not consist in the absence of criteria, but in the explicit statement of those criteria: in making clear from where one acts, within what limits, with what intention and with what historical awareness.
The figure of Francis Drake cannot be fixed in a single image without betraying its complexity. He is the mirror of two different national memories, of two constructed narratives, of two opposing identities.
The same is true of many inherited monuments, landscapes and cities: they do not have a single meaning, but several, sometimes contradictory ones. Our task is not to erase this tension, but to make it legible. Not to impose a single truth, but to return to society an object that is intelligible in its complexity. To restore is not to close the debate; it is to order it.
To remember this anniversary, 28 January, is to accept that heritage is not neutral ground. That every intervention is a taking of position. And that professional ethics do not consist in pretending objectivity, but in assuming, with rigor, honesty and transparency, the position from which we interpret the past in order to return it to a living, present narrative.
Luis Cercos, Paris, January 2026.
This anniversary once again allows me to raise one of my recurring questions: does a neutral interpretation of the past exist? And, when translated into our own field, does a neutral, objective restoration exist, one entirely free of point of view?
Two historians—one Spanish and one English—can study Drake with identical documentary rigor and yet arrive at profoundly different conclusions. Not because one lies and the other tells the truth, but because the framework from which history is read conditions its meaning. The archive is the same; the interpretation is not. Historical heritage is not merely a collection of facts, but a field of meanings in dispute.
In the same way, two restorers can intervene in the same monument with identical technical rigor, the same historical knowledge and the same material means, and return to society two different understandings of the building. Not two different buildings, but two different narratives. One may emphasize continuity; another, rupture. One may privilege one historical phase; another, a different one. Both can be honest.
Absolute neutrality is a comforting fiction. There is no restoration without interpretation, just as there is no history without a point of view. Even the decision “not to intervene” is already a form of intellectual intervention.
Objectivity in restoration does not consist in the absence of criteria, but in the explicit statement of those criteria: in making clear from where one acts, within what limits, with what intention and with what historical awareness.
The figure of Francis Drake cannot be fixed in a single image without betraying its complexity. He is the mirror of two different national memories, of two constructed narratives, of two opposing identities.
The same is true of many inherited monuments, landscapes and cities: they do not have a single meaning, but several, sometimes contradictory ones. Our task is not to erase this tension, but to make it legible. Not to impose a single truth, but to return to society an object that is intelligible in its complexity. To restore is not to close the debate; it is to order it.
To remember this anniversary, 28 January, is to accept that heritage is not neutral ground. That every intervention is a taking of position. And that professional ethics do not consist in pretending objectivity, but in assuming, with rigor, honesty and transparency, the position from which we interpret the past in order to return it to a living, present narrative.
Luis Cercos, Paris, January 2026.
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