Psychology and architecture
How do we use space? Where do we stand, what are we surrounded by, what do we meet in our everyday life; do we like it or not?
They say architecture is way more than just the looks of a building. Even if we can’t see the details and often don’t appreciate their design/conception, there is something in the good architectural idea, which attracts us, caresses the eye, and also adds deeper meaning and message. Through those visible elements of our environment, we can change it, ennoble it, we can combine what’s aesthetic with what’s functional. Indeed, where good architecture dwells, spaces not only look different, but they also conduit for art, social events, more harmonious and fulfilling life.
So far, so good. But what happens to those carriers of spaces, that bring destruction, dirt and ugliness? If they’re building or elements of the infrastructure, they can be included, entwined in the urban environment in a new way, or they can give way to something brand new; renovation vs. demolition. There are carriers though, that are animated – the people that we see in the raw spaces and that carry the same raw energy. What happens to them when their “natural habitat” changes? Does change include them and helps them adapt to what’s new and different? Or they stay on the same space like a stain on a new clothing? Or maybe they search and find a new space, pushed beyond what’s beautiful and functional – space to de-ennoble with their presence?
It is more often that I walk through the city and I see these exact opposites. Of course, senses prefer what sounds good and what scents delicious. The gaze stops upon pretty examples – buildings or people. We don’t want to know about the rest, we don’t want it to be in the way. We are angry at its existence and the fact that it’s allowed to pollute, to disfigure “our spaces”. Every building renovated, saved from the hands of the ivy and demolition, inspires us. Every space that the big city conquers for a festival, art event or book exhibition, adds to the value of our urban experiences.
But the other…that stands on the way of this atmosphere. Something that refuses to inscribe itself in our modern views of architecture, function, emotion of our lives. What do we do with it?
…does it like what we have to offer? It it, when it meets us on our walk after brunch, says to itself: “Oh, I so want this!” Or does it hate us, because it knows it can never be like us; and at some point, it tries to destroy us?
I often wonder: is it really that two worlds exist – and one of them is unnecessary?