intricate methods are used in the spatial design to firstly lull customers into a state of unreflective numbness and passivity, and secondly to coax those customers into buying as many products as possible. Examples of these methods include limited entrances that make it difficult to leave without passing more shops; orderly processions of window displays along lengthy corridors that give the illusion of endless choice, and generic Muzak and the calming sound of fountains that numb the mind like white noise. The spatial qualities are merely a catalyst for increased consumption, and this “weightless realm” is essentially defined by the commodities that it contains.70 Furthermore, Pallasmaa points out that often in the most technologically advanced places, such as airports and hospitals, we feel the most alienated as they are designed only with the visual in mind, rather than the comfort of the whole body.71 In the interests of function and efficiency, these spaces fail to take into account the complexity of the human experience, and reduce us to alienated individuals, enduring these spaces as a means to an end rather than as meaningful experiences in themselves. Mark Kigwell describes the airport as “the most vivid expression of the consumption/movement imperatives of current urbanism.”72 Just as cities have more or less relinquished their role as centres of production and manufacture to make way for shopping, food and entertainment, the airport is not a meaningful gateway into the city, but a placeless space where shops and restaurants serve as distractions from the physical reality of this alienating environment. It is rare in the present day for travellers to encounter the Industrial Age experience of arriving right in the middle of a city, with the first encounter being of the grandiose surroundings of the central train station. Instead, the traveller arrives in an airport that looks and feels more or less the same as the one where they departed from, and is often several miles away from the city centre itself. The airport terminal is a nebulous portal, detached from the unique qualities of the place that it is intended to connect you to.
SPACES FOR BEING Somewhere between the distinctly non-human architecture that aspires to only an image or idea, and the controlling kind that crudely penetrates one’s headspace to manipulate behaviour, there is a type of architecture that stimulates the senses gently without trying to impose any image or message, or to assert control. A type of space that allows you to simply feel its material qualities in relationship to your own body and mind, softly tapping into your consciousness without overwhelming the senses. A prime example of this can be found in the Turbine Hall of Tate Modern, a 1960s power station originally designed by Giles Gilbert Scott, transformed into an art gallery by architects Herzog and De Meuron. A space of outstandingly generous proportions, the Turbine Hall arouses a feeling similar to Adam Sharr’s description of the mountain walk discussed previously. The vastness of the space makes you conscious of your own relative size and arouses wonder and awareness, but without dwarfing you. When asked whether he wants people to be taken aback when they enter the building, Jacques Herzog responded, “I always like things that don’t bother me when I don’t want them to. I like things which work, which are well done, which have shadow at the right moment, which are well lit, but where there is much more for those who want to discover it.”73 This alludes to his appreciation of the user of a building as an engaged and inquisitive sensate being, invited to discover the peculiarities of a space through their own experience, rather than as an arbitrary datum onto whom the space is imposed. Moreover, he discusses his distaste for monumentalism, stating that it “doesn’t mean something that is big but having a one and only goal, which is to impress and to manipulate people.”74 The Turbine Hall feels like the antithesis of this goal, with its ramp that gently lowers you into the heart of the space, the humble softness of the pale concrete, and the sheer vastness yet simplicity of the space that feels resolutely public yet allows anybody their own intimate spatial experience. It is a space for movement or stillness, conversation or silence, excitement or calm. It feels as though you could lie down on the floor in deep contemplation without seeming inappropriate. Quite simply, it is a space for Being. On the other side of the Thames, a seemingly divergent yet equally intriguing spatial experience can be had in the gloomy, cave-like confines of Gordon’s Wine Bar. In an unsuspecting side street near Charing Cross, stepping down into the candlelit interior feels as though you are arriving in a space that got left behind as the rest of London hurtled headlong into the modern day. Having operated as a wine bar for over a century, this former seedsmen’s warehouse is deeply rooted in a sense of time - like the Tate Modern, the space gains its character through minimal interference with the physical qualities of the existing space,
Margaret Crawford, ‘The World in a Shopping Mall’, p. 13. Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin, p. 19. 72 Mark Kigwell, Concrete Reveries: Consciousness and the City, (New York: Viking, 2008), p. 149. 73 Jacques Herzog, ‘Conversation: Jacques Herzog, Nicholas Serota and Rowan Moore’, 37-57, Rowan Moore and Raymund Ryan, Building Tate Modern, (London: Tate Gallery, 2000), p. 52. 74 Jacques Herzog, ‘Conversation: Jacques Herzog, Nicholas Serota and Rowan Moore’, p. 53. 70 71