Architecture, human interaction, and the soul
How beauty and humans keep me moving through the moments, while bare square rooms unbalance me.
The space and structures that surround me at any given time have a profound impact on my psyche. When I step into a cozy log cabin, into a majestic, centuries-old cathedral or castle, into a Manhattan flat crammed with books and mismatched furniture, or into a rambling Victorian wooden home full of art and light, my soul feels nourished and expands. I am particularly partial to old structures, their floors worn into grooves by decades of feet, their banisters palm-polished. I like the reminder that I am just one person in a long line of people, that many have taken these steps before me. (This is one reason I love our ancient house in Sauve).
But if you set me down in a square, white-walled modern apartment, anything made of cement, anything minimalist, anything without evidence of the personalities who dwell within, my soul shrinks and starves. My reactions are often severe; I feel the claustrophobia of imprisonment, the death of imagination, a spiraling of mood, an inability to work or stay inside. Anyone who can bloom and experience joy in a soulless Soviet block of cement deserves my infinite respect.
You’ve almost certainly developed architectural affections of your own, although one of my closest friends claims to be completely unaffected by the kind of place she inhabits. (I find this inconceivable). I don’t expect people to share my preferences, which is why there are so many kinds of buildings. Although our societies make too many disposable soulless buildings, especially for those who cannot afford choice of habitat.
This little preamble is to explain one reason I find myself having an unusually dire week. This week and next are my daughter’s school holidays. During this break, she has to be at rehearsals in a Montpellier theatre every single day, not only most of the afternoon but also until 10 p.m. Unwilling to spend four hours a day commuting back and forth to the city, we decided to stay down here for the duration of these final rehearsals.
I had imagined this as a happy city holiday, a couple of weeks living amidst city bustle, where I could step outside and find a coffeeshop with vegan cappuccinos, where I could interact with other humans, where I could be steps away from the museums and gluten-free bakeries.
Yet as we prepared, I felt presentiments of doom. Usually when I am packing for a trip of any length, I am full of focused mania. I have energy. I feel excitement. All of this was lacking as I organized my pill boxes, packed up our food, and shut down my computer. I’m just not good at transitions right at the moment, I thought. It will be fine once we arrive.
Alas, this was not the case. First, the flat in which I am writing is one of those airbnbs that requires a code to enter. A code at the battered outside door, another code on the inside door. No one to welcome you and hand you a key. I realize this is how things are done now, but it is so impersonal we might as well be renting from a robot. I need human interaction, even the smallest of interactions. Someone who arranges to hand over the key in person. A front desk clerk. Even a grumpy one. Just a human. I want a human to talk with if I need help with anything, if something about the flat confuses me (the nondraining sink in the bathroom). A human to say good morning.
That flat itself is two rooms, soulless boxy white rooms bare of art, books, coffee mugs, food storage cupboards, adequate pots and pans, places to put clothing, dish soap, sponges, a proper desk, spatula, and charm. As soon as we arrived I felt my breathing change, a panicky flutter in my chest. I felt like a trapped animal.
I understand that we cannot afford to be in the city center for these two weeks, and that it is convenient to be near Theo’s theatre, but I had not anticipated feeling more helpless and isolated than I ever have. I mean, my hospital room was more comfortable. I at least had a working bathroom and a proper desk.
I realize my complaints are petty, ridiculous even. Perhaps none of these things would bother me were I not already clutching for handholds on the slippery walls of despair. Staying here does not qualify as tragedy, or even true difficulty. So how can I explain its impact on my mind?
I worry about the effect of my despair on my health. I know that I ought to be feeling positive. Or at least not feeling so heavy with the darkness. And I am using all of the tools at my disposal. Look, I’m writing! I do pilates, I eat, I do breathing exercises. Yet sometimes all the work I know how to do is not enough.
Yesterday, needing to escape, Tim and I decided to go see a movie. There’s an arty cinema near the center that has a dozen different films playing. We settled on Deux Soeurs, the French title for the Mike Leigh film Hard Truths. Theo chose to stay in the flat to write. Tim drove us to the tram, because of my foot, and we took the 50-minute tram ride into the city (we could have gotten there faster from home).
On the tram, my soul sank further in the throng of bodies. I needed air. I felt scared enough about my depression to start worrying that I would end up back in a psychiatric hospital. I tried to explain to Tim how I was feeling and started to cry. It was a relief to arrive at the Place de Comédie and step out into air. At the cinema, we bought tickets and noticed they didn’t sell popcorn. Tim tried to buy it at the grocery store, but they only had sugared popcorn (Europeans have this disgusting habit of putting sugar on their popcorn), so Tim went to another movie theater to buy me popcorn. Because that is the kind of mensch he is. But the usher would not allow me into the movie theatre with popcorn. “We don’t want to clean it up,” he said. I wanted to protest that I was tidy and wouldn’t drop any, but I knew how useless it would be to argue rules with the French. I confess it was kind of nice to be in a movie theatre where people weren’t stuffing their faces and rustling packets. Hardly anyone was there, as it was the middle of the day.
Wow, is this film bleak. The main character’s apartment was even more depressing than our current flat, which is saying something. Utterly without personality or creativity or sign of humanity. Which was the point, of course. Pansy was the most depressed, angry, frightened, bitter woman imaginable. Incapable of a pleasant interaction with the most well-meaning of people. Watching her, I thought 1) I must not become like her, I must try not to be so negative and 2) I am fucking Pollyanna Sunshine next to this woman. The film contrasted her with her sister, a life-loving woman with a warm family. The scenes of her sister were like a breath of oxygen when we were gasping for breath from the claustrophobia of spending time with Pansy and her grim family. Her sad, patient husband and her motivationless son. It was a good movie, devastating ending. While it didn’t lift my spirits, it at least distracted me from myself. Which was its main job.
We took the tram back out to the flat, where I was late to meet my Parisien author client for an editing session. It was good to work with him, as always, and takes me thoroughly away from my own life. Keeping busy and focused outwards helps. When we finished, I managed to cook a simple dinner of rice and stir-fried vegetables and tofu, in a kitchen with only one pot and a frying pan with no handle. While I cooked, Theo worked on a play and Tim did Duolingo. Having them near me, all three of us together, brought me some peace. There are moments here I think, I’m okay, I will be okay. And moments I think, can I survive the next five minutes?
After dinner, I had a Zoom call with a close friend, which was another breath of fresh air. Human interaction. Which reminds me that at the grocery store yesterday, Tim tried to use a self-checkout machine, but it flashed an error message. We waited ages for the attendant to help us; none of the other machines was working either, so she had to help everyone. Eventually, Tim gave up and went to the in-person checkout, which was quick and efficient. People are always better. Always. The more places that turn themselves into vending machines and robots, the more places I will have to avoid, just to keep my soul alive.
