What outside space reflects your inside space?

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What outside space reflects your inside space?

I've been reading The Atrocity Exhibition by J.G. Ballard recently:

http://tinyurl.com/j2yax

Amongst a lot of stuff about car crashes, astronauts and images of dead politicians and film stars there's an extremely interesting idea.

Throughout the book he tries to turn character and place inside out, considering the landscape to be part of the nervous system or body of the characters. At various points characters gravitate to certain places and try to change them, as those space were inside of their mind rather than outside them, so that building something outside of yourself is a way of creating something inside yourself.

This set me thinking: What spaces best reflect us? Which spaces do we consider to be extensions of ourselves? Are there any places that we feel sum us up better than other things we can say about ourselves?

I suppose we try to make our homes a mirror of our best intentions about ourselves, with comforts and furniture and ornament, but they more often become reflections of how we really are. For example, the more disorderly my thinking becomes, the more disorderly my home.

In terms of outside spaces, I love motorway services. there's seems to be something about motorways and motorway services that sum up something about me. They're both exotic and mundane. They in-between points that no-one visits in and of themselves. People wash up there regularly. They promise great mysteries but they are only glimpsed briefly.

Have you ever had the experience of changing a space around you so that it changes how you think or feel, as if you were modifying your own nervous system? A very simple example of this is rearranging an office so that it becomes a place to work efficiently. You do this, you come into it and you work. This could be seen as rearranging the outside world as a means of rearranging your interior world.

So, a few questions to chew over there.

Space and place: where do you stop and the outside world begin?

Cheers,

Mark Brown, editor (on leave), www.ABCtales.com

Christ, that's a deep one for a Tuesday. I have a problem with sharing my space. The Husband and I have very different 'spaces' and it's a continual struggle. He just loves clutter, and occupies every possible space with wires, bits of gadget, tools, etc. He overpacks for trips; he leaves his socks scattered about under sofa cusions. I prefer a more spartan existence and would, if I didn't have said husband and two young kids, have a very different space. So, trying to rearrange for me is, at the moment, a lesson in futility. I love motorway services, as well! I enjoy the fluid efficiency of them (well, as efficient as the British can be, but I'm biased). I also enjoy hotels; I like the sensation of being at home/not at home. The sense of transience in comfort. The fact that I don't have to cook or clean.
The outside world begins at my garden gate. My "office" walls are covered with photos of friends and family, also my beer mat collection. The house is filled with books, records, CDs, knick-knacks from far and wide. I love houses that tell you all about the people that live in them. Clutter isn't clutter, it's warmth. I'd never be able to trust anyone living in a minimalist space. What are they hiding? Where's the love? I like empty cinemas in the afternoon, sweaty clubs with live jazz, wild and windy places, islands, long sandy beaches, pubs with good beer. Can't agree about motorways services. I think they're vile, soulless places, as are shopping malls, supermarkets, airports. Visit my blog: http://whatisthisstrangeplace.blogspot.com/
For me, having a minimalist space wouldn't reflect 'hiding' anything: it would reflect that I have *nothing* to hide. I would love a minimalist space: not a white and chrome and sharp edges-type space, mind you, but kilim rugs, cushions, textiles, plants, and minimal furniture, but full of rich colours. I think the Japanese have it right, as well, in terms of furniture. For my husband, the 'clutter' just expresses a cluttered mind that runs at gas-mark 4, not 'warmth'. Just chaos. I think I'd be happy in a convent.
Ha-ha. Well I'm happy to have a cluttered mind, Archer. Can't see how being surrounded by the things that are personal to you could be considered hiding. But I approve of the boldness of your decor. The convent thing could be arranged. Talk to Jude. Visit my blog: http://whatisthisstrangeplace.blogspot.com/
No no no. I didn't mean that having cluttered environs implies that clutterbugs hide; no more than I would hide behind a minimalist space. I have a few sentimental wotsies I hang onto: artifacts from Indonesia, little enamelled pill-pots given to me by an ex, etc. But I'm a nomad at heart - hence the preference for Spartan surroundings. I like to travel light. My husband, on the other hand, still carries around his rock collection from childhood (and I mean, rocks, not pretty or interesting stones or whathaveyou) and has insisted on lugging a few old books from uni around with us on our two or three moves overseas, even though he doesn't read them anymore. There's sentimentalia; and then there's clutter.
Right, I'm with you. Visit my blog: http://whatisthisstrangeplace.blogspot.com/
I don't know if this is relevant to this thread, but when I climbed Snowdon when I was nine, all I could think when I got to the top was, 'When can I have my Mars Bar?'
Um. Does that reflect the wide open spaces of your psyche, into which you subvert a secret craving for Mars bars?
I think it was the fact that I was in a wonderful space - the whole view was amazing, but the whole way up my dad kept saying, 'When we get to the top you can have a Mars Bar,' and it sort of stuck in my mind. Recently I went through all the stuff I own and got rid of about 75% of it. I have been carrying everything I own - included old school reports, photographs, letters, folders of school work, everything - since I left home at 18. Boxes and boxes of the stuff. I am messy by nature anyway, so all this stuff used to just cover my entire floor of my room and get pretty disgusting. Someone once said, 'Why does your room always have random Fisherman's Friends across the carpet?' and my truthful answer was, 'I do not know.' So, I sorted through it all and got rid of most of it. Including all my CD boxes (I have about 250), and put the CDs into a folder of those slip cases instead. I realised my things didn't need to own me, and that you can't hold onto the past by attaching random objects to yourself in the name of memories. I feel a lot better now about it. Free-er. My room is still a tip - no quite so much of one.
(by got rid I mean recycling and taking to local Cancer charity shop)
I too love motorways. Ever since I was a small child, they've drawn me into a sense of yearning, although I know not what it is for which I yearn other than it is remote and warm and sunny and light into the evening and at the edge of something. Dungeness is the complete reflection of my inner self. I want to live there one day. Contrary to popular belief, convents are full of clutter.

 

The more disorderly my thinking becomes the more beautiful my house becomes. One of my favourite things to do (geekily and perhaps a bit oddly) is to make my room feel right. I hate everything to be tidied away, I hate three piece suites and matching curtains. I have like most people moved house more times than I can think of and never stayed in a house for long. I dont mind where I live as long as I can make it feel like mine. It's fun. I calms me and makes me feel like myself. I have even done it to my desk. I work in an art gallery, which helps. I am quite cruel about what I will have around me, if its not stimulating or excessively functional. This possibly makes me odd. Span
Motorway service stations make me have heart palpatations. Me and my sister both lived with separate parents when they split up, and my parents - who refused to speak to each other for nearly 10 years - would meet up at service stations (usually South Mimms) to 'swap' us over... I used to argue with my ex boyfriend about the ethical virtues of buying a burger on long journeys. I once made the mistake of saying 'I want a power burger,' meaning I wanted a burger to keep me going. He thought this a) hilarious and b) wrong. Every time we went to a service station after that we'd always have to have a conversation on the rights and wrongs of 'power burgers.'
I only have a fondness for motorway services because an old lover and I used to meet at one. I loved the sense of time standing still for us (cliched, yes, but true) while the rest of the world sped in and out.
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