The Outsider

The notion of space as identity is not new. Cultural identity, more than anything else, is signified by one’s sense of space and the kind of that space available at one’s location of habitation. However, as the amount of space available is reduced, there are two consequences: we end up sharing space with someone else or partake of someone else’s space, and our association with the space changes to reflect the loss or gain of space.

For instance, having a small room to myself can impart a sense of coziness, and give rise to a definite topology of privacy and freedom. I know where my computer is, where my window is, where my bed is, how I need to position myself to be most comfortable whilst using any of them. Most of all, however, I am familiar with the spatial resources I can use and how.

In this regard, spaces are like words of a language. If a person is feeling a particular emotion but does not know the word that encapsulates the idea of that emotion, then the sentiment’s articulation is impossible. Without articulation, understanding remains incomplete. Similarly, without access to a certain kind of space, the actions encapsulated by the utilization of that space remain non-existent.

Overall, such arguments are applicable directly to physical locations. Visiting a spacious coffee shop evokes a sense of peace and placidity: I can have my coffee in silence, perhaps in accompaniment with light conversation with a friend if he’s present, and I can think with the promise of limited interruptions. Now, assume that one such spacious coffee shop has 20 visitors at a particular point, and then reduce the amount of space available by about half. Suddenly, the sense of placidity is lost, but that’s obvious because space-sharing can only mean the loss of individual freedom.

At the same time, each person becomes more aware of the other’s actions and posture: what he’s doing and what she’s saying matter more because of the probability that we’ll have to partake of the consequences. As the amount of “personal” space that is available is pushed to zero – i.e., if the room is crowded – then the probability of partaking in consequences approaches its degenerate form: the enforcement of participation. Now, I have to do what the guy next to me is doing. If he’s dancing, I dance; if he’s singing, I sing; if he’s drinking, I drink.

As a two-person system, this makes no sense, but in a room full of people, behaviours become immediately transferrable. And if someone remains in a position to subsidize one behaviour more than the rest, then that someone comes into a position to sponsor (and sustain) addiction.

If such an establishment becomes an active part of a certain way of life – and also fosters a sense of community – then it acts like a hub of social networking. The evolution into a hub happens quickly because of the way they operate: unlike advertisements, which are hinged upon the effectiveness of their influence on perceptions, the hubs are in a position to actively modify those perceptions according to some other need. By facilitating behavioural transactions, space-sharing becomes more tolerable because, for one, I’m influenced by the guy next to me and therefore make him more willing to share his space, and for another, I influence him in return and in the process acclimatize myself to his company.

By extension, the more a space gets crowded, the more moral looseness (in a conservative sense) becomes practicable. However, at the same time, the refusal to participate in the activities engendered by such a space leaves one out of the larger loop of things. Extant behavioural patterns become lost to the outsider, leaving him socially awkward and engaging with a significantly different way of life, the significance having arisen out of the persistence of the older/unmodified way of life.