Beyond Sight
Thoughts on Intimacy and Safety: Walking in Leiden and Revisiting The Eyes of the Skin by Juhani Pallasmaa.
There’s a book I keep returning to: The Eyes of the Skin by Finnish architect and writer Juhani Pallasmaa. In it, he critiques the overwhelming emphasis on vision in modern architecture and advocates for a more immersive sensory experience in how we design and build our world.
I tend to revisit this book whenever I feel a sense of disconnection from my environment, seeking deeper intimacy with the city around me, with others, and with myself.
Personally, I think of intimacy as feeling safe and being able to both receive and give ‘a new kind of complexion,’ as David Whyte beautifully expresses in the first video session of ‘Intimate’ from his Three Sundays series.
“Intimate—the ability to unburden yourself, shed a certain skin, and feel a new kind of complexion around you (…). Intimacy is a type of unburdening in the presence of a partner, or in the presence of (…) the stranger inside you.” – David Whyte
Intimate places are where we can unfold and explore beyond just the visual. We don’t simply see with our eyes, consuming what’s in front of us—we become entirely enveloped in a place.
Some of the places I remember most fondly are those where I left with a deeper experience beyond sight. Leiden is one such place. Below, I’ve shared a collection of scattered photos, short videos, and thoughts from various walks in Leiden over the past year.
Video snippets from a walk along Pieterskerkgracht 17 in Leiden. The poem displayed on the building is “River and Sandbank” by Seiichi Niikuni.
Every time I walk down the streets of Leiden, a small Dutch town close to the North Sea, I have this urge to record everything: to take photographs of the intricate details on the buildings, to capture short video recordings in the hope of remembering the flow of light, the movement.
Our desires and our ways of recording experiences are predominantly visual. I keep reminding myself of that.
“Susan Sontag has made perceptive remarks on the role of the photographed image in our perception of the world. She writes, for instance, of a 'mentality which looks at the world as a set of potential photographs', and argues that 'the reality has come to seem more and more what we are shown by camera', and that 'the omnipresence of photographs has an incalculable effect on our ethical sensibility.” - The Eyes Of The Skin
The walk I took around Peter Church that day was one of the most intimate experiences I’ve had in Leiden. Beyond the beauty of the human-scale architecture, I was enveloped in a single sound: the echo of my footsteps in the profound silence. Such a touching silence is rare in cities. The city felt vulnerable, soft, and open in a way I hadn’t perceived before, just with my eyes.
“The eyes want to collaborate with the other senses. All the senses, including vision, can be regarded as extensions of the sense of touch - as specialisations of the skin. They define the interface between the skin and the environment - between the opaque interiority of the body and the exteriority of the world. In the view of Rene Spitz, 'all perception begins in the oral cavity, which serves as the primeval bridge from inner reception to external perception'. Even the eye touches; the gaze implies an unconscious touch, bodily mimesis and identification.” - The Eyes of the Skin
Most of the places I find truly intimate have a certain acknowledgment and consideration for all the human senses. Cathedrals, bookstores, museums, galleries, parks, forests, and beaches.
“Sight isolates, whereas sound incorporates; vision is directional, whereas sound is omni-directional. The sense of sight implies exteriority, but sound creates an experience of interiority. I regard an object, but sound approaches me; the eye reaches, but the ear receives. Buildings do not react to our gaze, but they do return our sounds back to our ears.” - The Eyes of the Skin
I don’t think we can speak about intimacy without considering safety.
A friend once told me, 'Safety is a privilege,' during a Zoom conversation, just before I was about to catch a train to Leiden.
Safety is on my mind quite often. It might be one of the reasons I’m so curious about how people navigate the world and what brings them enough comfort to engage their senses more deeply, beyond just a visual experience.
‘Do you feel safe in Leiden?’ I asked my friend Alina while we were walking the streets of the city in the evening. She nodded and smiled, then began sharing stories of the times she didn’t feel safe while living in Barcelona.
I feel safe when my nervous system is finally soothed.
Being constantly hyper-aware on the streets, always alert and viscerally feeling the world around me, can be draining. Loud sounds distract me, sudden noises feel like pins under my skin, and I’m always acutely aware of my surroundings.
As we were heading back to the train station, Alina and I both agreed that we seek out places that help regulate our nervous systems. We are drawn to locations where we feel safe and at rest. Once we feel safe, it becomes much easier to fully experience a place beyond mere sight.
Thank you for reading.
Together with PamPam, I’m organizing a group walk in Manhattan, New York, on the morning of October 6th. If you’re based in New York and would like to join us, please RSVP here.
Onwards,
Patricia Hurducaș
When I talk about this, most people are dismissive. Not feeling safe has become so socially accepted that it’s perceived as normal. I'm often labeled as hypersensitive, but I’m simply aware of the immense effort my brain makes to regulate the overwhelming stimulation from the outside world. Thank you for addressing this important topic in such a poetic way. We need more awareness of the damage overstimulation can cause.
I think feeling safe is even more important for women as we constantly assess our surroundings, often unaware we are doing this as it becomes second nature. I enjoyed your article, Patricia.