The Architecture of Longing

A few weeks ago I’ve visited Guildhall Gallery for the first time. It felt quite amusing having just visited it, considering it’s only steps away from my office. Hidden like a precious gem amongst the polished-looking buildings in Bank, Guildhall proved to be an experience that spoke to my soul.

I stepped into the first room and a chilling wave of nostalgia washed over me - a dimly lit room by white neons, where all the paintings were showcasing fragments of the London Tube System. The pieces were not beautiful, but they were not aiming to be. They were successfully trying to encapsulate the eerie atmosphere of the underground. I was surrounded by nauseating shades of green, gray and yellow, shadows and empty corridors, making me realise that I’ve never thought of how harrowing the tube stations would look like empty. Yet, it wasn’t discomfort I was feeling, but some sort of dark fascination mixed with familiarity. I was rejecting the place and craving to stand there along, all at once.

I’ve always found fascination in loneliness; there is something about deafening silence and empty spaces. They made me feel mixed emotions like nothing else- afraid, unsure, familiar, at peace- I would always be overwhelmed by feelings. There is something inexplicably beautiful in being the only person in the world seeing what’s in front of you. Then, something even more beautiful when the place looks abandoned, desolating, dark, like it’s hiding something in the shadows. It must spark some explorer-instinct in me. I always blamed it on my curiousity; satisfied by knowledge but even more so by mystery. It started young. I would go out with my friends to abandoned places, forests, on empty rooftops at sundown. Then I would start going by myself sometimes. As much as I liked living in big cities, loud and always busy, my soul would oftentimes crave isolation.

The isolating feeling was hightened by the speakers in the room, blasting rail sounds. Metallic but soothing. I was fascinated by the way these sounds would contour the view so clearly. You were immediately there, alone, at night-time. We’ve all heard the melancholic sound of trains after sunset; the sky painted in dark blue and pink, the air is colder and the scratching sounds are not loud and overwhelming anymore, but calm and almost musical. All the sounds have been recorded in different parts of London, by the artist himself. Jock McFadyen, like me, is fascinated by the tube. By both the place and the concept. He describes it as being quite grotesque, even abnormal. People aren’t meant to be underground, hid from the sun, he says. It’s unnatural but unnatural has always sparked fascination.

One of my favourite “lonely” places used to be my grandparents’ house at the countryside, during winter nights. I remember being very young and scared to leave the house at night to the toilet in the garden. It wasn’t too far, but the wind was humming menacingly and the the ourdoors seemed so dark. Villages are usually pitch black on winter nights, with the soot-chocked skies and the absence of any street lightining. One time, I gained my courage and went out, shaking all the way to the tiny hut in the corner of the garden. Yet, my apprehension was soon replaced by this feeling of awe. The garden looked abandoned, burried in deep snow and frozen in time. The wind was hawling but not a single branch of tree would move. The house looked like the safest place on earth, warm light coming through the two bright-yellow windows, small as I if I looked at them from a much higher distance, barely holding the weight of the snow. I was not myself anymore, but an adventurer in a story, seeking shelter in the cold night. Right there and then I fell in love with the aesthetic. And it’s truly so sad that I could never quite describe the feeling to someone who hasn’t had this moment as well. I’m sure there would be a German word for it, but I haven’t found it yet.

The nostalgia would permeate to the second room too, as I entered it. Different artists, different paintings, but the same London, only from different angles. There was a local football field at night, small figurines chasing the ball into the darkness, the lime green melting into the ink-black. There were people talking on a street corner, in colourful clothes and drinks in hands. There was a classic London town-house, embraced by the welcoming glow of a street light, faces caressed by shadows and colourful windows. The emotion in this room was similar to the former, although these paintings were not empty, but full of people, of life. The loneliness here was implied, hidden behind the camera. The observer stood alone, in a quiet place, watching from the distance, yet feeling deeply connected. I entered that character, as the exhibition asked me to. In this meditative state, I could almost hear the sounds coming from within the frames - distinct chatter and city noises, barely making it through to the corner where I was staying. I could contain the entirety of the world in my field of vision.

I’ve wondered many times why I found so much peace in loneliness. It was never from a desire to be alone, as much as it may seem like this, but from a desire to be connected. There is something so deeply personal in watching people from a distance. It’s easier to love them too. When they’re not near, they can’t disappoint, nor hurt. All they can do for you is exist in their purest form. That’s always much easier to like and admire. Once you’ve gotten too close to the noise, it starts moprhing into clear, distinct words. Suddenly they mean what they mean, not what you’re imagining them to be. They could turn into words that you might not want to hear and the illusion breaks. I find peace in this illusion. It’s not a place to live in, but to refuge into from time to time. We all need our dose of escapism from time to time, regardless of its form.

I stopped in front of a big paining, taking over the entire wall. A block of apartments, crammed together, with outside doors and windows. Windows all you can see. It could seem quite mundane, even boring, if looked at on a whim. I could have missed the story myself, had I not let the painting speak. It was not about windows at night, of course not. It was about what the windows hide- painted in yellow, red and white, the intense light flooding through sheltering the people inside. I daydreamed about the families inside having dinner together, the couples dancing to the faint music coming from their speakers, people watching TV, reading, loving, fighting, living all these tiny separate lives behind square window frames. Because the nights are when it all comes to life, inside unassuming apartments, behind colourful windows.

The gallery evoked a strange but beautiful feeling, such as London itself. I felt some sort of completess that I haven’t felt from art in some time. I’d like to think the curator who’s brought it all together felt about loneliness the same way that I do, that this locus of emotion was created with intention, to spark this sense of longing for something unknown in its audience.