Cold, Sterile, Sleek - Orderly Ableism

I’m burnt by the coldness. As I crawl, the ground pushes against my body from every direction, while it rises and breaks upon me at unpredictable rates - pieces of the earth break off and rush around me. The fabric of this space arranges itself into caverns and towers that advertise themselves as a place of welcome, shelter, and protection. When I reach out to enter these refuges, the walls grow higher and the thresholds fall deeper. I make myself known, and the voices around me either pass by with little regard or stop to dig their heels into my sides. When I tell them that the cracks within the ground have ensnared my joints, they ask if I have ever thought maybe this is all happening because of the shape (sounds) of my voice? One of them shouts “Look now!”, and as they remove one small pebble off the mountain, they say “this is your place, we made it for you, you should be content”.

The place itself wants nothing of me. It doesn’t think of me, and whenever I want something of it, it becomes a space that demands. It demands of me to be good, to be grateful, with complete disregard for my own means of interacting with it. I am in a space that is indifferent to my demands. 

And after all, I fall within as the awkwardly un-mechanical crawling of my body scrapes at a glacial pace towards the warmth. 

Where is the warmth within aesthetics and architecture? 

Through this spatial hostility, indifference can seem like a treasured refuge. If only because of the jagged edges of the space – the new paths, streams, and travel ways that it chooses to channel its preferred bodies – then, for anyone who deviates from the preferred model, this movement becomes more dangerous than the static setting itself. Here, this forced normalisation transforms the devastation and the acceptance of ever-present danger into indifference.  

“Beep Beep!” was shouted from behind as I exited the supermarket. A woman elbows her way past me; I stand in a narrow doorway surrounded by items and boxes. One of the few days I tried to leave my home without my crutches. It coincidentally happened at the same time as the city poured out of its workplaces to frantically inhabit the supermarkets and prioritize their own space in the few hours that suit them. From her forceful intrusion into my space, I lose my balance. “That’s not okay”, I slowly huff out in frustration and pain. “It’s not okay to walk that slowly!” she barks back. My partner already through the threshold and hallways – through the maze of fruit crates – shouts back, “He’s disabled!”. In an act of affirming her own right to space, her bark grows to a scream: “I didn’t FUCKING know that, and these bags are fucking heavy!”. I pause, then through the maze I continue. I knew that, from now on, yet another layer of trauma and hypervigilance will be added to the barriers I will need to face. 

For me and many others to survive, we need a radical rethinking of the safety – or lack thereof – that we demand from people whose bodies and abilities do not meet the stringent requirements we have somehow decided are the gold standard for the mythical ideal citizen. What physical and social structures place those of us outside this ideal mould at increased risk of danger? And when we think of danger, are we solely thinking of that which is life-threatening and can cause physical harm, or are we considering other ways the designed environment can cause lasting damage? Is being blocked from living an authentic life a form of violence, a form of danger, a denial of safety? 

For this, we need to bring into question what we would be willing to abandon to create a world designed to allow those of us confined to the quiet corners of this space to be afforded the luxury to decide which paths we would like to travel and which spaces we would like to inhabit. What is it that we are so concerned with protecting, and what would we really lose if the current vision for our physical and metaphysical spaces were lost, wiped clean from our collective memory for good? A new one should arise, perhaps less clean, sleek, or even – dare I say – less *aesthetic*, whatever that even means...

Finding the self in a life centred on others’ aesthetics 

Existing in a world where dangers and threats are seen everywhere, whether my body is physically in a hostile setting or I am replaying situations in my head with emotions running  high, demands that I embark on a journey to discover space – space of my own visual philosophy. I enter a dichotomy of the internal pure versus the external mandate, while I am creating aesthetics for myself ( i.e. being tapped into a more pure form of authentic aesthetics). The aesthetics that surround me are built by others, not for me, and I cannot see myself. While I do indeed have access to a validating source of aesthetics, at times it feels as though this space of acceptance and authenticity can only be found on an internal level.

I am on a lifepath that is perpetually examined in the context of aesthetics, which moulded me into a visual artist. For the purpose of this narrative and to the (dis)interest of the creators and fellow citizens of the space I just described, I’m not commonly thought of as the “sexiest” citizen to design for. I wouldn’t join the late-night party inaugurating my exhibition at a contemporary art centre, just as I would mostly abstain from the many more intimate but inaccessible gallery opening events in the city’s charming basement spaces. I haven’t spent the formative years of my career at the prestigious cultural heritage setting of a royal arts school, set within the obstacle course of crowds and cobblestone, nor have I found an accessible replacement that is a manageable daily journey for my pain-riddled body, away from its restful refuge. 

This new body and all its limitations came to me after taking a seven-metre drop into a (mostly) dry river, and spending the night crawling on my elbows with a foot full of crushed bones, coming in and out of consciousness, trying to get someone’s attention so that I could be rescued the next morning. After losing my voice from screaming for help the whole night, someone finally heard me. His response: “What have you been yelling about all night?” 

I quickly learned that this feeling of being trapped in the depths, with calls for help going unheard, would not end here. At this point in my life, I had forgotten about my start with visual arts, which my grandmother taught me and which had consumed my time growing up, but through the newfound stillness, either from recovery after a medical procedure or from the inability to move the way I was used to, a pad of paper and a piece of charcoal quickly returned to my idle hands. 

As I lost more and more movement, and as both the physical and emotional isolation grew, I was able to see some authenticity, a mirror to the turbulence I felt inside, by searching for the recognizable pain and serenity in things like marble statues or religious idols. Examples of bodies frozen, but exuding both agony and serenity simultaneously, suggested that there could be ecstasy or revelry in the misery of confinement. With the further deterioration of my health, especially related to my mobility, evolving my visual practice and finally seeing a puddle of emotional mirroring within the world I felt at odds with was what I decided my attention and energy should be devoted to. 

I create from the emotional depths, touching on my search for safety and guardianship. I want to engage outward but coil inward when I use my little daily energy to take my piece of authenticity out into an environment that is incredibly unwelcoming and simply inaccessible. 

I feel I am the problem to the builder who set out to create. I am the problem to the cultural conservators who wish to preserve the oldest aspects of this environment at all costs. I am the problem to the planners who define community engagement in “innovative” aesthetic spaces promoting the ideal body. I am the problem to the “cool” community hosting the opportunities to live the aspects of my life that give me meaning, in spaces that rob my body of its safety. And when I share these problems I face, I am told (implicitly and explicitly) that I am the problem. 

Chaos to Sterility; Warmth to Cold 

Who am I in a physical setting? 

What if I break it down and, rather, ask what would I be if I were solely a static object, an aesthetic object, a BODY. Am I then desirable and wanted in this setting? A hot bod. Probably yes, but does it only exist in its staticity, objectified as an object?

Once the movement starts, once my crutches demand space to prop this hot bod up, and I ask for space, when the look of fear arrives on my face, when the voice of discontent ekes its way out, what happens to the aesthetics of this now-animated object? Regardless, this body is withdrawn from that world of aesthetic desire, to a world where stillness is, in some ways, amplified. In this void, which exists only within, there is space for it to slowly seep through the barrier’s cracks, and with it, an aesthetic born from internal fluidity can flow outward.

I find this conflict with my external environment to be somewhat ever-present, and I often retreat inward – whether that is to the safety of the little world I created for myself: my sofa with a pad of paper, my pile of snake skin, and a charcoal stick in my hand, or even further removed into virtual spaces, where resources seem considerably more accessible.

At whatever age we begin to question who we are within ourselves and find a drive that resonates, the first thought that comes up is not whether the path is open to us – although this question and doubt come early. The very first thought is the existential joy and satisfaction that comes with discovering an outward manifestation of an authentic internal process; an alignment of the internal and the external. For me, this process was something I rediscovered and found new urgency in when presented with the limitations of my new body, the ever-present pain culminating in an unknown path forward. What resonates with me, regardless of the paths that were recently closed to me, was to visually explore and convey this deep emotional landscape. The language I came across that authentically expresses this world is deep, hyper-layered, and many steps away from a sleek, clean, or simplistic representation. 

Because of all this, I feel at odds with what is often aesthetically prescribed for our environment. It could be argued, as I am sure was taught in design and architecture(maybe still is), that the look and feel of our environment, while attempting to be cutting-edge, must also be agreeable. But must it exist with a cold lack of depth in order to serve its purpose? At the moment, our current obsession with creating something new, clean, and serving everyone has evolved into a paradox, where it serves no one, certainly not myself.  

What about embracing the chaos? When the visually messy options are being dropped for one orderly exemplar, have we lost the plot? Providing many paths will inherently be messy, but is there no value within this mess? A sort of authentic symphony? Is chaos not just harmony that is yet to be understood, and until it is decoded should this not be highlighted and visually represented, giving it its own value and redirecting us toward the right path?

Who decides which aesthetics are valid? 

At an event focused on questioning access to art spaces, an institution’s director expressed difficulties with converting their space’s entrance to be more accessible. Even while working with an architectural firm experienced in the area, their plans were denied by the state agency that controls the regulations for renovating the historically listed buildings in which most art spaces reside. A representative from this agency was present and proudly stated the agency's unspoken policy of routinely denying the first proposal for accessibility renovations for these spaces. Their argument: they want the best for people with disabilities, and it would be an enormous shame if they accepted the first proposals. Institutions would not be challenged to create the best solution possible, and as a result people with disabilities would end up being denied the most aesthetic solution because the institution initially submits the cheapest, aesthetically uninspiring method. 

Brave work.

In her eyes, through this description, she sees her role as actively protecting and safeguarding the perceived right of people with disabilities to an aesthetic world. What failed to be addressed explicitly through her viewpoint is reality. By consistently denying these solutions, most spaces remain inaccessible as they either don’t have the resources, incentives or education to endure the process of getting their accessibility renovations approved. And in this, either knowingly or not, she – and by extension the agency she represents – brutally enforces the belief that the right to aesthetics should override the right to access. Thus, the environment of a hostile, ableist and unsafe physical world continues to proliferate within their domain. 

When a person with disabilities challenges her by saying that, to them, this right to access is irrelevant – since they cannot enter these spaces at all –  why should she care about aesthetics? Should we not prioritise access regardless of aesthetics, and then take on this aesthetic battle afterwards? 

God forbid! 

Imagine a scenario where someone who can already access these spaces has to bear the eyesore of an aluminum ramp on a classical-style historic building, for the drab benefit of their fellow citizens being able to enjoy these same resources. Perhaps we should pass a law that locks the doors of all inaccessible buildings and reclassify them as fine art sculptures, allowing no one to enter, to protect their ever-eclipsing, precious aesthetics. Taking into consideration that we as artists need access to these spaces to join the numerous networking and career-building events – not just to see an exhibition as an audience, but to participate fully –  the prioritisation of the sacred "right" to aesthetics over access is denying us our dreams and negatively shaping our life paths.  

Order is an illusion, Anarchy is the true decision maker 

Money Decides – A useful world must be built for the majority, and an economically viable building must therefore be constructed for the average needs, the average aspirations, the average ability, and the average body. What is built must not be challenging, offensive or at risk of being off-putting and scaring away potential economic incentives. We must funnel as many bodies as possible to our communal facilities, and if some minority of those bodies are unable, then the access of the majority makes up for these lost few. 

In practice, the maximum possible economic viability is squeezed out of every space, which creates an environment ripe for hostility and alienation. The crowded mass of fellow citizens pours through the doors of buses passing you as each brush from their shoulders blows you further away from a sense of community. You meet your friend at the local Sunday flea market, and in between sharing the sweet updates and bonding, neighbours are running you over with prams to get the vital 10 kr. candlesticks to cosy up their homes, all with little regard to your safety.

Conservationists Decide - As we have seen with our friend earlier in the article, who values bricks over people, the privileged class for whom this system of world-building has always worked can in no way be described as eager to shift the scale, or abandon their gatekeeping heritage. Value can easily be seen in keeping things the way they are, an answer to why a space is the way it is can become “it has been this way for X number of years” as enough of a legitimation to express the value of the design. Leaving out use, leaving out inclusion, leaving out problems of the past becomes justified and unquestioned. We completely leave out critical thought and the evolution of needs. 

Recalling a visit to one of Copenhagen’s most conservative art spaces:

“We hear your difficulties, but we would proudly like to remind you that we at X are located in an old, listed building.” For our guests with disabilities, we welcome you to use the back entrance located a good distance towards the back of our building, tucked far away from our grand entrance. You will need to walk through an unsigned path and interact with hostile workers, where you will need to explain your traumatic past in order to be given access to a fraction of the space and its historical and cultural collection, as our arguably much more valued able-bodied guests do. This was the experience I had while trying to access a prestigious and quite well-funded museum in connection with seeing works related to my practice, after being asked by the security guard – while I stood in front of her on crutches and out of breath – to explain why I could not use the stairs. At home the next day, I tagged the institution in a social media post showing a seamless way another very old museum allowed people with disabilities to use the same entrance as those with able bodies. I was repeatedly told, as an excuse for this experience, that they are in a historic building. 

When explaining how defaulting to this excuse of being an old building as the main reason for not providing access is inherently ableist (as numerous older spaces have provided equal access), and that they should train their employees not to ask guests to explain their disability, I was told the employee had no bad intentions: “We are sorry that it was perceived differently”, and “we are sorry you do not think our apology is sincere”. And still to this day, after lending my energy, feeling incredibly hurt, unheard and undervalued, their webpage still states: “X is an old building and subject to a listed building, which means that the museum is not optimally appointed for, for instance, wheelchair users”.

“Innovators” Decide - Wouldn’t you love a world where things were built on a human scale, where we use our bodies the way that they were meant to? This seems to be the cutting-edge promise of every architectural firm’s pitch, from exciting municipal public works to corporate office parks, selling us away from eating spaces with tables and chairs, to innovative “people scale” large steps, where we can have lunch with our colleagues and classmates vertically, just as we would on a picturesque hillside.

But which human have we based this scale on? 

In this bright future, we imagine, on hot summer days, the city pouring into the harbours through sleek and dynamic access points. (If you can climb down the steps and ladders into the water). 

We will reclaim the former industrial spaces for you to roam, to experience art in a playful way in our out-of-use infrastructure and water basins. (If you can climb the stairs down, maintain your balance on wet concrete, and if you haven’t had any traumatic experiences with water in your past).

While waiting for the metro, instead of lazily sitting on a bench, you will want your body to stretch and take a more natural, upright, leaning position on a sleek metal post, to match the subterranean grey box where you await your transport. (If you can stand and if your body does not painfully tense up after being accidentally hit by the bag of the person standing next to you). 

*Cool* People Decide - Of course all relevant culture, or cultural conversations for that matter, must take place in a space and setting that offers validation. And validation in this place must only come through that which is *SEXY* and *COOL*. A contemporary art institution is not truly contemporary unless it is within a converted warehouse in a difficult-to-reach location. Yes, nothing is worth the social validation without exclusivity, and some struggle over broken asphalt.

 A meeting of your fellow artists does not take place unless on a Thursday evening, sitting on the street curb outside one of the city’s exclusively basement-level gallery spaces. And your voice is not as easily validated if you are not seen by the same crowd at 3 a.m. that Saturday standing, swaying, energised, next to the strobe light. 

Thus, no one decides 

If we overlap all of these influences, all these averages and ideals, we end up averaging each other out, and the point at which all of these circles intersect becomes so small that no one is represented. By trying to boil our designs and aesthetics down to the cleanest possible forms, we enter a paradox where a hyperfixation on designing for the average or the ideal, prioritises a world of exclusion rather than one of openness for the outliers. The myth of universality supersedes the point of creating for the individual, especially for a visually addicted society.

Through this approach, by applying ourselves to the myth of a “universal” design, we block ourselves off from the multitude of personal experiences, becoming exclusionary by nature. If the cool grey uniformity of the concrete and stone transport stations is the most average, the most agreeable, and if everyone inside is seeking that which is the sleekest, the most cool,then we become desensitised to aesthetics and spaces at the individual level. We lose our ability to see value in the individual experience. The mess, the warmth, the layers are vital in keeping our ability as a society to value each other at an individual level and create an aesthetic language for spaces to welcome everyone and every BODY’s way of being, every individual life path.