Why are we even interested in old houses that belonged to people we never met? What is it about the idea of wandering an uninhabited space and feeling its memories that calls to us and draws us in?

I mean, even when we can’t go inside physically (and I’m talking about visiting a place legally, not breaking into an abandoned house trying to play ghost hunters- which is fair enough because it intrigues me but please, no, don’t risk your neck for that), we often find ourselves drawn to stories and shows where a house seems to have a life of its own – even when this life seems malevolent, like in the case of a haunted house.

Yes, of course, history is fascinating, we enjoy storytelling and also, sometimes, we are a little bit nosy, but there must be more to this than just wanting to meddle in other people’s business.

So let’s delve deeper into what it is that connects us to the memories of an old house and why this image speaks to us in ways we sometimes find tricky to put our finger on, shall we?

A House as a Poetic Space

Enter Gaston Bachelard (1884-1962), the French philosopher who redefined the relationship between us and the spaces we inhabit. In his work The Poetics of Space, Bachelard explores how our intimate, personal relationships with homes, rooms, and objects reflect and shape our consciousness; houses not as mere shelters, then, but as active participants in the formation of our psyche and sense of self.

Bachelard has a very specific goal: examining the images of spaces inside ourselves, the way we introject real places we have inhabited and turn them into “oneiric spaces”, dreamlike entities that reflect our psyche and its states. Be it places of happiness, places connected to feelings of love and protection, or places of hate, associated with struggle. He says “the image of the house seems to become the topography of our innermost self.”

Not only does he examine the structure of the house, but he also takes into consideration the role of the different rooms and even of specific objects inside them: drawers and cupboards become the symbols of the “aesthetics of the hidden”. And what about dimensions? He definitely did not oversee that, and analysed our relationship with the Miniature and the Immense, and everything in between.

Going Back Home, Over and Over Again

This idea goes beyond the several, different houses we have inhabited or visited: the houses that stick with us, in our memory, become part of our own constellation of “protected intimacy”.

Through our imagination and thoughts we elaborate on our sense of “shelter” and modify and reshape it incessantly: when we dream, all of these houses that we perceive as important to our story compenetrate each other. Bachelard says that the most beneficial effect that this process can have on human beings is “protecting the dreamer”: inside this fantastical place in our imagination, we can dream in peace. The image of the house in its most positive version has the power to integrate the thoughts, memories and dreams of a person. We can go back to a metaphorical cradle and let our body settle in where our “protective beings” still live.

Bachelard then points out what little significance we give to the “localisation of memories” compared to the usual act of placing memories in time. Trying to know ourselves just by putting events in a line, thinking that only a linear picture of our story can be drawn, seems a bit like underestimating the role that spaces have in our journey of self-discovery. We are 3D, not flat. Things are all around us, not just behind or ahead.

In order to explore our sense of intimacy (or lack thereof), localising memories spatially seems more important to Bachelard than wasting time on chronological precision. Intimacy is physical and spatial: it’s a place more than a point in time. When we dream at night or are caught in a dreamlike state in a place that seems to speak to us, we reactivate this important symbols inside of us. We go back to our first home, over and over again: the first home is more like a corpus of dreams, as Bachelard calls it, rather than a real place, because it’s made of the different memories and perceptions of safety.

Is My House Haunted?

At some point, though, we need to address the elephant in the room: not all houses come with a welcoming gift. Bachelard talks about the importance of cultivating the symbol of intimacy, protection, positive solitude, surely, but then he just blurts it out: what do we do with unhappy places?

He calls this a contrast between the “lodged unconscious”, the inner world of a person who can make themselves at home inside their body and mind thanks to their positive experiences, and the “evicted unconscious”, the one that can’t find rest or comfort. The place feels unsafe, basically.

Our image of the home engraves inside us the ability to “inhabit”: our body, our spaces, our relationships. Either we have a “reason” for feeling stable or we have an “illusion” of it: if the feeling of being at home hasn’t been built in a secure way, the ability of inhabiting seems to escape us. Taking the evicted unconscious on the journey of integration is the role of psychotherapy and psychoanalysis.

So, when things are still looking for closure, a house can become scary. And, according to Bachelard, the verticality of the house tells us that its two extremes are more likely to store creepy stuff: the attic and the basement. Unexpected, right?

Fear of the Attic, Fear of the Basement

It’s a matter of rational vs irrational, Bachelard says. The attic has the roof on it, and the roof makes sense. It declares its purpose clearly: I am a roof and I protect you from the weather and potential danger. The higher we go, the lighter our thoughts feel, usually; or at least, they are supposed to feel that way. Up towards the light. What about the basement, though? Yeah, sure, you can rationalise the basement, Bachelard goes. You can say it’s a useful space because you can store things in there. You can fool yourself all you want, he presses on. But it’s still the “dark being of the house”. You can’t deny it.

So, while the attic is the nerdy, intellectual place for projects and plans and intentions, which become “haunting” and threatening when incomplete, the basement is where our primal fear of the unknown, unfathomable depths resides. And then Bachelard adds this interesting commentary:

“Our civilised society, which brings the light everywhere, that put electricity inside the basement, has rendered it impossible for us to go down to the basement holding a candle. Our unconscious, though, will not allow any process of civilisation, so it still grabs the candlestick to go to the underground.”

Is this perhaps why we enjoy exploring old houses so much, either physically or through stories?

What do you think of this theory? We have only scratched the surface, though.

If you are interested in this and similar topics, grab the candlestick too and come with me, you will find so many other posts here that are surely right up your street!

See you there then,

Federica