What gives a room its “soul”? Beyond walls and furniture, truly unforgettable interiors resonate on a deeper level—they relax and inspire, trigger memory and imagination, and choreograph our experience of the space. Architects and theorists from diverse cultures have long explored how abstract qualities such as proportion, light, material, and order can transform empty rooms into emotionally charged living spaces. Gaston Bachelard wrote that the home “integrates thoughts, memories, and desires,” suggesting that spaces exist within us as much as we exist within them. In this research-driven exploration, we examine five fundamental themes behind the spirit of a room: spatial proportion, memory, light and shadow, materials, and narrative structure. Each theme reveals how design elements—from the golden ratio to tatami mats, from sunlight to thresholds—shape our spirit and imbue interior spaces with meaning. This journey spans from classical theory to modern neuroscience, from Le Corbusier’s module to Japanese ma, from Lina Bo Bardi’s Glass House to Tadao Ando’s Church of Light. By exploring these aspects, we uncover how thoughtful design transforms space into more than just shelter, imbuing each room with a unique spirit that can be felt the moment we step through the threshold.
How does spatial proportion affect the psychological resonance of a room?
The interior of Louis Kahn’s Exeter Library—a nearly cubic atrium with large circular openings (~24 m high and 33 m wide)—displays proportions that are harmonious with the monumental human scale. The balanced volume creates both awe and comfort, inviting contemplation.
From ancient temples to modern living rooms, architects have believed that proportion—the ratio of height, width, and depth—directly affects how a room feels. The Roman Vitruvius insisted that “true beauty comes from harmony and balance in proportions,” and this idea was later echoed by Renaissance theorists. A classic example is the Golden Ratio, approximately 1:1.618, which has been used to shape everything from the Parthenon to furniture design. Recent scientific studies show that this is not just mysticism: “certain ratios, such as the golden section, actually create more preference among viewers.” In other words, we may be neurologically predisposed to find spaces based on these ratios more pleasant or “correct.” Le Corbusier internalized this idea when developing the Le Modulor, a system of dimensions based on human proportions and the golden ratio. His aim was to create an architecture that resonates intuitively on a “human scale”—a kind of spatial music that our bodies understand instinctively.
Still, proportion isn’t just about static math; it’s also about how size makes us feel. Think about ceiling height: psychologists have observed the “cathedral effect,” where high ceilings evoke freedom and creativity, while low ceilings encourage intimacy and focus. A high-vaulted room inspires awe or thinking about the “big picture,” while a cozy country home room offers comfort and concentration. In one study, people living in rooms with 10-foot ceilings were measurably more creative, while 8-foot ceilings encouraged detail-oriented work. We’ve all felt it—the invigorating breath we take in a large hall or the sheltering calm of a dimly lit nook. Neuroscience suggests that these responses run deep: high ceilings activate brain regions linked to spatial exploration and imagination, while enclosed spaces engage areas associated with attention and detail. A room’s volume, horizontality, or verticality literally sets the stage for our mental state.
Different cultures approach proportion in unique ways. From Palladio’s geometric villas to Frank Lloyd Wright’s one-third rule, Western architecture has generally pursued ideal grids and modules. Le Corbusier’s Modulor Man drew a silhouette of human proportions onto the plan of his buildings in the hope of creating universal harmony. In contrast, Japanese tradition emphasizes not a fixed ratio, but the interval or “negative space” known as ma (間). Ma is often defined as “a space filled with possibilities, like an unfulfilled promise,” a pause that gives shape to the whole. In architecture, ma can refer to the spacing between columns or the tempo of rooms and courtyards—a design of timing as much as dimension. For example, a tea house is significant not for its dimensions alone, but for its measured voids, the approach and pause before the entrance, and the sequence of small spaces that create a calming rhythm. While Le Corbusier sought a scale through a module, Japanese architects sought an experiential flow—a temporal ratio. Both approaches demonstrate that proportion can be physical or psychological, a matter of a meter or a meter stick.
Perhaps most meaningful are the case studies where proportion consciously shapes the experience. Louis Kahn’s Exeter Library (1972) is essentially a cube of concrete and brick that houses an awe-inspiring atrium. Each side is approximately 33 meters wide and 24 meters high—proportions approaching that of a double cube. This creates a sense of monumental order; standing in the central area of the Exeter Library, one feels a sense of tranquil grandeur, as if the room itself were a temple to books. Kahn understood that such a balanced expanse could instill a sense of industrious tranquility. In his drawings, he even used human figures to “fix the scale and proportions” of elements like large circular openings, ensuring they neither dwarf nor overwhelm the individual. Zumthor’s Therme Vals spa (1996), on the other hand, combines an intimate human scale with primitive geometries. The baths consist of linear stone chambers, most of them roughly cube-shaped, creating almost womb-like enclosures. “I wanted to create a space that is both primal and timeless,” says Zumthor, “the visitor’s experience… becomes an extremely personal ritual.” The proportions of each bathing room—not so large as to lose privacy, not so small as to feel cramped—combined with their repetitive modular layout, put bathers into a meditative state. As one moves through the sequence of hot and cold, indoor and outdoor pools, the changing scales evoke the lines of a poem. These examples demonstrate that when proportions—whether classical, human-scale, or spatial rhythm—achieve a harmonic chord, a room can transcend functionality and truly resonate with our spirit.
How does memory play a role in our experience and understanding of interior spaces?
The interior of Lina Bo Bardi’s Glass House (São Paulo, 1951) is filled with eclectic furniture, artworks, and personal objects. Transparent walls blur the boundaries between the interior and the forest outside. Decades of habitation have layered the space with memory, making it feel like a “time capsule” where every object and view carries a story, as Bo Bardi intended.
Architecture is often discussed in terms of space, but equally important is time—especially the personal and cultural time embedded in a room. Our emotional attachment to interior spaces is deeply connected to memory: both our individual memories (childhood homes, cherished possessions) and the collective memory contained within a space (traditions, historical uses). The philosopher Gaston Bachelard explored this topic in depth in his book The Poetics of Space (1958), arguing that private spaces such as homes become reservoirs of our past. “The house in which we were born,” he writes, “is more than the concrete form of the house; it is also the concrete form of dreams.” Our earliest memories of secluded corners—the attic, the secret closet, the window sill—live on in our subconscious. Bachelard says, “Beyond our memories, the house we were born in is physically engraved in us… a group of organic habits.” The creak of a particular staircase, the feel of a doorknob—these remain with us for decades and form a basis of comfort by which we measure other spaces. It is no surprise that a cluttered grandmother’s living room feels safe while a stranger’s home feels unsettling: the familiarity of memory.
In architecture, memory is also cultural and social. Some interior elements immediately evoke a shared heritage. Consider the incense-filled chapels of a medieval cathedral or a Japanese tatami room with shōji screens—these spaces trigger cultural memory even for those who have never lived there. They carry a people’s symbols and way of life. Local houses, in particular, are “expressions of community and heritage that strengthen social bonds and preserve cultural memory.” For example, a Turkish village house is not just a shelter; the layout of the house (a central sofa, separate family rooms, and niches) encodes traditional family structures and customs. As noted in an architectural study, “all elements of the [Turkish] house are not only functional but also have philosophical and symbolic meanings.” Carved wooden screens, raised platforms for sitting, and the separation between guest areas and private sections—each feature teaches residents how to live and reflects centuries of social memory. Such houses possess a tangible use and meaning “thickness of time” in a space, as described by architect Juhani Pallasmaa. In contrast, many modern interiors designed for universality can feel anonymous or placeless, lacking these memory cues. In fact, anthropologist Marc Augé describes airports, chain hotels, and similar spaces as “non-places”—places “devoid of history” or identity, mere functional spaces. We pass through them, and nothing sticks; they tell no story and create no connection. The contrast between a beloved old café corner and a generic dining area illustrates how memory (or its absence) shapes the emotional response we give to a place.
On a personal level, our own memories and experiences strongly influence how we perceive interior spaces. A sunny kitchen reminiscent of your childhood home can instantly feel warm due to positive associations. Conversely, a sterile school corridor can unsettle someone who remembers strict school days. This subjective layer means that architects often aim not only to create new spaces but also to evoke familiar archetypes that resonate with people. For example, Finnish architect Alvar Aalto used warm materials and smaller rooms in tuberculosis sanatoriums to counteract the fear patients felt in institutional hospitals by evoking the comfort of a home. Architect Peter Zumthor talks about designing “atmospheres that affect you… that are imprinted on your memory and emotions.” He wonders whether the smell of a material or the lighting of a room can trigger subconscious memories in visitors and thus create an emotional connection.
Case studies highlight the role of memory in terms of interior spaces. Lina Bo Bardi’s Glass House (Casa de Vidro) is often described as a living museum of memories. Completed in 1951, this modernist house in São Paulo was Bo Bardi’s home for 40 years and is now preserved with its original artwork, books, and furniture. Visitors describe entering the house as stepping into “a time capsule immersed in Bo Bardi’s refined taste and design approach.” The Glass House’s design intentionally blurs the lines between interior and exterior spaces—a glass-walled pavilion suspended amid tropical greenery—reflecting Lina’s desire to merge modern living with Brazil’s natural and cultural surroundings. Over time, the house has gained layers of meaning: the trees she planted have grown into a forest, the open living room has hosted countless gatherings of artists and intellectuals (becoming an “intellectual hub”), and every object has a story. Walking inside, one feels its presence—a room that is autobiographical. This demonstrates how a strongly personalized interior space, rooted in the owner’s life and local context, can attain almost legendary status. From a more modest perspective, consider a traditional Japanese tatami room in a rural inn. The tatami mats themselves carry a deep cultural memory: their grassy aroma and firm yet flexible texture instantly signal ritual and seclusion. Tatami rooms have hosted tea ceremonies and poetry for centuries, feeding daydreams, as Bachelard put it. As noted in an article, “tatami mats… bring warmth, comfort, and tradition to any space” and encourage slow, deliberate movements and respect (shoes are removed, one sits low) that connect people to historical traditions. Such a room, no matter how simple, gains meaning through generations of practice and memory.Case studies highlight the role of memory in terms of interior spaces. Lina Bo Bardi’s Glass House (Casa de Vidro) is often described as a living museum of memories. Completed in 1951, this modernist house in São Paulo was Bo Bardi’s home for 40 years and is now preserved with its original artwork, books, and furniture. Visitors describe entering the house as stepping into “a time capsule immersed in Bo Bardi’s refined taste and design approach.” The Glass House’s design intentionally blurs the lines between interior and exterior spaces—a glass-walled pavilion suspended amid tropical greenery—reflecting Lina’s desire to merge modern living with Brazil’s natural and cultural surroundings. Over time, the house has gained layers of meaning: the trees she planted have grown into a forest, the open living room has hosted countless gatherings of artists and intellectuals (becoming an “intellectual hub”), and every object has a story. Walking inside, one feels its presence—a room that is autobiographical. This demonstrates how a strongly personalized interior space, rooted in the owner’s life and local context, can attain almost legendary status. From a more modest perspective, consider a traditional Japanese tatami room in a rural inn. The tatami mats themselves carry a deep cultural memory: their grassy aroma and firm yet flexible texture instantly signal ritual and seclusion. Tatami rooms have hosted tea ceremonies and poetry for centuries, feeding daydreams, as Bachelard put it. As noted in an article, “tatami mats… bring warmth, comfort, and tradition to any space” and encourage slow, deliberate movements and respect (shoes are removed, one sits low) that connect people to historical traditions. Such a room, no matter how simple, gains meaning through generations of practice and memory.
Collective memories also transform certain types of buildings into cultural symbols: a fireplace-centered country house can evoke nostalgia for “simpler times,” while a large parliament chamber conveys the solemnity of historic decisions. Architects often play with these memory triggers when designing. Finnish theorist Juhani Pallasmaa emphasizes that “architecture is an art of reconciliation between ourselves and the world, and this reconciliation takes place through the senses,” implying that for a space to truly belong to us, it must resonate with our experiential memory. Ultimately, the rooms we love most are where memory lives: places where we feel the echoes of past lives or our own memories. Whether by preserving old materials, replicating a beloved spatial pattern, or simply giving residents the freedom to tell their own stories, interior spaces take on a soul when they become vessels for memory. In these spaces, we don’t just live; we live together with them, becoming intertwined with them over time.
How can light and shadow be used to express the ‘soul’ of a room?
The interior of Tadao Ando’s Church of Light (Osaka, 1989). A simple concrete chapel is divided by a cross-shaped opening that lets in light. As morning sunlight filters in, the simple space comes alive with a cross-shaped beam of light—a dynamic composition of light and shadow that fills the room with a spiritual presence.
Light is often referred to as “the architect’s material,” and for good reason: light and shadow can completely transform the mood of an interior space. The play of daylight in a space—its direction, intensity, color, and movement—is like a constantly changing painter of the room’s surfaces. Creating light is both a technical and artistic act; it is an act that architects use to express everything from joy to seriousness, from intimacy to drama. Renowned for his tranquil concrete spaces, master architect Tadao Ando famously said, “I don’t believe architecture should talk too much. It should remain silent and allow nature to speak through sunlight and wind.” In his work, light is a sound. Ando creates an almost spiritual atmosphere of silence and clarity by strategically using natural light and embracing deep shadows. In Ando’s undisputed most iconic design, the Light Church, the entire chapel is actually a simple concrete box cut by light: a cross-shaped opening in the end wall reflects a glowing cross into the dim interior. As the sun moves, the brightness and angle of the cross’s glow change, meditatively marking the passage of time. Ando explains his intention as follows: “I often create enclosed spaces using thick concrete walls… natural light is used to bring change to the space, which is disconnected from the outside environment.” The result is powerful—a dynamic contrast to the darkness and a single, geometric beam of light that focuses the human spirit. The soul of the room is literally drawn into the light on the wall.
Different architectural traditions approach light with different philosophies. Scandinavian architects such as Alvar Aalto worked in regions with soft, low-angle sunlight, often striving to create a calm glow by gently and evenly distributing light in interior spaces. Aalto designed complex roof windows and reflectors so that daylight enters indirectly, preventing harsh glare. In his churches and libraries, skylights and curved ceilings diffuse light and mimic the dappled effect of a forest canopy. As one historian noted, his “summer solstice architecture” celebrated the “joy of light” on long summer days. For example, Aalto’s Three Cross Church (Imatra, 1950s) has numerous windows of different shapes and a central roof monitor; it even has a skylight that opens fully to allow a ray of sunlight to illuminate the three crosses on the altar at noon on the equinoxes. This careful orchestration of daylight creates a constantly changing yet soft interior space; one that feels alive with the seasons yet soothing in its brightness. In contrast, Brutalist and modernist architects often embraced sharp shadows and bold light shafts to create a dramatic effect. Le Corbusier’s Ronchamp Chapel (1955) pierces thick concrete walls with small colored openings, creating a mysterious, dim space where colorful light shafts perform an almost theatrical performance on the rough plaster. – Using Norberg-Schulz’s terms, “winter solstice” or the architecture of the Kimmerian darkness. Similarly, Louis Kahn’s work (e.g., Exeter Library or Kimbell Art Museum) is notable for its chiaroscuro: Kahn’s famous quote, “you never know how big a building is until the sun hits the side of it,” illustrates how shadow gives meaning to light. The heavy concrete structures in Kahn’s interiors often create deep, shadowed recesses that make sunspots feel valuable and significant. Light and shadow are actually the yin-yang of spatial expression—one cannot exist without the other, and their balance tells a story. Bright, uniformly lit retail stores evoke an energetic and open feeling, while a dimly lit restaurant corner feels intimate and introspective. Architects decide where light should enter and where it should be blocked, much like composers deciding the notes and rests in a piece of music.
Beyond static mood, light brings rooms to life over time. Throughout the day, a well-designed interior will have a kind of narrative: morning light may brush the east wall, midday light may filter down from above, and evening light may cast long shadows on the floor. These rhythms can be poetic. In traditional Japanese homes and tea rooms, as described in Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows, quiet, indirect light (often reflected off tatami mats and wood) and enveloping shadows were valued for their tranquility and mystery. A small, high window would let in a single beam of light that moved slowly—a shadow clock. Tadao Ando also mentions using light in a similar way to mark the passage of time and seasons. As stated in one analysis, in Ando’s designs, “light is not just a design element, but also a material.” For example, visits to Ando’s Light Church in the morning and late afternoon offer very different emotional experiences due to the changing position and intensity of the lighted cross. In Zumthor’s thermal baths in Vals, narrow roof windows, stone walls, and moving rectangular patches of light on the water create an acute sense of time passing as bathers are slowly immersed. This daily choreography can imbue a room with a spiritual quality—the room almost seems to breathe with the sun. By reminding the occupants of nature’s cycles and perhaps the larger rhythms of life, the space gains a spiritual or contemplative weight.
Let’s look at a few case studies to see how masterful lighting compositions can define the meaning of a space. We have already mentioned Ando’s Church, which is a paradigm of using a single light motif (the cross) to symbolize faith and create a deep emotional impact. Another example is the centuries-old Pantheon in Rome: its large oculus is actually a celestial spotlight that travels across the interior dome. When the midday sun illuminates the floor of the Pantheon, one feels a connection with the cosmos—the spirit of the room is a cosmic unity and enlightenment achieved entirely through the circle of the sky. Modern reinterpretations are bold. In the Therme Vals baths, Peter Zumthor has used light sparingly to enhance sensory focus. Inside the stone rooms, a fragment of natural light entering through a void illuminates the gray quartzite and the shimmering steam, transforming a routine bath into a meditative, cave-like experience. Here, light becomes “silence”—soft, dim, and enveloping. In contrast, in a building like Lina Bo Bardi’s Glass House, abundant light streaming in through floor-to-ceiling glass walls brings the lush outdoor space indoors; sunlight filtering through the surrounding forest casts dancing patterns inside, giving the living room a vibrant, ever-changing spirit connected to nature. Finally, we cannot overlook the role that artificial lighting plays in the mood of a room after dark—the warm glow of lamps and the cool glow of fluorescent lights significantly alter our emotional response. Alvar Aalto was a master at blending electric light with natural light (as seen in the Viipuri Library with its skylights and pendant lamps) to create a soft ambiance that seamlessly transitions between day and night.
In short, architects use light and shadow as a composer uses sound and silence—to shape how a space feels and what it means. Light can sanctify a modest room or simplify a large one. By carefully placing windows, curtains, and surfaces, designers capture either a burst of sunlight or a quiet penumbra. The spirit of a room often emerges from this dance of light and darkness: a bright and airy studio feels optimistic and free, while a shadowy chapel corner invites introspection. As Ando noted, an effective design “remains silent” and “allows nature to speak”—and nature’s voice in architecture is light. By directing this sound—whether it be the whisper of twilight or the cry of midday—architects imbue rooms with emotional meanings that transcend their physical forms.
How do materials convey emotional weight and cultural memory in interior spaces?
Peter Zumthor’s Therme Vals (Switzerland, 1996) features stone, water, and light. The walls are constructed from locally sourced Valser quartzite slabs, giving the baths a primitive, cave-like atmosphere. The heavy gray stone, which feels cold to the touch, contrasts with the warm thermal water—an example of materiality shaping a meditative, sensory experience.
Run your hand over a polished wooden banister or rough bare concrete—the sensation you get is not only tactile but also emotional. Materials in interiors are imbued with sensory qualities and cultural associations that often profoundly influence how we perceive a room. Architect Juhani Pallasmaa emphasizes that architecture is experienced not only by the eyes, but by the entire body: “Instead of recording architecture as visual images, we scan our environments with our ears, skin, nose, and tongue.” Thus, materials engage multiple senses—the texture, warmth, scent, and even the sound of materials contribute to the atmosphere. Beyond that, materials carry memory: the patina on old brass door handles hints at the touch of generations, the scent of cedar wood may evoke traditional homes or dowry chests, and the cold hardness of marble may conjure up monuments and permanence. As architect Peter Zumthor once said, “Materiality… is a tool for conveying emotions and triggering memories.” A masterful design will choose materials not merely for their function or style, but for the emotions and cultural resonances they evoke.Run your hand over a polished wooden banister or rough bare concrete—the sensation you get is not only tactile but also emotional. Materials in interiors are imbued with sensory qualities and cultural associations that often profoundly influence how we perceive a room. Architect Juhani Pallasmaa emphasizes that architecture is experienced not only by the eyes, but by the entire body: “Instead of recording architecture as visual images, we scan our environments with our ears, skin, nose, and tongue.” Thus, materials engage multiple senses—the texture, warmth, scent, and even the sound of materials contribute to the atmosphere. Beyond that, materials carry memory: the patina on old brass door handles hints at the touch of generations, the scent of cedar wood may evoke traditional homes or dowry chests, and the cold hardness of marble may conjure up monuments and permanence. As architect Peter Zumthor once said, “Materiality… is a tool for conveying emotions and triggering memories.” A masterful design will choose materials not merely for their function or style, but for the emotions and cultural resonances they evoke.
The phenomenology of materials is a rich field of research for designers such as Zumthor and Pallasmaa. In his book Atmospheres, Zumthor mentions “the sound of a gravel path” or “the smoothness of weathered wood” as elements that inspire him when creating a building. This is clearly evident in Zumthor’s works. In Therme Vals, as shown above, the entire spa is constructed from locally sourced stone. Why? Because Zumthor wanted the experience to feel like bathing inside a mountain. The weight and earthy scent of quartzite connect visitors to the Alpine geology; the material “anchors the building firmly to its surroundings” and evokes a sense of timelessness. Those who bathe often describe an almost primal comfort, as if they were drawn into a cave (a universal symbol of shelter). The emotional tone—quiet, eternal, grounding—is largely provided by the stone and the way it is detailed. In the dim light, the texture of the stone becomes more pronounced; when you run your hand over it, you feel the layers of time. Zumthor deliberately amplifies these feelings: cold stone contrasted with warm water, droplets echoing in silence—all arranged to evoke a contemplative mood. He believes that this kind of multi-sensory interaction can “resonate with our senses and, therefore, with our emotions.” Similarly, Zumthor’s Bruder Klaus Chapel in Germany is made of compressed concrete shaped around a burnt wooden tent—the interior walls are darkened, imprinted with the texture of burnt logs, and smell faintly of smoke. This unusual use of materials (the literal absence of burnt wood, leaving behind a rough concrete shell resembling a cave) evokes an ancient, sacred feeling. Visitors describe the charred, tear-drop-shaped interior, with its smell of charcoal and a single light fixture at the top, as “mystical.” The materials tell a story of fire, ritual, and sanctification—the spiritual ambiance is inseparable from the physical matter.
Materials also carry cultural memory and identity. Consider wood in a Japanese interior. The silky texture of weathered cedar planks in a Kyoto townhouse not only feels pleasant to the touch, but also references centuries-old Japanese carpentry traditions and Shinto’s respect for natural materials. As mentioned, tatami mats are iconic: their rice-straw texture and grassy aroma instantly convey “Japaneseness,” harmony, and simplicity. For those who grew up with tatami, it is the smell of their homes and their grandmothers’ homes; for others, it still carries the cultural aesthetics of Zen and tradition. Similarly, a Turkish rug in an interior does more than add color—its geometric motifs can symbolize protection, fertility, or spirituality, as Turkish weavers have aimed to do for generations. A room adorned with such a rug gains layers of meaning: the rug grounds the space in Middle Eastern art and folklore, and walking barefoot on it adds a tactile connection to this heritage. In many cultures, certain materials are associated with emotional rituals: consider the cold marble of an Italian church evoking reverence, or the bright, glazed tiles of a Mexican kitchen that evoke a festive and warm feeling.
Architectural theorist Christian Norberg-Schulz has stated that materials help to create the genius loci, or spirit of a place. Local materials particularly connect a building to its region and ethos. A New Mexico adobe house (earth walls) feels fundamentally different from a white-painted wooden New England house—not just in appearance, but in emotional resonance and the lifestyles they imply. The thermal mass of adobe radiates slow, steady comfort, and the earthy scent evokes ancestral techniques, imparting a nurturing, womb-like character to an adobe room. In contrast, a corporate lobby made of glass and steel may impress with its sleekness and modernity, but often at the expense of sensory richness—glass is odorless, textureless, and cold to the touch; steel is hard and unforgiving. People may admire such a space but do not feel connected to it. As Pallasmaa notes, “materials have the capacity to evoke feelings that go beyond the visual.” A successful interior space typically balances materials to engage multiple senses. For example, a contemporary home might combine concrete (for a sense of solidity and coolness) with natural oak floors (for warmth underfoot and a subtle woody scent) and perhaps textiles such as linen or wool (for softness and sound absorption that make the space feel comfortable). Each material contributes something: concrete represents modernity and quiet strength, wood evokes nature and comfort, while textiles can convey a sense of home.
Material choices can also signify respect for culture or nostalgia. The interior of Lina Bo Bardi’s Glass House is a notable example of this: Despite its modern frame made of glass and concrete, Bo Bardi filled the house with materials unique to Brazil (dark-colored tile floors, locally produced woven chairs, folkloric artworks on the walls) to celebrate Brazil’s craft heritage. The emotional result is that the normally minimalist house feels warm, lively, and lived-in—essentially humanized by material culture. Compare this to many Minimalist interiors that use a very limited palette (e.g., entirely white plaster and smooth resin floors). Visually striking though they may be, such stark spaces can feel lifeless and even unsettling because our senses are so minimally stimulated; the eye may revel in purity, but the skin and nose find nothing to cling to. Finnish architect Pallasmaa warns against this “eye-centricity” and instead advocates for materials that appeal to the “tactile” sense—not just how a space looks, but how it feels to the skin and body. He praises materials such as bare wood, stone, and textiles that show their age and invite touch, believing they help residents feel grounded and present.
Finally, emotion through materiality can be summarized by spaces that use material contrasts or honesty to tell a story. Modern architect Louis Kahn loved brick and said that every brick wants to be something. At the Exeter Library, the tactile difference between the rough brick exterior (historic, collegiate, “grounded”) and the smooth concrete interior (modern, powerful) creates a dialogue—one feels the past and future in this building simply through the juxtaposition of materials. In Holocaust memorial museums, designers often deliberately use weathered steel, rough concrete, or charred wood because of their somber and poignant associations with decay and loss, evoking a sense of grief or reflection without uttering a single word. At the other end of the spectrum, imagine a meaningless, joyful interior—vibrant patterned tiles, colorful aggregate-filled polished terrazzo, or shimmering glass. These materials capture light in a playful way and evoke celebratory associations (terrazzo brings to mind mid-century festivities, while glass evokes elegance).
At its core, materials are the vocabulary of the atmosphere. As Zumthor points out, when selecting a material, one considers the sound it will make underfoot, how light will play upon it, and the memories it can evoke. The spirit of a room is deeply connected to what it is made of: the emotional coldness or warmth, roughness or smoothness, permanence or transience conveyed by the materials. When architecture engages our material senses, we instinctively connect with it. A space rich in material presence can feel alive: a centuries-old oak-beamed ceiling that seems to whisper of history, or a fragrant tatami wall that instantly soothes. Architects and designers carefully craft layers of material to imbue interior spaces with cultural depth and emotional texture—a resonance that is not just seen, but felt.
Can a Room Have a Narrative Structure? And If So, How Can Architects Create It?
Imagine walking through a house as if you were reading a story. The entrance is an entrance, the corridors and rooms are sections, there are moments of suspense (a sudden view, a hidden nook) and a climax (perhaps a large living area or a framed view at the end of a corridor). The idea of treating a space as a narrative with a beginning, middle, and end is fundamental to many architectural designs. A room (or a series of rooms) can be designed to take us on both a physical and emotional journey. Le Corbusier’s concept of the “architectural promenade” sums this up: he described Villa Savoye as “a real architectural promenade that constantly changes and offers unexpected surprises.” In other words, the spatial arrangement is deliberately organized like a story to surprise and delight. Architects use elements such as paths, thresholds, direction, and speed to shape this experience. Just as a film director controls the viewer’s progression scene by scene, an architect can make us linger, turn, discover, and pause at key points. By doing so, they give a space a narrative arc—a structured experience rather than a random one.
One way to see spatial narrative is through sequence and progression. Let’s take a simple example: a traditional Japanese tea ceremony involves moving through a very specific series of spaces and actions, almost like a script. Guests first wait in an outer garden (cool, leafy, preparing the mind), then proceed along a stepped stone path (roji) to a stone basin where they ritually wash their hands—symbolically cleansing themselves of the “previous section” of the outside world. They then crouch down and enter a small tea house through a low nijiriguchi (sliding door) that even a lord must bow to enter—a narrative device symbolizing humility and equality. Inside, the tea room is dimly lit and simple, with attention focused on the host’s elegant tea preparation. Finally, after a shared moment of silent contemplation, the guests return to the outside world, carrying the aesthetic experience with them. This journey is highly dramaturgical: every architectural element (the garden gate, the path, the low door, the tea hearth) plays a role in the story of transitioning from the ordinary to the extraordinary and back again. It is no coincidence that tea houses are seen as a summary of Japanese spatial design—they demonstrate how architecture can script an emotional journey.
Modern architects have also sometimes explored narrative structures through radical means. For example, Bernard Tschumi argued that “architecture is not only about space and form, but also about events, actions, and what happens in space.” He designed the Parc de la Villette in Paris with a grid layout designed as a stage for bright red foils and unpredictable events, encouraging visitors to create their own narratives. His concept of “event-space” means that the meaning of a building emerges through the series of activities and movements it hosts. Tschumi even wrote a series of theoretical “transcripts” blending comic books and architectural drawings, treating movement in space like a film strip. Similarly, Peter Eisenman has played with architectural narrative by layering historical traces or disrupting expected sequences. For example, his work House VI deliberately disrupts functional sequences (a column divides a bedroom, stairs lead nowhere) to make the building’s inhabitants more aware of their actions of moving and inhabiting—a kind of self-referential story where the “plot” is the act of navigating an eccentric house. Though abstract, Eisenman’s approach still treats architecture as a temporal art—not a static snapshot but an experience unfolding over time.
In more practical terms, architects working on houses or public buildings typically think in terms of arrival, entrance, procession, and pause. A well-known principle is entrance sequencing: approaching a building perhaps via a path (think of slowly emerging as you walk toward a temple), then reaching a transitional space such as a porch (a moment of anticipation), then the front door (the threshold—the opening line of the story) and finally the foyer (introducing the main themes and sightlines). Good designs use these moments to emotionally guide the user. For example, Frank Lloyd Wright was a master of dramatic entrances—he would compress a low, dark corridor, then suddenly open it up into a long, sun-filled living room, creating a “wow” moment. This is actually a narrative climax achieved architecturally after a narrow corridor (rising tension). In contrast, there is little hierarchy in a single-room open-plan attic—everything is visible at once, like a short story without sections. Over time, this can feel liberating but also less experiential, as there is no journey to undertake. There’s a reason many large modern homes reintroduce subtle level changes, recesses, or sightline divisions—to create a sense of discovery as you move through the space rather than monotony.
Consider how open plan and compartmentalized layouts affect narrative quality. An open plan space (such as a studio apartment or a contemporary office) is like an open-world video game: you can roam freely, but you may lack a sense of progression or different areas. It’s like a big chapter, so to speak. This can encourage flexibility and social togetherness (due to the absence of physical barriers), but it can also make it difficult to create moments of pause or different experiences—everything tends to blend together. On the other hand, a traditional house with separate rooms naturally creates a sequence: you go from the entrance to the living room, then through a door to the dining room, and so on. Each door serves as a threshold that mentally prepares you for a new “scene.” These types of homes often feel more intimate and varied because each room has its own character (a cozy study versus a formal living room). However, when taken to extremes, they can feel constricted, like a disjointed narrative. The key is balance: architects can use partial walls, changes in ceiling height, or materials to subtly separate the different “sections” of an open plan (for example, transitioning from a wooden floor in the living area to tiles in the kitchen indicates an open transition).
Le Corbusier’s idea of the promenade architecturale is essentially the formal recognition of spatial narrative: he likened walking between buildings to a cinematic experience. In one analysis, it is stated that “Architectural promenade… causes a narrative to awaken the observer’s vision.” For example, in Villa Savoye (1929), one descends into the house (pilots lift you off the ground, creating a sense of tension), then ascends a winding ramp — through carefully crafted views from a strip window — until the story slowly unfolds, reaching the light-drenched solarium and roof garden (the finale, with the panoramic resolution of all those natural clues seen while ascending). Corbusier even added a “dangerous” staircase at the very end as a kind of epilogue surprise. This demonstrates how consciously a architect can control the narrative: every curve in a corridor, every framed view, is like a paragraph in a novel and contributes to the overall theme.
Another lens through which to view spatial narrative is rituals and modes of use. A house can tell the story of daily life: a sunny breakfast nook in the morning (designed to catch the morning light), activity in a central family room at noon, a quiet evening in a small reading nook, or an open veranda catching the sunset. Architects sometimes schematize these daily “plans” and then shape the house accordingly. For example, a corridor may widen into a small alcove where you unconsciously stop to tie your shoes or look outside—a daily ritual given physical space. Over the years, such points become personal narratives (“this is where my father waited for the children to come home”). Public buildings also often have narrative programming: a grand entrance (stage setting) in a classical museum, a series of exhibition galleries that build to an intellectual/emotional climax, and finally a dramatic atrium or view as the conclusion. Consider Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim Bilbao: you enter a narrow entrance hall, then suddenly a soaring atrium appears—an architectural explanation similar to a dramatic plot that leaves visitors in awe. Themed parks are an exaggerated example: Disneyland’s Main Street U.S.A. is actually a scripted spatial narrative that “sets the stage” before visitors enter different thematic areas (sections).
Architect Bernard Tschumi went so far as to borrow terms from literature and film, referring to “space, event, and movement” as interrelated concepts. He wrote, “There is no space without event,” meaning that architecture comes to life through narrative moments. The Manhattan Transcripts project mapped events onto architectural diagrams by depicting sequences such as a murder in a park, provocatively reminding us that what happens (program, human actions) is a story and that architecture either facilitates or hinders a good story. When urban planners design a nightlife district or a riverside promenade, they also choreograph narratives: the sequence of views, the rhythm of benches and lamps (the beats of the story), the crescendo of arriving at a central plaza.
In summary, yes, a room or a series of rooms can have a narrative structure—a sense of progression toward a goal. Architects create this through layout and circulation: thresholds (doors, passageways, level changes) act as punctuation marks or section breaks, paths direct the sequence of experience, and focal points serve as narrative focal points or climaxes (a fireplace at the end of a view, an altar in a church, a window framing a distant mountain). A well-crafted spatial narrative can heighten emotions—curiosity when turning a corner, relief when entering a large space, enjoyment when discovering a garden. It invites the user not just to exist in a room, but to participate in a spatial story. As an architecture academic wrote, “a cinematic spatial journey with extensions, changes of direction, pauses, and places to think, to move faster or slower” can transport us through time and space. When architects achieve this, buildings transcend static utility and become experiences—spaces that not only contain activities but also narrate them. The soul of such a room lies in this evolving interaction, where every step we take completes the story initiated by the architecture.
Conclusion
Conclusion: The “soul” of a room emerges from the symphony of many factors —proportions that please the body and soul, memories that imbue walls with meaning, light that animates and sanctifies, materials that speak to our senses and heritage, and spatial narratives that draw us into an unfolding journey. Great designers, consciously or intuitively, arrange these elements to create interiors that do more than just house us. They move us. A truly spiritual space can make us feel calm or inspired for reasons we can’t immediately articulate—perhaps the subtle 1:2 ratio of the room, which feels harmonious on a subconscious level, combined with the warm glow of afternoon light on textured plaster. Or the déjà vu feeling of a courtyard from our childhood, combined with the soothing, timeless scent of cedar wood floors. As we see with examples from around the world, these qualities are universal yet can be achieved in wonderfully different ways: a Japanese tea room achieves deep intimacy through emptiness and ritual; a modern library achieves social reverence through geometry and light. Both succeed in touching the human spirit.
More importantly, designing the spirit of a room is not about a single style or rule—it is about a human-centered approach. Neuroscientists and psychologists are now confirming what good architects have long suspected: that the environment profoundly shapes mood, cognition, and even physiology. Ratios can affect our stress levels or creativity; the interplay of sunlight and shadow can calibrate our circadian rhythms and sense of curiosity; tactile materials can reduce our anxiety by reconnecting us to nature or craftsmanship. Emotional design leverages these connections. It invites the user to not just sit, but to live. Martin Heidegger distinguished between a mere building and a real home—a home is a place of peace, a place of belonging. Rooms with a soul enable us to live in this richer sense; they become environments for memory formation, thinking, and meaningful activities.
Throughout this exploration, one theme emerges: achieving emotional and meaningful design requires a holistic approach. The five “themes” we have examined are deeply interrelated. For example, the way light falls into a room (theme 3) can enhance the textures of materials (theme 4) and enrich the narrative of the space by marking the passage of time (theme 5). Materials with cultural memory (theme 4) can trigger personal memories (theme 2) for the inhabitants of a space, creating an immediate emotional resonance. And an architect’s decision regarding proportion and scale (theme 1) can determine whether an interior space feels like an ideal protective casing for nostalgia (theme 2) or a spacious stage for daily rituals (theme 5). Therefore, the art of designing meaningful interiors lies in bringing these elements together to create an almost intangible texture, the atmosphere we feel, or the genius loci. Peter Zumthor refers to this as the “magic” of real architecture: when all the elements come together, “you experience a building and it affects you… it sticks to your memory and your feelings.”Throughout this exploration, one theme emerges: achieving emotional and meaningful design requires a holistic approach. The five “themes” we have examined are deeply interrelated. For example, the way light falls into a room (theme 3) can enhance the textures of materials (theme 4) and enrich the narrative of the space by marking the passage of time (theme 5). Materials with cultural memory (theme 4) can trigger personal memories (theme 2) for the inhabitants of a space, creating an immediate emotional resonance. And an architect’s decision regarding proportion and scale (theme 1) can determine whether an interior space feels like an ideal protective casing for nostalgia (theme 2) or a spacious stage for daily rituals (theme 5). Therefore, the art of designing meaningful interiors lies in bringing these elements together to create an almost intangible texture, the atmosphere we feel, or the genius loci. Peter Zumthor refers to this as the “magic” of real architecture: when all the elements come together, “you experience a building and it affects you… it sticks to your memory and your feelings.”
From the warm local kitchens that carry the scent of dishes cooked for generations to the monumental stone cathedrals that envelop us in silence, the spirit of a room is what transforms a space into a place. It is what transforms four walls into something that moves us or soothes us. As designers and inhabitants, paying attention to proportion, memory, light, material, and narrative provides us with the tools to add depth to our environments. These details are the words and sentences that make up the poetry of a room. And when carefully crafted, the poetry that emerges—whether quiet or grand—speaks to our souls, telling us we belong, we remember, we are inspired, we are home.
