We thought tearing down the walls would bring us closer.
But maybe the walls were the only things that ever made intimacy possible.
As the population grew in the late 20th century, so did the demand for architecture and buildings. As we tried to create more houses by making them smaller, we lost the ability to use walls, curtains, or partitions. As houses became smaller, we were forced to open kitchens into living rooms, making them less private. We’ve been forced to get rid of gardens and patios, and in the not-too-distant future we’ll probably get rid of balconies altogether.
Even the French balcony, which is supposed to be a place for socializing, has been reduced to a fancy way of justifying long windows. What once held flowerpots, cigarettes, and whispered evening chats now holds nothing but a performance of freedom, without any of its warmth.
We lost the whispered kitchen gossip, the ritual of rising to dew-wet gardens, and the quiet joy of watching something together in the same room.
Tearing down walls in the 1950s felt like a liberation. The kitchen became the centre of attention. Life was finally out in the open. After two devastating world wars, the world was on the verge of a breakthrough.
Frank Lloyd Wright’s “open plan” designs in the early 20th century—like the Robie House—paved the way for breaking interior boundaries, but they still preserved zones of intimacy. The full collapse into one-room-living came later, fueled by mid-century optimism and mass production.
People were searching for freshness and a positive future.
Removing boundaries felt liberating, allowing people to connect with each other more easily. Life followed suit as our lives became increasingly open. Nowadays, thanks to the internet and social media, everyone’s likes and images are available at the click of a button.
This comes with its own set of problems. Even the ordinary became performative. Living quietly and at peace became associated with old-fashioned thinking, with capitalism promoting new products, houses and, most importantly, lifestyles. We began living as if under constant surveillance. Like watched by each other.
To believe every act needed approval. This false belief started to influence people’s lives, making everyone think, want, desire and love what’s popular instead of what genuinely interests them.
Have you ever talked with someone and suddenly realized hours had passed? That moment comes from being completely present—so immersed in the connection that time loses meaning. This intimacy reveals itself in moments like these. It still lives in cafés and communal spaces—where we can fall into a conversation and suddenly forget the noise around us.
A home is a living space. It should promote areas that make us forget the passing of time.
Perhaps the reason we’ve lost that feeling is simple: today’s average household is no longer multi-generational. It’s often just one or two people and a pet. In the world we left behind just a few decades ago, people wanted—needed—walls. Spaces. Doors.
They didn’t need cafés or malls to connect—what they needed was already at home. If their home wasn’t available at the moment, they would have gone somewhere else; if there was a problem to be solved, they would have gone to the houses.
But that kind of closeness demands presence.
And presence demands care.
And care demands attention.
And that is the moral of what is being lost in societies. We may use architecture or changing lifestyles as excuses for our inability to give without taking. Caring sincerely without benefit. And the most important fact that we forget today is to be present. It’s the exposure of your presence in a community where everyone brings their skills and knowledge to the table without seeking reward.
To make us really belong and give ourselves to the societies we live in. Because we must recognize that the wisdom is earned through others. And our time to absorb it is limited. The legacies and experiences are bound to be forgotten if not passed on. Perhaps this will prevent us from making the mistakes that others have made and clawed their way out of.
Maybe the walls were never there to divide us—only to protect the space where love could bloom in silence.
