Most of us haven’t been able to access the faculty these last months, one of the exceptions is Michael van der Tas. He is part of the crisis team of the TU Delft and since we were eagerly interested in what it feels like to be in an empty faculty, we asked him if he could give us a sense of it all ...

Among the many things that have changed since the beginning of lockdown is my perception of the space in which I live. What once was the place with fond associations of warmth, comfort, and intimacy has become something else entirely. While maintaining essentially the same spatial characteristics - the chair I use to work is still there, the window which lets light in still lets light in, the room is still as big as it used to be and the dining table is precisely where I left it – the phenomenological experience of these spatial qualities; the mental, psychological attachment to them, has shifted from a once Bachelardian narrative into a more depressing Foucauldian panopticon prison. What follows is a phenomenological analysis of my and, essentially, your home in these changing times. Meanwhile, overlapping with this soliloquy of mine, is the jarring commentary of lyrics and melodies singing an all too joyful and now seemingly naïve tune of what home is, causing ironies and provoking memories of days and emotions passed but not quite forgotten.

Suburbia in London first established itself during the 19th century. Inner city London was suffering from an overgrowth in population which developed into extreme overcrowding, forming what could only be described as city slums. This resulted in unpleasant living conditions, prompting many city people to crave a new way of life. The development of the national rail and the omnibus presented an opportunity for individuals to maintain their jobs in the centre of London whilst residing further outside the city. CFG Masterman in The condition of England described those who escaped the city as the suburbans, they formed a what he calls “a homogeneous civilisation – detached, self-centred, unostentatious. A life of security; a life of sedentary occupation; a life of respectability.”

The COVID-19 pandemic has resulted in unprecedented impacts on society, both on a global and localized scale. This extends from economic, financial sectors to sociological domains. People are now confronted with the need for physical distancing, a spatial consideration incompatible with the urban design which endeavours to sustain high population density. While work from home and home-based learning are examples of workarounds (albeit technologically centric) to cater to the need for physical isolation, it is evident that such measures would be temporal and unsustainable. Should we, as designers, start to question the temporality of such measures, and be engaged in the discussion of spatial interventions? What if the norm, as we believed it to be, is dead? How will it have future implications to spatial design, especially in residential/ work typology?

Due to the current circumstances, my ideas about ‘home’ are shifting. My physical living, working and exercising space may have been restricted to 14m2, but the garden has never seen my face so many times per day and I’m rediscovering my tiny neighbourhood. During these walks, the pavement provides a dancefloor of some sorts. Dodging approaching pedestrians becomes an activity in itself. Before all of this, the pavement was just there. Now, its importance as an element to structured street-life is evident. Of course, this wasn’t always like this.

So far, this enclosure has given us the rare opportunity of meeting people who are not that close to us in the most intimate spaces possible: their houses. As an inevitable extension of this new reality, the smooth and focused rhythm of the academic world has suddenly been interrupted by events and accidents that belong to the domestic sphere. In some way, these moments have also become the most dramatic and intimate instants of this new, otherwise dull, days.

Imagine this situation: you and your friends get together on New Year’s Eve in Moscow. You get drunk, really drunk, and eventually pass out. Two of your friends are still awake and remember that one of you must go to Leningrad (nowadays Saint-Petersburg) and needs to catch a plane, but they don’t remember who. So they decide to put you on the plane.

From my desk to the kitchen, to the bedroom and back again, this is the longest walk I can practice in my house. It takes around 14 seconds and the total of social encounters, apart from my own reflection in the mirror, is 0. Meanwhile, the newspapers are loaded with articles on how to home-stay without going mental. After applying some of these techniques for weeks, I gave up and strolled into the outdoor scenery. At the moment, the appeal to be in 'green space' is strong and some particular parks and green structures seem more popular than others. By walking, I tried to understand which spaces are more popular and why.

Ever since the Corona crisis struck, I have discovered a few neighborhood walks, among them a path to a nearby estate named Clingendael. The winding path crosses a stream, then follows it until reaching a pond embraced by several impressive oaks. While I walk this route alone - and so do most other obeying humans - birds, insects, sheep and all other organisms have continued their gatherings enthusiastically. Never have I paid more attention to these fellow city dwellers than during the past month. Their lives have continued unchanged and I have been observing them keenly.

For this month's edition we have once again outsourced artistic talent for our cover, this time seeking help from the children of aunts and uncles of the editorial board. From the younger perspective we hoped to grasp a more true and pure depiction of what home is and really means. Home in the child's eye is the one that we all remember most afterall.