Through the Square Window
On the lost art of entering and leaving.
Before there were feeds,
there were windows.
Three of them.
Round.
Square.
Arched.
You chose one.
Nobody measured engagement.
Nobody counted your clicks.
Nobody wanted another
twenty minutes.
They simply invited you
to look.
And then to go...
through the square window.
I have always liked
doors.
Windows too.
Thresholds.
Things that quietly ask:
Would you like
to look through?
Would you like
to come through?
A man walks into
a costume shop.
He does not stay
there forever.
This matters.
He chooses a costume.
Steps behind
a curtain.
The world changes.
A knight.
A clown.
A spaceman.
A wizard.
He has an adventure.
Then he comes home.
Always home.
With something
in his pocket.
A token.
Not treasure.
Proof.
I don’t think
Mr Benn
was really about costumes.
Or adventures.
I think it was
about leaving.
And returning.
There is an idea
that walking through
a doorway
can make you forget
why you entered.
You walk upstairs.
Reach the landing.
Gone.
The thought remains
behind.
Memory,
it seems,
really likes rooms.
Years later,
I found myself
working with architects.
Not so much designing buildings.
More thinking about them.
Watching how space
changes behaviour.
A corridor encourages.
A staircase delays.
A doorway filters.
Space is never neutral.
It is always
having a conversation
with us.
Usually,
without words.
Perhaps that explains
why I love maps.
Tarot cards.
Board games.
Cutaway drawings.
Cabinets
of curiosities.
Old websites.
Anything arranged
like somewhere.
There was a time
when websites
felt like places.
Not platforms.
Places.
They had rooms.
Odd corners.
Secret pages.
Things
that didn’t need
to exist.
Tiny animations.
Hand-drawn maps.
Construction signs.
Strange jokes.
Mysterious buttons.
You explored.
You wandered.
Sometimes,
you found something.
Then you left.
Nearly twenty-five years ago
I built
the world’s
smallest website.
It is still there.
Still quietly living
in 2002.
I love that.
It has never tried
to become important.
Never tried
to become
a platform.
It simply exists.
Like an old shed.
Or a favourite bookshop.
Waiting.
It also contains
a creature.
🐟
A tiny fish.
Floating
in an enormous sea.
Click the fish.
It dances.
You receive nothing.
Somebody else does.
The modern web
would call this
a terrible idea.
No optimisation.
No conversion.
No measurable return.
Exactly.
Sometimes,
the best gift
is the one
you never know
you gave.
The internet became
very clever.
Very fast.
Very connected.
It also became
very hungry.
It learnt
how to keep us.
Not how
to let us go.
Scroll.
Scroll.
Scroll.
There is always
another room.
Except there isn’t.
Only another corridor.
A good museum
has an exit.
A good walk
comes home.
A good game
ends.
A good conversation
knows when
to become silence.
A good story
closes the book.
A good website
should do
the same.
Not every visit
needs a purchase.
Not every visit
needs a subscription.
Sometimes,
a visitor simply needs
a token.
A sentence.
A picture.
A question.
A map.
A smile.
A small fish
dancing.
Something carried home.
Perhaps
this is
the forgotten art.
Not designing
places people
cannot leave.
Designing places
worth leaving.
Because
they have already
given enough.
I sometimes wonder
what would happen
if infinite scrolling
simply stopped.
Twelve posts.
Then...
a door.
Not a warning.
Not an advert.
A door.
Would you like
to continue?
Or would you like
to leave
with something?
Imagine
if every article
ended differently.
Not:
Thanks
for reading.
But:
There is
one more room.
Perhaps
that is what
I want to build.
Not just websites.
Or apps.
Or Platforms.
Places.
With gardens.
Libraries.
Greenhouses.
Observatories.
Small robots.
Odd creatures.
Hidden paths.
Rooms
that remember
where everything lives.
So that eventually,
you do too.
Maybe
that is
what the web
forgot.
Not technology.
Not speed.
Not intelligence.
Place.
Every worthwhile place
has an entrance.
And an exit.
Somewhere,
we forgot
the second one.
Through
the square window,
we remembered both.
Leave with a token
One last room.
Not everyone
who visits
receives something.
Sometimes,
without knowing,
you leave
a gift
for somebody else.
Love these concepts of the meaning of spaces