Have you ever stopped to wonder why we, as humans, are always trying to fill empty spaces?
It certainly seems like quite a lot of us have a problem with emptiness, to the point that we created a word, kenophobia, precisely to describe the “abnormal fear of empty spaces”. But that’s not the end of it: everywhere we turn, in every category of life we can think of, there’s always evidence of the human fear of empty spaces and the compelling need to fill them, and this evidence takes the name of “horror vacui”.
In the artistic field, this concept refers to the tendency to completely fill the available space in a work of art with details, patterns or decorations, without leaving blank areas. This practice is not a recent one, even if it surely evolved over time. We can find examples of horror vacui starting from the art of many ancient civilizations like the Byzantine or Celtic one, as well as it being an extremely widespread practice in Islamic art. Similarly, manuscripts from the Medieval Europe often featured densely illustrated pages with decorative borders and calligraphic texts that were so full to the point of not allowing the reader to see the color of the page underneath them. Nowadays, the artworks in the “Where’s Wally?” series of children’s books are possibly the most known and common example of horror vacui.
The horror vacui, in this artistic realm, was often driven by a desire to convey abundance, richness and fullness, meant to represent prosperity or fertility which generally implied having a high social status and, overall, being in a very favorable position in life. However, the term “horror vacui” itself was most probably used, for the first time referring to art, by the Italian critic Mario Praz, who used it to describe the “oppressive and suffocating atmosphere” of the Victorian decorations, under a not so positive light.
This same light is used when talking about horror vacui in the literary field, when a writer fills their narrative with excessive details, subplots or descriptions, because of the fear that leaving gaps might detract from the richness of the story. This leaves very little to the reader’s imagination, creating texts that result dense and sprawling, to the point of them being overwhelmed with information.
So, if the horror vacui has, more often than not, negative implications in every field of application, why do we build our whole lives around this precise fear?
Some might say that this need to fill the void is something that’s embedded into reality’s essence: we have never experienced an empty space that has stayed empty. There’s an Aristotelian theory that states that it’s actually nature itself that escapes emptiness (“natura abhorret a vacuo”), since even what we perceive as empty is actually full of atoms of some sort. Every gas or liquid constantly tries to fill any space, avoiding leaving empty portions.
Let’s think of an empty glass: we perceive it as empty but, in reality, it’s full of air (that is made of gas, consequently made of molecules and atoms). So, our glass is not empty to begin with but, for speculation’s sake, let’s pretend it is. Let’s now pour some water in our pretended glass: it completely takes over every single space it possibly can with its volume, not leaving any spot uncovered. The empty space has been filled.
Why then do we act like water in our own glass – like lives, not allowing any space for emptiness? Why do we claim that it’s an oppressive and suffocating behavior to have in arts, literature and whatnot, and then proceed to use that precise behavior as soon as a space empties out in our lives?
Nowadays, the need to fill space has been normalized: if you lose something, whether it’s a possession or a relationship, our instinct is to replace it immediately. Someone leaves us, and we hastily seek a substitute to occupy the void they left behind. We’re not even able to just do nothing: the first thing we do when we have some free time is to look for something with which we can fill that time. We can’t bear to sit with empty time or empty spaces: it has become a lost art; instead, we constantly seek distractions and replacements.
Society has taught us to believe that empty spaces look sad and lonely. We’ve been conditioned to think that emptiness implies that there’s something wrong. We should remind ourselves that we are the same ones that appreciate the beauty of negative space in a painting, where areas of emptiness provide balance and invite contemplation; yet, in our daily life we exhibit the same fear we criticize, unable to tolerate moments of stillness and quiet reflection.
We consider emptiness as a void to be filled rather than an opportunity for introspection and growth. Perhaps it’s time to reevaluate our relationship with emptiness. Just as a skilled artist knows the power of negative space in a painting, we can learn to appreciate the value of empty moments in our lives. “Emptiness” and “lack” are not synonyms: we don’t need to stuff our lives full to be who we truly are.
A southern Italian girl whose favorite book all throughout her childhood was called “I want to be a journalist” (and deep down, it’s still my favorite to this day).
I’m currently in BEMACC because I’m in love with arts, and the fundamental importance of culture has always been fascinating to me.
I will never turn down the opportunity to write about anything that catches my interest, even though I have a sweet spot for anything culture - related.
