Social Volumes Dilemma - The Space Occupied by a Body
Can’t help obsessing with the shapes my body could take, intimacy, the space I could occupy
Scene 1: Navigating an Impenetrable Landscape
- Let’s go to the space my elbows take up
Human beings occupy spaces in different measures. We are driven by diverse forces that reflect the varying shades of power we can afford to possess. That is, according to our self-esteem and ego, unwritten rules that dictate how far we can stretch our elbows, as we navigate an impenetrable landscape of fellow humans. I see it among passersby when they collapse, exhausted, onto the uncomfortable seats of public transit—some spreading their legs wide, others curling up in a corner.
When I’m alone, most of the time, I don’t feel any constraints. I remember the existence of free will and the fate that guides me: I orbit in the ‘Amor Fati’ concept. I am a free feather carried by the wind and illuminated by rays of sunlight of diverse intensities. I don’t feel either the volume I’m carrying or the space I’m occupying; I am the centre itself, weightless and boundless, expanding those lines infinitely. The sun is right on my face, and I walk, forgetting the existence of time, carrying myself to a restaurant. I occupy the entire Universe and embrace its energy by not feeling the Earth. Later, I see myself having dinner with my people, my true ones for whom I’d sincerely donate my life. Time stands still and the room has no walls, as Gino Paoli sings—the table gains volume with every laugh and every sip of red wine, with every clumsy drop spilt on the floor.
Everything is immensely vast, yet immensely light.
It’s when we occupy a single square meter that we become infinitely heavy. I hate those who are content with a tiny space, because they shrink mine too, so vast and proud.
In society, there are imaginary boundaries that define a space which, according to many—we are meant to share with others. In this regard, I like to split humans into two different categories: those who have an infinite space at their disposal and those who live in a world of limited space and resources, forcing themselves to compete with others.
All of this is purely empirical: we categorize ourselves by deciding how to process what society shows as suitable. In short, alone, we choose how much we allow ourselves to feel our skin and others’ skins, how far we can stretch our elbows. How much do we allow ourselves to be purely free?
It particularly pains me to dwell on the second category I mentioned, the one I’d label as wicked and sad individuals. Those for whom the dream ends, and the day falls quickly. The true vultures of life. They steal my happiness. Those who see space as limited will do everything to take as much of it as possible. They will try to spread their legs on the same bus I’m on and crush me against the window. But in this methodical action, there is no desire for life but rather for domination—they do not spread their legs for the pleasure of stretching them passionately, but so that the other is confined between half a dirty seat and a window.
In this category also—and above all—are those who bow, who prostrate themselves, and who seek validation. They occupy a space of infinite size despite being minuscule and cramped, and they hate those who dance freely. On public transit, they would even sit on the floor, just to look up at you and try to make you feel like a false owner of your infinite, free spring garden. Because they cannot inhabit even a single square meter, and they tremble at the thought of knocking down a wall. They are Nietzsche’s flies.
Meanwhile, you look at love and don’t bother measuring. You don’t steal space from the dreamers.
To these insecure beings, I prefer a man who proudly manspreads into me.
I remain nauseated, but at least he spreads for the pleasure of stretching passionately. It revolts me to accept that he socially perceives public space as inherently his own. Yet disgust is better than pity: what I feel for those who claim petty short-term revenge against anyone they deem granted more space than them.
Perhaps, according to society, I should be sitting on the floor of a bus or on the knees of an unsightly man telling me how cute I am. However, I’d rather turn into a feather and fly away at the next stop.
Scene 2: L’homme Dans l’Espace: the Naked Man to Whom I Would Offer My Love
- A devotion to your scrutiny
“When the people see their own reflection multiplied to infinity, they then sense that there is no limit to man’s ability to project himself into endless space”- Yayoi Kusama
I believe we all have a responsibility to conceive ourselves as energies when we enter a room. Beyond the centimeters of our waists or the length of our arms. I do not occupy space in kilos or measurements—I occupy it with my step. Through the door, my essence enters another cluster of spirits that stand scrutinzing me. And from here arises the duty of representation towards myself, my form of respect for my overflowing spirit—a manifestation of me as a communicator of my own self-concept. A concept I’d fiercely protect, yet one that’s impatient to reveal itself to others. It slips through my fingers, and I secretly hope it lands in overflowing measures of equally overflowing kindred essences.
Our presence carries weight; it has its own language, offering something to those who observe us without specific intent. Our energies are personifications of a personal, individualistic power, more than social. For me, individualism peaks in what I call body intelligence: the intelligence of my spirit as it moves fluidly, the authenticity of my nudism.
Body language is power. My naked body holds even greater power—it personifies and invokes the will to taste. We are the tasters. We taste legs, we taste hands, we taste space. How much space can we swallow between two legs, and how much room is then left? How much space do we occupy when naked? How many square meters does intimacy occupy? What strata of pleasure lie within us? At what magnitudes can we experience it?
The naked body is a magnificent state. To me, it’s ultimate lightness. Where society sees the weight of nudity, I find weightlessness: a return to the truest, most intimate self. We are all closest to our skin and soul. The more vain and self-loving we are, spontaneous in our nudity, the more we dissolve into the room. Without integrity, I want to feel like a fool. There, I claim an entire bathtub, an open ceiling, the whole room as mine alone. When two spirits merge, the occupied space softens, halves, and the surrounding air grows so light it becomes imperceptible—perhaps nonexistent.
I speak of naked bodies because it’s the most symbolic, impactful way to explain the concept of individual power—how manspreading transcends mere physical representation. Dancers understand the energy drained by stolen space better than greedy space-thieves ever could.
The Naked Man Theory—an iconic bit in How I Met Your Mother—seems sarcastic on the surface but captures, in a more tangible form, what I’m preaching (perhaps with justified insistence).
A dating ‘move’ developed by Mitch (a one-off character), in which a man takes off all of his clothes in the middle of a dying first date in the hopes that the shock value or confidence level will equal sex. According to Mitch, it works ‘2 out of 3 times’. Strip naked, hope for the best, and statistically, you’ve got a 66.6% chance. Proceed at your own risk.
Vanity and audacity are the essences—but this isn’t an invitation to gratuitous harassment. In the poses we assume, our bodies travel through shades of power. A pose transcends mere aesthetics. A naked body in a room splashes against another essence, occupying colossal space. It calls the other to taste, and then we hope that bite by bite, spoonful by spoonful, the space shrinks while the room expands.
There is the enticing proposal of a tasting, alluring and somewhat domineering, in a space that should normally remain ownerless. There’s a whispering ‘Buy me!’, but the observing spirit, though slightly displaced, remains the subject of a hypothetical desire for sensual and emotional consumption.
We are the ones who stare, the ones who eat with our fingers, who caress as if our hands were teaspoons. We are the tasters—yet by consulting our taste buds, we never squander the dream, never stray from ethereal visions or the distant longing beyond consumption. Everything lingers on the palate. Everything remains when we relive tastes through memory, when we lick our fingers clean, when we linger one more second—just for the sake of craving—like those who wait through dinner for dessert.
This is what I mean by taste, by the desire to occupy a perimeter bybiting its floor.
A man spreading his legs beside me doesn’t just invade my comfort on the train—he invades my choice to enlist, to claim a power and specific weight. He decides for me and himself, absorbing a social status that excludes me.
However, I stay naked and free.
Big question: What pose will you display your naked man in?
Scene 3: Crying for My Missing Volume
- The Space I Do Not Occupy
The space I do not occupy when I’m alone, the space I could physically inhabit but do not, because my body is unable to, or because I’m too far away. Or even if I’m semi-close, but I don’t feel like it, and I don’t know why. The space I don’t inhabit tends to take up more room than the one I do. That’s where my head lives when I drift.
What perimeter am I not occupying? What space and time am I not living in? In whose arms am I not?
This is more than mere FOMO. I dissociate. I get easily stuck. I cry for my hypothetical volume that judges my laziness or simply doesn’t respect my needs. The missing space doesn’t respect human fear—so soft and tempting.
How much space do I occupy when I don’t feel like myself? It’s a heavy space, but an empty structure, where my weight collapses.
Crying for my missing volume because I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s my real space and what’s perceived by my mind, tracing diagonals and airy sides when the bus doors close, and I fixate on a point, fearing that whoever is sitting on the floor might drag me down with them.
How much space we lose is what worries me. The thought of living an entire life accumulating tiles of lost space, left behind. Space that supposedly we are occupying with our steps, but we are hollow, and what walks is a hunched silhouette I watch with disdain and disgust.
Who am I? Where have I ended up? From where am I observing myself, frightened? How much joyful volume can I lose, losing myself in turn in a space as small as a box?
In boxes, it’s easy to get lost. But if I play hide-and-seek in a grand, majestic castle, someone will eventually come find me. Or, regardless, I’ll be able to find myself again.
How many times in life do we lose our own volume, our own thickness as human beings? How much do we mourn it? Will we always feel its absence?
In whose arms am I not?
Am I at least physically in my own?
I’d like to occupy all the existing space, all the world’s perimeters. But I wouldn’t want my weight to feel burdensome—I’d want it to always be a light celebration of my volume, always ready to receive. I’d want to be perceived in my exact grams, in my exuberant, poorly traced limits. The content of my course always spills beyond my space, but that’s how I expand with grace. I’d always want infinite spaces beyond the one, as Leopardi writes, where I’m a feather carrying little paw prints as it floats.
What is space? Where is it?
I’m crying for my volume because I can’t find it anymore.
Maybe it’s playing hide-and-seek between my space and yours.
