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Right now, stop, freeze, don’t turn your head, just look up. What do you see?
Explores how modern housing design limits human freedom and creativity, impacting mental health and social behavior.
Ask about this video. Answers come from its transcript only — with the timestamp, so you can check them.
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Key Takeaways
- Modern housing design suppresses creativity and mental health by imposing restrictive physical environments.
- Architectural elements like ceiling height and geometry have direct neurobiological impacts.
- Standardized, high-density living spaces serve social control rather than human well-being.
- Historical architecture demonstrates the benefits of complex, human-scale design on mood and cognition.
- The housing crisis and mental health epidemic are partly consequences of intentional architectural programming.
What the video covers
- Modern housing confines people in small, uniform spaces designed to limit movement and imagination.
- Ceiling heights and right angles in homes negatively affect brain function and mental well-being.
- Historical buildings with higher ceilings and complex designs promote creativity and a sense of freedom.
- Modern architecture prioritizes efficiency and control over human comfort and individuality.
- Housing design is influenced by social engineering to maintain population control and reduce independence.
- The 'house as a machine' concept reduces living spaces to functional units without soul or beauty.
- High-density living in identical units fosters social degradation, mental disorders, and collective irritation.
- The shift to standardized, minimalistic housing was driven by political and economic motives, not just necessity.
- Visual complexity and architectural beauty stimulate the brain, while sterile environments cause fatigue and apathy.
- Modern housing design acts as a psychological prison, limiting abstract thinking and promoting survival-focused cognition.
Chapters
- 00:00Introduction: The Physical and Psychological Reality of Modern Housing
- 01:49The Impact of Right Angles and Geometry on the Brain
- 03:58Comparison Between Pre-1910 and Modern Residential Architecture
- 06:21The Universe 25 Experiment and Social Degradation
- 08:23Global Standardization and the Loss of Individuality
- 10:30Le Corbusier’s Vision: Houses as Machines for Living
- 12:58Consequences of Modern Housing on Society and Mental Health
- 19:20The Psychological and Symbolic Power of Architecture
Full Transcript — Download SRT & Markdown
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Most likely, it is a flat white plane hanging above you, at a height of 2, 12, or 3 meters. Now look to the right, a wall. There is also a wall on the left. Take a deep breath. Feel the stale
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air that has passed through kilometers of ventilation shafts and plastic pipes. You are in a box. You may call it a house, an apartment, a studio, or a condo, but from a pure physics and biology perspective, you are in an
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isolation box. You spend 80% of your life inside a concrete cube, the only function of which is to limit your movement in space and your imagination.
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Think about it for a second. Who decided that the ceiling should be exactly this height?
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Who, with a ruler in hand, determined how many square meters a person needs to avoid going completely crazy, but at the same time stop dreaming of anything more?
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You are used to thinking that modern housing is the pinnacle of comfort and the result of natural evolution. We are told that people used to live in cold castles or dirty huts, but now we have warm, bright European-style renovations and smart homes.
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But this is the biggest lie we swallowed with our mortgage agreements. The truth is that your physical space was not designed by architects with a dream of beauty. It was calculated with cynical precision by zoopsychologists and social engineers.
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You pay half of your salary to the bank not for a roof over your head. You pay to rent a cage whose parameters are calibrated to keep you in a state of permanent background anxiety and submissiveness. Look around again.
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Right angles. Right angles do not exist in living nature. In the forest, in the mountains, in the riverbed, in the structure of the human body there is not a single perfectly straight line at an angle of 90°. This is
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aggressive artificial geometry. Your brain, shaped by millions of years of evolution in a complex fractal environment, perceives this sterile box as a threat or a prison. But you don't realize it. You just feel unexplainably tired at the end of the day, even
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if you haven't done any physical work. You feel apathetic, wanting to lie down facing the wall and cover yourself with a blanket. Medicine would call it depression or burnout.
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They will prescribe you pills, but no one will write you a prescription to change the geometry of the space in which you are locked, because it is this space that is the cause of the disease. This is not paranoia, this is
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neurobiology. Studies that are carefully relegated to the back shelves of academic libraries show a direct link between ceiling height and the ability to think abstractly. A low ceiling activates survival programs in the brain, forcing one to focus on details, on small things,
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on everyday life. Where to get food, how to pay the bill, where to put the cabinet. This is the thinking of a hunted creature.
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High vaults, domes, and complex structures that extend upwards, on the contrary, stimulate creativity, large-scale planning, and a sense of freedom. Why do you think the ceilings in temples, banks, and the palaces of rulers are always incredibly high? The elites
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know very well how space works with the subconscious. They build cathedrals for themselves, and pencil cases for you. They reserve the right to think globally, but you are locked into a mode of eternal search for a means of existence.
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Try to mentally go beyond your apartment. What's there? A long narrow corridor, then an elevator, another moving metal coffin, then an entrance and, finally, a courtyard filled with cars. Have you noticed how your mood changes when you enter old buildings
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built before 1910? They have air, they have volume, they have stucco moldings, bay windows, complex transitions, they make you want to straighten your shoulders. Now compare that to the feeling you get when you enter a modern residential complex. There is
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nothing for the eye to catch on to. The facades are smooth grey or worse painted in garishly bright colours, like in a cheap kindergarten, to hide the wretchedness of the forms. This is a visual diet that we have been kept on for several
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generations. Our brain is hungry for complexity, for beauty, and this hunger develops into aggression towards others. You might think that it’s simply a question of economics, that it’s cheaper and faster to build this way. The official version is that
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after the world wars and population explosions of the 20th century, humanity needed somewhere to live. It was necessary to quickly resettle millions of workers, provide them with running water and heat. Sounds like a concern, right? But the deeper I began to delve into the study of
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urban development plans from the middle of the last century, the more frightening the picture became. Saving materials is just a convenient screen. If you look at the cost per square meter in the world's megacities today, you'll realize that these
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concrete boxes are selling for the price of gold. It was never about cheapness. It's a matter of unification. Imagine the challenge of managing millions of people if each of them lives in their own unique home, on their own land,
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feels like a master and has personal space. It's complicated. Such a person is independent. Now imagine taking these people and putting them in identical cells, stacked on top of each other in a tower of 20, 30, 50 floors. You
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deprive them of a horizon, you deprive them of a connection with the earth, you make them neighbors in captivity who hear someone else’s child crying behind the wall or spouses arguing. You create an ideal human being, where individuality
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is erased and in its place comes a collective unconscious irritation. When you sign a shared ownership agreement, you think you are buying an asset. In fact, you are voluntarily entering the testing site. Remember the famous Universe 25 experiment by ethologist John
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Calhoun with mice. They were given ideal conditions: food and water, but their space was limited.
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The result was always the same: social degradation, failure to reproduce, senseless aggression, and the extinction of the colony. Look around at modern megacities. Don't we see the same thing? An increase in the number of single people, family abandonment, an epidemic of mental
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disorders? We consider this a side effect of civilization. But what if this is the intended outcome of architectural programming? The most frightening thing about this is how seamlessly the substitution took place. Just 120 years ago, the standard for
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urban housing was apartment buildings with 3.5 or 4 meter ceilings, front entrances, and decor that cultivated taste. Even the workers' quarters of the 19th century, despite their poverty, were built of brick and stone with arches and cornices, maintaining a
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human scale. And then something clicked, as if someone had flipped a switch in the heads of the planet's chief architects. And instead of houses we started building cars. Literally machines. This is not a metaphor.
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One of the ideologists of this new world, Le Corbusier, stated directly: “A house is a machine for living.” Consider the cynicism of this phrase. Neither a hearth, nor a fortress, nor a nest. Car. A functional unit into which a person is loaded overnight to
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restore his ability to work, so that in the morning he can be spit out again at the factory or office. Your apartment is a part of this machine. Your bedroom is a recharging compartment for your biological battery.
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Your kitchen, where you can barely turn around both of you, is a gas station. There is no room for a soul in this space, because the machine has no soul.
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The machine only has an efficiency rating. And the efficiency of modern housing is measured not by your happiness, but by the population density per hectare. You pay to be packed as tightly as possible. And this is just the beginning. This physical compression is
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only the first stage of processing. The real trap snapped shut when this standard became global.
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When we stopped noticing the differe
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surfaces imitating grass, because real grass has no place here. The world has become the same. And when the world around becomes the same, thoughts become the same too. Try this experiment tonight. Turn off the TV, put your phone away, just
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sit in silence and look at the corner of your room. Feel the walls pressing in on you. Realize the weight of thousands of tons of concrete hanging above your head.
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Ask yourself, did I really choose this life, or was I gradually, decade after decade, driven into this format of existence, convinced that a cramped concrete cell on the sixteenth floor was the limit of my dreams and the pinnacle of success. You may not like the answer
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, but to get out of the maze, you must first admit that you are in it . And the walls of this labyrinth are not built chaotically. They have an author, they have a blueprint, and they have a purpose
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that has nothing to do with your well-being. Right now, as you read these lines, the space around you continues its quiet, invisible work of suppressing your will. But where did this technology come from? Who was the first to decide that a person should be deprived of beauty
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and driven into concrete? The trail leads back to the early 20th century to a group of people who decided to rewrite the code of human civilization.
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If you put in front of you photographs of residential areas built in the 1950s and 1960s in completely different parts of the world, you will discover something that will make your hair stand on end. Take a picture of
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PR Igo social housing in Missouri, United States of America. Place a photo of the Gropiusstadt district in West Berlin next to it.
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Add to them images of the Sarcelles districts in France or micro-districts in Eastern Europe and Asia. Remove the language captions. Can you tell the difference between a capitalist paradise and a socialist utopia? No. You will see the same
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depressing picture. Endless rows of grey concrete prisms arranged in a line across vacant lots.
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Official architectural history calls this a funny coincidence or an inevitable consequence of technological progress. But in the world of big politics and global governance, coincidences of this magnitude do not happen. The pattern is repeated with frightening precision everywhere, regardless of
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political regime, climate or cultural traditions. This suggests that the order to transition to a new way of life was issued from a single center.
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Or perhaps this format was a viral idea that elites in different countries adopted as an ideal tool of control. To understand how this trap slammed shut, we need to go back to the beginning of the 20th century, to
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Germany, to the Bauhaus school. It was there that a group of radicals led by Walter Gropius proclaimed the death of the old world. Their manifestos sounded revolutionary, but in essence they were a death sentence on human individuality. They declared ornament to
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crimes. Think about it. Beauty, patterns, stucco, complex shapes. Everything that had delighted the eye for centuries and distinguished one house from another was declared unnecessary trash. Under the banner of functionalism, they began a crusade against aesthetics. The main thesis
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was: what is functional is also beautiful. But it was a lie. A chair may be functional but ugly. A house can provide protection from the wind, but still look like a tombstone. The ideologists of the new architecture, such as the great and
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terrible doctor Busiet, did not hide their intentions. This Swiss-French architect, who is now extolled in all textbooks, was obsessed with the idea of standardization.
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He developed the Modulor system, an anthropometric scale of proportions that he believed was ideal for the average person. Please note, the average is not a specific Ivan, John or Pierre, but an abstract biological unit. They tried to squeeze us all into the Procrustean bed of
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average parameters. Lecbusier dreamed of demolishing the historic center of Paris. He seriously proposed to destroy narrow streets, ancient mansions, the memory of centuries, and build in their place 18 giant skyscraper-crosses standing in an open field. His plan at Oisins, fortunately,
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was not fully realized in Paris, but his spirit infected the whole world. The idea of a garden city, where people live in small houses surrounded by greenery, was replaced by the idea of a park city, where giant concrete towers jut out from among the lawns. The difference is
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colossal. In the first case, a person is at ease with the environment and feels comfortable.
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In the second case, a person feels like an ant at the foot of a cliff. Why did this inhumane concept win?
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Because it was beneficial to those who look down on the population. After World War II, with Europe in ruins and the population growing, the government needed a quick solution, and modernist architects offered them a deal with the devil. We'll
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give you cheap technology for rapid housing construction, but in exchange, you'll give us the power to shape the appearance of cities. Thus the era of panel housing construction was born.
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Concrete has become the main weapon of mass destruction of the psyche. Compare the architecture before and after. 19th-century buildings, whether Victorian houses in London or apartment buildings in St. Petersburg and Vienna, were constructed according to the principles of fractal geometry. The
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human eye constantly found new details: the cornice, the frame, the door handle, the texture of the brick. This created a rich visual environment that fed the brain.
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Modern concrete cells are sensory deprivation. Smooth surfaces, glass and concrete do not allow the eye to catch on.
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Neuroscientists have proven that looking at a blank wall evokes the same reactions in the brain as a feeling of anxiety. We literally get sick from boredom and monotony. Under the guise of providing affordable housing, humanity's most fundamental right to visual
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diversity and beauty has been stolen. We have been convinced that aesthetics is the privilege of the rich, and that the lot of the working man is severe minimalism. But it's not just a matter of taste, it's a matter of erasing memory.
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Old architecture has always been tied to its place. A house in Italy was different from a house in Sweden because they were built from local materials and took into account local traditions. The concrete block is the same everywhere. The
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International Style, as critics proudly dubbed it, became a steamroller that flattened national cultures. Walking through a residential area, you can’t tell what country you are in. You are in nowhere. A person who lives in nowhere has no roots. It is easier
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to manage, easier to pick it up and transfer it to another job. The most striking example of the failure of this idea is the Prit residential complex in the city of St. Louis.
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Built in the fifties as a symbol of a new bright future for the poor. It was designed according to all the canons of Lecarbusier: rational layouts, wide corridors, no personal space on the street. Architect Minoru Yamasaki who incidentally later
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designed the Twin Towers in New York, even received an award for this project. But what happened? After a few years, the complex turned into a ghetto. People hated these concrete honeycombs. The crime rate was off the charts.
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Residents smashed windows and defecated in the elevators, expressing their unconscious protest against the unnatural environment. Just 20 years later, the authorities were forced to blow up these houses. Footage of falling concrete monsters has spread around the world.
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It would seem that the lesson has been learned: people cannot be housed in such conditions. The official version falls apart when we see what happened next.
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After the collapse of Priya, the construction of such anthills did not stop. On the contrary, it has gained momentum all over the world.
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Why? If the experiment failed, why repeat it? The answer is terrible in its simplicity, because the goal was not the happiness of the residents. The goal was to atomize society. In the old courtyards, where everyone knew each other and where
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space was shared, strong horizontal connections were formed. Neighbors were friends, helped each other, and could unite. In concrete towers cut by elevator shafts, social connections are torn apart. You can live on the same landing for 10 years and not
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know the name of the person next door. It's the perfect environment for raising loners who seek solace in consumption. The system realized that architectural modernism was an excellent way to destroy the traditional way of life. Instead of horizontal connections between
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family, neighbors, and community, a person finds himself tied to vertical structures: the housing office, the management company, the municipality, and the mortgage bank. He becomes helpless. He can't fix the roof of his apartment building himself. He must write a complaint. He can't
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rebuild the facade. He is a passenger in this concrete car, unable to access the steering wheel. It was in the middle of the 20th century that this substitution of concepts took place.
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Owning a home, which for centuries meant owning land and resources, has become owning cubic meters of air, confined within someone else's walls. We have ceased to be masters of the territory and have become tenants of cells in the
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global hive. And this process was presented under the guise of progress and humanism. The great architects who received prestigious awards were in fact prison guards who built the largest prison in human history. A prison without bars, where the walls hold not the body, but the mind. We
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look at photographs of old cities with longing not because we are retrogrades, but because our genetic memory screams: “Something is wrong here.” We have been deprived of texture and scale, replaced by the grey noise of concrete.
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And this noise drowns out our own thoughts. But the economic noose that was put in place in parallel with the construction one has tightened even further. If we examine the evolution of living space under the microscope of economic benefit, it
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becomes clear that the reduction in apartment size is not the result of a shortage of land, but a brilliant operation to reformat the basic unit of society. Consider why the traditional three-generation family— grandparents, parents, and children— disappeared as a social norm precisely at
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the moment when multi-apartment buildings began to be built en masse in cities. The answer lies in square meters. A standard two- or three-room apartment in a panel house is physically incapable of accommodating a large family without the emergence of serious domestic
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conflicts. Architecture has made coexistence between generations unbearable. This was the first blow to the clan system and the traditions of passing on experience.
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When a young family is forced to move into a separate concrete box, it breaks its connection with its roots and becomes an ideal economic entity, vulnerable, inexperienced, and in need of everything at once. The artificial narrowing of personal
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space is a powerful driver of consumption. Remember the old houses with storage cellars and workshops. There, a person could store food supplies for the winter, repair clothes or furniture, and engage in crafts. In a modern studio apartment or a European-style apartment there is no space for
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storing supplies. This is not a designer's mistake, it is a retailer's strategy. If you don't have a pantry, you're forced to go to the supermarket every day or order food delivery. You can't buy a sack of potatoes from a farmer
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at wholesale price. You just have nowhere to put it. You are forced to buy three washed potatoes in plastic packaging at a 300% markup. Your kitchen is designed so that you don't have to cook complex dishes, but rather heat up
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semi-finished products. The architecture of your home dictates your diet and lifestyle, which is beneficial to food corporations. A man in a concrete cell is absolutely dependent. This is the main goal of the system: to deprive people of autonomy. In a
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private home, you can drill a well, install solar panels, and grow vegetables. You can survive even if the government turns off the power. In an apartment on the twentieth floor, you are a hostage to the utility networks. If
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the power goes out, the water pumps stop , the elevators turn off, and your fortress turns into a trap. You have no control over heat, water or sewerage.
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You are simply a subscriber who receives services as long as he is solvent. This total dependence on central communications makes the city dweller obedient. He is afraid of losing his comfort because he has no alternative. He has no
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ground under his feet, only a concrete floor, which is a ceiling for the neighbor below. But the most brutal instrument of control is the mortgage. Take a realistic look at the numbers.
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The cost of building a box made of reinforced concrete and mineral wool is negligible compared to the price you see in the advertising brochure.
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You don't pay for materials or the work of the builders. The lion's share of the price is a speculative markup for land, permits, and the interests of banks and developers. We have been led to believe that giving up 30 years of our lives for the right to
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own 40 vatras of cheap housing is a normal life scenario. 30 years is the entire period of your active working life. The person who signs the mortgage agreement becomes an ideal employee. He will not argue with his superiors, will not go
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on strike, will not quit his job to find his calling. He will endure any humiliation and overwork, because the sword of the monthly payment hangs over him . The banking system has transformed a roof over your head from a basic right into a
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luxury for which you have to sell your future. This is a new type of economic slavery, where the shackles are invisible, but made of the most durable material. Fear of losing one's home. At the same time, the quality of this
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housing is deliberately underestimated. The audibility in modern monolithic frame houses is phenomenal. You hear your neighbor sneezing, your child crying, the TV playing. This creates constant background stress. Your body never relaxes completely. You are always in someone else's acoustic field.
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This increases levels of cortisol, the stress hormone, which slowly but surely destroys the immune and nervous systems.
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You become irritable, tired, sick. And where are you going? That 's right, to the pharmacy and to the doctors, once again fueling the economy. Corporations need a permanent client who has no roots or attachments. The labor mobility that
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economists love to talk about actually means homelessness. A person living in a rented apartment or a mortgaged studio that can be easily sold is ready to uproot himself and move to another city at any moment for the sake of work.
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He doesn’t feel sorry to leave his native walls, because they are not native, they are typical. In a new city, he will rent exactly the same faceless cell and continue spinning the wheel. He has no small homeland, no
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house that his great-grandfather built, no tree planted by his father. There are only square meters. which is a liquid asset and not a family nest. This system drains not only money but also time from a person.
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The time our ancestors spent spending time with family, creating, or relaxing, the modern city dweller spends on the road in traffic jams from the residential area to the office and back, and on earning money to pay for this very same travel and housing. A
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vicious circle. We work to pay for the apartment, where we only sleep at night so that we can go back to work in the morning .
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It's an absurd cycle perpetuated by urban planning policies. The zoning of cities into residential and business areas was a crime against the logic of life. It has created a pendulum migration that kills millions of people every day . Why force
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a person to live in a sleeping bag, where there is nothing but the same concrete beehives and beer stalls, in order to deprive him of alternative leisure activities? There is nowhere to go in an area like this. The courtyards are filled with cars, and there is
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minimal greenery. There are no cultural centers. The only entertainment is the shopping mall, the temple, consumption. The architecture of the area literally pushes you out of your home and onto the pier. There is light, there is music, there is
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the illusion of life. You go there and spend your hard-earned money trying to buy some dopamine. This is not an accident. This is a competent planning of human resource flows. From the concrete cell to the workshop, the office,
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from there to the sales area and back to the cell to recharge. It is noteworthy that the materials used to build modern luxury complexes and social housing essentially differ little in terms of durability. The service life of a panel house is calculated at
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50, maximum 70 years. This is temporary housing. Humanity has been deprived of the right to eternity. When built from stone and brick, a house could stand for 300 years. It could be passed on to great-grandchildren. The concrete box will start to crumble during your
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lifetime. The pipes will leak, the insulation will rot, and the communications will rust. It's the disposable world concept applied to real estate. You are being forced to pay the price of a capital structure while being sold , in essence, architectural fast food.
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Look at the development plans for the suburbs of large cities. These are fields sown with high-rise buildings. There are not enough hospitals, schools or kindergartens there. But there are millions of square meters of housing. These are not cities for living. These are warehouses for
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storing labor. Developers make superprofits selling air enclosed by cheap walls, and the state receives taxes and an obedient population driven into a mortgage cage.
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The benefit is obvious to all participants in the scheme, except the tenant himself. He is a resource, fuel for this machine. And the worst thing is that most people don’t even realize their situation, considering the purchase of an apartment in Chelovenik to be the
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main achievement of their life. But once you understand the mechanics of this process, the walls of your cozy apartment begin to look completely different. They no longer protect you, they limit you. And beyond these walls begins a territory designed to
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completely crush your will and ability to resist. When you look at the city at night from an airplane window or from a high observation deck, you see an endless sea of lights. It's mesmerizing, but when you come down to earth and step
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inside the residential area, the magic disappears. A giant warehouse appears before you. The term "sleeping area" is monstrous in itself. It directly points to the function of this territory. This is not a place for life, creativity or development. This is a place for the
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workforce to sleep lithargically between shifts. In essence, modern megacities have become logistics hubs where the goods are not boxes of electronics, but living people. And the logistics of storing human resources are subject to the same laws of efficiency as the storage of
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containers in a port. Maximum packaging density, minimum maintenance costs and standardization of dimensions. The culmination of this architectural trap is that the cage has finally closed not around your body, but around your social behavior. The overcrowding that is
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presented as urbanization is in fact a powerful instrument for suppressing the will. The paradox of the concrete hive is that the physical proximity of thousands of people creates absolute social alienation. When you live in a village or a small town, you depend on your neighbor.
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You are forced to build communication. In a 2,000-apartment human space, your brain switches on the defense mechanism of ignoring. You stop seeing faces. People become background noise, an obstacle in the queue for the elevator or at the supermarket checkout. This causes
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chronic irritation and latent aggression, which never finds an outlet, but only accumulates, turning into psychosomatic illnesses. The architecture of residential areas is designed to exclude the possibility of collective action. Think of the structure of old European or colonial cities.
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There was always a square, a town hall, a forum, a gathering place for citizens. It was a space for discussion, celebration and, if necessary, protest. This was the heart of the city. In modern microdistricts there is no A, there are only arteries,
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roads and parking lots. Try to find a place in a typical development of the last 40 years where 500 people can gather and discuss the problems of their neighborhood. Such a place is simply not provided for in the master plan. There are
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narrow sidewalks, there is a roadway, there are commercial spaces on the ground floors that are rented out. Public space has been destroyed as a class. You have been deprived of the physical opportunity to feel one with other people. You are atoms, chaotically
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browning between work and bed. This is not a mistake by the city planners, it is a strategy of appeasement. In the architectural environment, there is the concept of protective space, but in the context of mass development it is turned inside out.
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Space protects the system from citizens, not citizens from crime or adversity. Standard facades exacerbate this effect. Identical grey slabs stretching for kilometres erase individuality. A person who grows up in an environment devoid of unique traits has difficulty forming his own self. He
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becomes part of the grey mass not metaphorically, but literally visually. Psychologists call this the learned helplessness effect. When the environment around you is unchanging, monolithic and overwhelmingly huge, you stop believing that your actions can change anything. You feel like a song at
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the foot of a concrete mountain. Chronic fatigue, which affects millions of city dwellers, is not only the result of overwork, but also the result of constant visual and spatial pressure. But the most terrible crime of modern urban planning is the erasure of
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historical memory. We are witnessing a global reboot of the urban landscape. With maniacal persistence, strong beautiful historical buildings that could have stood for another 300 years are being demolished all over the world. They are destroyed under far-fetched pretexts: dilapidation,
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non-compliance with insolation standards, the need to widen roads. But the true reason lies in the plane of psychology and symbolism. Old architecture is a material evidence of the strength, taste and freedom of our ancestors. Looking at a majestic
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cathedral, a merchant's mansion or an old university building, a person involuntarily straightens his shoulders. He sees that people are capable of creating beauty, complex and harmonious. Old buildings speak to us in the language of dignity.
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They remind us that we are the heirs of a great culture. By destroying the historic center and building it up with glass or concrete phalluses, the system breaks this connection. We are being deprived of visual anchors. We are
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left with only primitive forms: parallelepiped, cube, cylinder. When a person does not see the past, it is easier to instill in him any version of the present. You can tell him: "You've always lived in a concrete box. This is your natural
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habitat. You're a small person. Your job is to pay the mortgage and consume." The erasure of architectural heritage is a lobotomy of public consciousness. Without old buildings, the city loses its soul and turns into a transit zone. But I don’t feel
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sorry for the transit zone; I don’t want to protect it, I don’t want to put down roots in it . We live in an era of global architectural amnesia. Explore new areas of London, Shanghai, Toronto or Berlin. They are indistinguishable. Glass,
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concrete, steel, ventilated facade. Globalists are building a world without borders and without identity, and architecture is their main tool.
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They create an environment in which national, cultural and historical codes are simply not readable. This is preparation for the creation of a global biorobot human, ideally suited to functioning in the corporate matrix, but completely devoid of deep attachments. We
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have been convinced that renovation and infill development are a good thing, a development, but in reality this is a process of replacing the complex living fabric of the city with a dead synthetic fabric. which is rejected by our psyche. Have you noticed how
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your state changes when you leave the residential ghetto for the preserved old center? The breathing becomes deeper, the step slows, the eyes begin to run along the facades, examining the stucco, cornices, balconies with wrought iron bars. Your brain,
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starved for sensory diversity, begins to eat this beauty. You feel a surge of energy. This is not nostalgia, it is a biological reaction to a normal human environment.
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And it is precisely this reaction that we are systematically deprived of. We are being driven into reservations where there is nothing to catch the eye except advertising billboards. Advertising becomes the only bright spot in the gray desert, the
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only source of color and emotion. In this way, architecture directly serves commerce, turning us into addicts dependent on bright labels. We have become hostages of false urbanization. We were promised comfort, but were given isolation. We were promised accessibility, but were given lifelong
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debt bondage. We were promised modernity, but were given back a primitivism that even cavemen would have rejected if they had a choice. The smykatki is over. We are inside a giant mechanism that converts our time and life energy into profits for transnational
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corporations. The walls of this mechanism are cast in concrete, but they are held together by our silent consent. We accepted this game. We agreed to consider 25 floors as the norm. We agreed to call the kennel a studio. We agreed that a view from the window
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onto the adjacent wall was inevitable. am
Topics:modern housingarchitecturemental healthceiling heightsocial engineeringurban designneurobiologyhousing crisisstandardizationhuman behavior
