Monday, November 10, 2014

Passion for Terrain


One of the most famous propositions made by Spinoza is that we don’t know what the body can do. The practitioners of wingsuit flying reveal that we didn’t know that the human body could fly. Wingsuit flyers stand at the top of a mountain on the edge of a cliff and calmly jump off, head on, toward the abyss. After an initially precipitous fall, they smoothly glide away thanks to the lift created by the surface areas that their special suits have under the arms and between the legs. The boldest practitioners of this extreme sport do not simply fly; they engage with terrain in what they call “proximity flights”: speeding at 220 km per hour very close to mountain walls, rock formations, and forests and artfully adapting their trajectories to the forms of terrain. After gliding in some cases for several kilometers almost caressing the surface of rocks and the tip of trees, they release their parachutes to land in a valley below. This sport’s practitioners declare that this dramatic engagement with terrain is the most exhilarating experience they could ever go through, so intense and visceral that’s impossible to describe with words. This is, they say, what humans have long dreamed of: flying using their bare bodies, without recourse to self-propelled engines. But what interests me here is what this perplexing practice reveals about the affective geometry that defines the body’s mobility in relation to the three-dimensional materiality of the spaces of this world: that is, of terrain.
Mountain climbers, skiers, snowboarders, trekkers, or mountain bikers often agree that they feel addicted to the thrill of making their bodies navigate the multiplicity of forms, textures, angles, and volumes that make up the crust of the planet, especially where the verticality of mountains highlights the force of gravity on the body. In the late 1990s, this passion pushed new generations to test what the body can do amid rugged terrain onto uncharted territory and led to the birth of wingsuit flying, which blended skydiving with BASE jumping, the practice of parachuting from fixed structures such as buildings, bridges, or mountains.
Wingsuit flying is skydiving on steroids. Skydivers jump off an airplane and experience for a few minutes a marked spatial distance between their bodies and the ground toward which gravity inexorably pulls them. The most devoted practitioners of wingsuit flying, in contrast, dislike being far from solid terrain; they prefer to jump off the edge of mountains in order to face rock formations at close proximity, and at a speed in which a split second could mark the difference between life and death. For this reason, those devoted to proximity flying are very sensitive to the forms, angles, and heights of the objects around them and refer to “terrain” regularly in the depiction of their trajectories. When they fly at high speed they are well aware that what their bodies face is terrain's crude materiality, which will kill them upon impact irrespective of how that particular space is socially organized or perceived (the video below, the preview of the documentary Birdmen, captures the physical salience of terrain in these flights' trajectories).
In this intense engagement with terrain, some wingsuit flyers sought to explore even further what their bodies could do. Shaun McConkey was already hailed in the 1990s as the best extreme skier in the world when he discovered wingsuit flying and became addicted to it. His passion for proximity flying was such that he was permanently looking for mountains with particularly vertical walls from where to jump off, from the Artic to the Alps. In seeking to push the limits of what he could do, he decided to add his talents in extreme skiing to the mix. He came up with a technique to ski down the slopes of particularly treacherous mountains, release his skis upon jumping off the edge of the cliff, and glide away. He did it many times and, as the documentary McConkey shows, he became overconfident. In 2009, in a jump in the Italian Alps, one of his skis failed to disconnect and the extra weight made him lose his balance and spin uncontrollably. Pulled by the unrelenting power of the planet’s gravity, Shaun fell hundreds of meters to meet his death, to the horror of the crew that was filming him from a helicopter. 
In order to fully appreciate how the body is affect by terrain we should revisit Spinoza’s famous proposition, and reread it negatively. That is, while it is true that we don’t know what a body can do, we do know what a human body cannot do: escape the physical force that the planet imposes on it through gravity and survive the impact of a fall, as in this case, from a height of hundreds of meters. The human body, after all, is not anatomically designed to fly. The passion of proximity flyers for their craft is proportional to the extremely dangerous nature of this sport, which every year kills about 20 people whose bodies collide with the cold hardness of the ground. This tension between what a human body can and cannot do amid the materiality of actually existing spaces is at the core of a theory of terrain. Much can be said, certainly, about the elitist eccentricity of extreme sports such as this, which commoditize intense “experiences.” But what interests me here is a strictly physical-affective problem central to an understanding of terrain, which in my book in progress Opaque Planet: Outline of a Theory of Terrain I’m exploring further in situations of conflict and warfare: the fact that it’s in the geometry that a body creates in relation to tangible spaces such as cliffs and ridges that we can best appreciate what terrain is. And terrain is powerfully structured by gravity, for as Einstein argued a century ago, what we call "space" (a term he disliked for being too vague) is nothing but fields of gravity. The exhilaration experienced by wingsuit flyers gliding next to granite walls at high speed —and the perplexity that these flights creates on us as spectators— are not simply, in this regard, about this newly-discovered human skill to fly. These aerial trajectories bring to light the physical presence of terrain: the fact that in swiftly moving through the smoothness of the air, fragile bodies confront an unforgiving spatial vastness that has preceded human life on Earth and is always-already indifferent to its passions.



Sunday, October 12, 2014

World of Walls

On the show Game of Thrones, state territoriality comes to a spatial end at a gigantic wall, The Northern Wall: a 300-meter-high, eighty-meter-thick rock of solid ice that expands over hundreds of kilometers, from coast to coast and therefore severing the totality of the landmass in two. This gigantic barrier was built in a distant past to stop a dissolving vortex formed by anti-state insurgencies and supernatural entities. The forces that lurk in those frozen lands stretching behind The Northern Wall are powerful, destructive, and expansive. This is why the Wall is jealously patrolled by guards that nervously scan the other side from the top, facing the misty, forested, frozen abyss ahead. They can clearly see and feel in their bodies that “the other side” is an overwhelming, opaque, incomprehensible vastness: a rugged terrain swept by freezing weather, the armies of the dead, and humans who despise hierarchies and actively fight the spatial expansion of the state. The Northern Wall, in short, expresses not the power of the Kings who built it but that of the expansive forces that threaten it; it is huge because if it had been smaller it would have been long since destroyed. Throughout Game of Thrones, the characters who kill and die farther south in warmer lands regularly utter, looking nervously toward the north, “Winter is Coming.” This is the name for the powerful forces that threaten to overflow The Wall and wipe out state territoriality in one stroke.
Today our planet has its own Northern Wall: a world archipelago of walls, fences, and technologies made to keep undesirable and feared multitudes at a distance. Our hyper-globalized capitalist world, of course, thrives on speed, movement, and deterritorialization. Billions of objects, bodies, and bits of information are permanently moving at high speed across international borders. This materiality-in-motion is not smooth but creates massive disruptions, confirming that capitalism is propelled by malign velocities, as Ben Noys argues. Because of these planetary velocities, and in contrast to the fictionalized feudal world depicted in Game of Thrones, in our world there is no space that is “on the other side” of the global order.
But in the twenty-first century there is no “beyond” the Great Imperial Wall precisely because the Wall is Empire’s structuring spatial principle. The imperial and class-based nature of the speed that thrives because of that planetary Wall is manifested in the patterns of spatial segregation it creates. Since the Wall operates in all terrains and is scattered all over the surface of the planet, it is also materialized in the ocean in the ships and planes (aided by satellites) patrolling the waters searching for boats of "immigrants." On land, The Great Imperial Wall also demarcates, like on Game of Thrones, the landmass in two, if in a more allegorical sense. In this case, the line separates desirables from undesirables and makes the latter separable in space. The fences built along the US-Mexico border, the walls built by Spain to seal off its outposts in North Africa, and The Israeli Wall of Separation are all one and the same wall, our Northern Wall, facing the abyss of the insurgent spatial forces that may eventually destroy Empire. This is also why the global core of our Great Imperial Wall is Palestine, where the Israeli state has embraced the walls once used against the Jewish people in Europe and misremembers the genocide not as something that should never happen again but as something that should never happen again to the Jews. Ironically, Hitler also swore in the 1930s that the humiliation of defeat should never happen again to the Germans. Walls thrive in the reactive passions of identity politics, and their power to make people disregard the suffering of undesirables, like those labelled "Jews" in the 1930s and 1940s and "Arabs" today.
In 1938, Adolf Hitler declared in an ominous speech that “the total solution of the Jewish question” demanded a “clear” program. And this plan, he screamed, was “Total separation, total segregation!” In one stroke, Hitler identified the core of the fascist disposition toward space: the desire to keep bodies felt as different and dangerous at a physical distance. We know that Hitler’s call for total segregation was part of a genocidal disposition: the desire to spatially contain a population in order to eventually be able to exterminate it more affectively. Shortly thereafter, Hitler’s call for “total segregation” led to the rise of walls and the herding by force of millions of Jewish men, women, and children into ghettos and slave and death camps. There, behind walls, fences, and barbed wire, they were wiped out in a merciless genocide that was fully industrialized.
The creation of a radical spatial separation between desirable and undesirable populations outlived its Nazi manifestations after the world war. For several decades, it was state policy in the southern United States and Apartheid South Africa. There, fences and walls existed but the spatial segregation was basically enforced through terror, and in the US South lynching became a mechanism of racial territorialization. The insurrections against this segregation in the United States and South Africa throughout the 1960s and 1990s ruptured major affective walls and partly democratized public space. The 1989 insurrection against the Berlin Wall marked the climax of modern protests against walls, and was also notable because the multitude thoroughly destroyed this wall. Not even rubble remained, except as souvenirs in people’s homes. 
             But by the early twenty-first century, the Wall of the neoliberal and imperial order has expanded along new lines, appearing in new nodes and forming constellations of gated communities, armies of private guards, checkpoints, high-tech surveillance, and walls and more walls. The hyper-surveilled striation is the spatial norm of the neoliberal order. Teresa Caldeira, George Ciccariello-Maher, and Mike Davis have called attention to the racialized and class-based nature of these spatial segregations in Sao Paolo, Caracas, and Dubai. In the latter, a mecca of global capitalism, South-Asian workers are treated as modern slaves who are not allowed to move. These are not simply “cities of walls,” as Caldeira argues about Sao Paulo, but urban nodes in a world of walls, the same way that this world of walls has rural nodes in, say, the 20 km fence built by Barrick Gold around its massive mining operation in Tanzania (made to prevent undesirables from grabbing valuable minerals from a space that had been commodified and expropriated from the commons). Walls may not have necessarily gone up everywhere, but in many places (like today in the United States) the police are simply enforcing segregation by murdering more unarmed undesirables on the streets, always in “self-defense.” This hardening of the Great Imperial Wall is spurred by the accelerating and destructive expansiveness of neo-liberal capitalism, and is justified in the name of a humanitarian civilization and global security.
Because the principle of total segregation is the landmark of the imperial present, it has become a recurrent theme in popular culture. The film industry has confronted the oppressive dimensions of spatial segregation but only tangentially, and by projecting it onto a dystopian future. The films The Hunger Games, Elysium, and Snowpiercer depict a future of enforced apartheid; they also present the rise of insurgencies set out to destroy or undermine spatial barriers and the principle of total segregation.
In The Hunger Games, the ruling elite enjoys a life of idle exuberance and dazzling spectacle in the Capitol, while the working classes are forced to live in fenced-off “districts” in the rest of North America. These districts are surrounded by barbed-wired fences and are submitted to different levels of exploitation, suffering, and despair. In an annual spectacle of combat among gladiators, they are all ritually reminded that resistance is futile because in the past a massive revolution was crushed by the state through sheer terror. But this spectacular commemoration ends up backfiring and prompting a widespread revolt. In Elysium, the segregation between social classes is radicalized further because the super rich have simply fled the surface of the planet. They live in luxury in a giant station in the atmosphere, while the rest of humanity lives in despair in a slum world ravaged by global warming. The super rich’s spatial disconnect from the planetary poor is in this case, indeed, total. On a daily basis, the poor can see the station where the elites live, a shinny dot in the sky. The rebellion against this apartheid at last takes place, but is largely individualistic and reformist. Those who reach Elysium from Earth through small vessels do not seek to destroy an oppressive global system but to make its technological gadgets more accessible to the poor.
In Snowpiercer, the principle of total segregation adopts particularly original, gripping, and politically radical dimensions. First, the total separation between the elite and the underclass takes place in the narrow, long materiality of a train moving at high-speed across a devastated, lifeless planet. The planet was frozen by the failed attempt to solve global warming by cooling the atmosphere through the massive dispersal of chemicals in the sky (this is exactly the techno-fix of climate change that neoliberals fantasize about, as Naomi Klein analyzes in This Changes Everything). On this train, the elites live in luxury in the front cars and use their private army to terrorize the multitudes forced to live in crumped slums at the train’s tail. Their mobility is blockaded by tightly policed gates. As a female official tells those in the tail, the train has a hierarchical geometry based on “preordained positions,” according to which, “You, belong to the tail. I belong to the front.” Since the train was built and is run by a corporation, these gates are controlled by a capitalist state, in which the owner of this vehicle is the state.
In these three films, the separation between classes reproduces an affective segregation, through which the elites enjoy a good, pleasant life while being oblivious to the suffering of those they oppress. It is easier to disregard those that you cannot see, or pretend not to notice them. But this disregard is certainly not total, the same way that the segregation is not total, for keeping populations segregated and dominated requires hard work and, more importantly, violence. The political order that rules the train is a terrorist machine ready to murder in order to defend those “preordained positions.” But the physical and affective separation depicted in Snowpiercer stands out because everybody on the train is trapped in a space without outside. Walls have always imprisoned those obsessed by the principle of total segregation. On this train, this imprisonment is not simply affective or allegorical. Out the window, those frozen geographies reveal no signs of life: only the massive rubble of a destroyed world. The train is the prison of the oppressed and oppressors, but also the terrain of revolution.
               In Snowpiercer, revolution is accurately depicted as a geometrical vector: as a bodily force that charges ahead against the troops that manned the multiple gates that kept the train's tail shut off. The Wall that kept the multitude enslaved could only be breached, in short, by bodies forcing their way through it. The movie, tellingly, begins with the image of the future leader of the insurrection making geometrical calculations: counting the seconds it takes the guards to shut the series of gates that lock them up after their inspection. The weakest points of all walls are the gates. Not surprisingly, the most dramatic moment of movies depicting walled cities succumbing to sieges, from The Lord of the Rings to Troy, is that of swarms flowing through a gate that has been breached, making the walls useless. In Snowpiercer, revolution, indeed, starts when, while the guards were being attacked and neutralized, dozens of men and women run carrying with them a long and thick tube and passing it through several gates to prevent them from closing. That was the moment when the political order of the train began crumbling: when segregation was ruptured and the rebellious multitude began their slow, firm march toward the front of the train to capture its mythical engine.
If less openly insurrectional, the vectorial disposition against the principle of total segregation is also the gesture by those people who on a daily basis challenge our Northern Wall, the Great Imperial Wall connecting The United States to Morocco and Palestine. In Morocco, it is common to see dozens of men sitting on top of the fence. Being already on top, they have surmounted the biggest obstacle posed by the materiality of the fence. They are now scanning the terrain, measuring the mobility of the military police in order to decide when to jump. When they do, they create a microscopic breach in The Wall. Countless breaches of the Wall take place all the time all over the world. As Eyal Weizman has forcefully argued in his study of the Israeli Wall of Separation, spatial separation makes for an “impossible politics,” for in the long term it is unsustainable. An iconic image of the imperial present and the futility of its walls is the Mexican family depicted on the run on traffic signposts on roads north of the US-Mexico border. They seem to be fleeing. But their bodies are clearly charging ahead. They have already crossed the border and are creating an assertive vector that, even if only in that place, is dissolving the principle of total segregation and making the fence useless.
The new century has reawakened debates on the left about the nature of future revolutions and about the challenges of imagining a post-capitalist and egalitarian future. These debates should involve how to rethink collective spaces in relation to mobility, equality, and freedom. After all, Hanna Arendt rightly argued that the most fundamental type of freedom is the freedom of movement: the freedom to live in a world free of walls. Maybe the sign that a truly liberating epoch has arrived will be the image of multitudes that --as in Berlin in 1989 but in myriad different places the world over-- rise up against The Wall and reduce it, amid cheers, to rubble. 





Friday, September 19, 2014

Lefebvre's Beach

This review essay of Henri Lefebvre's Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment was originally published at Society and Space. Special thanks to Lukasz Stanek (who edited the book and wrote its wonderful introduction) for his feedback and for providing me with the photo of Lefebvre and his family at the beach reproduced at the end of this post. 
                Henri Lefebvre (1901-1991) was one of the most incisive, original, and prolific philosophers of the twentieth century, and his wide-ranging books profoundly redefined our understanding of space as something material, produced, embodied, and disrupted by conflict and violence. Yet it is only in 2014 that we finally have access to his masterful Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment, his most forceful meditation on the spatial utopia he aspired to. Written in 1973 and subsequently forgotten for four decades, the book is an extraordinary exploration of the affective dimensions of space, a topic that was uncharted territory in the 1970s. Lefebvre tackled it with the creative heterodoxy that always characterized him, blending his acute spatial gaze, the critical spirit of Marxist theory, phenomenology’s bodily sensibility, and a Dionysian, Nietzschean thrust. Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment, in particular, testifies to the impact that Nietzsche had on Lefebvre’s views of space, focused here on the most vital disposition that defines human affects: enjoyment. This is not the commodified, shallow, individualized enjoyment cultivated by corporatized spaces of leisure. The enjoyment celebrated by Lefebvre is part of collective and insurgent forces that disrupt spaces of domination and suffering, for (in his words) “only the humiliated, the oppressed, the exploited … retain a vital, explosive energy, the energy of enjoyment expended in festivals and revolutions” (70).
             It has become a cliché to say that some thinkers are so ahead of their times that they are misunderstood by their contemporaries, but if this idea has any purchase it’s certainly with Lefebvre. His groundbreaking The Urban Revolution (1970), for instance, was met with hostility by Marxist authors because he proposed to rethink urban spatiality as a material form that involves circulation, centralities, and flows and is irreducible to capitalist industrialization. The book was only published in English thirty-three years after the French original, and twelve years after Lefebvre’s death. Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment adds another milestone to this dissonance and deferral in the reception of his ideas, for the book only saw the light of day in any language forty-one years after Lefebvre wrote it and thirty-three years after his death. Ironically, what is striking about the book is how fresh, youthful, and timely it often feels; as if it were a manifesto written for us in the future, sent to help us reimagine the spatial politics of emancipation in the twenty-first century.
            We owe the rescue and publication of this notable book to the perseverance and talent of Lukasz Stanek, the Manchester-based Polish architect who wrote the volume’s excellent and comprehensive introduction, and who is also the author of Henri Lefebvre on Space (2011, also published by Minnesota). In the introduction, Stanek tells us the fascinating story of how on a 2008 trip to Spain he discovered that the manuscript had sat for decades in the private library of Mario Gaviria, a renowned Spanish sociologist and urban planner who was a close friend and collaborator of Lefebvre. Gaviria and Lefebvre had spent years analyzing the transformation of the beaches of the Mediterranean into commodified spaces for the consumption of the northern European middle-classes. This became an important theme in Lefebvre’s The Production of Space, which was published in 1974 and became his most famous masterpiece (the book was published in English in 1991, months before his death). In the 1960s and early 1970s, Gaviria and Lefebvre interpreted the transformation of the Mediterranean into a tourist destination as a neo-colonial subordination of southern Europe to the better-off parts of the continent. Gaviria asked Lefebvre to write a manuscript on “the architecture of pleasure” associated with this spatial transformation, to be submitted to the foundation that financed the research. In 1973, Lefebvre wrote the book with the revised title “Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment.” Making explicit his debt to his friend, he dedicated the book to Gaviria.
Gaviria, however, was expecting something else. Stanek does not go into details, but says that Gaviria found the manuscript “too abstract” and did not enclose it in his report. The sole existing copy of the manuscript ended up in Gaviria’s personal library in the basement of an old house from the 1600s. When in 2008 Stanek told Gaviria that he would love to see it, they both went to the old library. It took Gaviria “several hours” to find the manuscript, which indicates that its presence had been largely forgotten amid piles of other objects. In an illuminating interview with Stuart Elden at Society and Space, Stanek mentioned that a flooding in the basement had destroyed many of the library’s books and documents. Lefebvre’s manuscript survived, but barely; it was sitting just above the water level. Had more water flooded the basement, that bundle of aging pages, and the ideas written on them, would have dissolved into nothingness.
The story of the trajectory and eventual public appearance of the manuscript is as remarkable as its content. Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment is, indeed, a complex, “abstract” philosophical book. The style of the narrative is vintage Lefebvre: some sections include meandering thoughts that seem to drift, but that gradually build momentum as they weave different topics in tangential yet ultimately illuminating ways. What Gaviria perhaps found too abstract is that Lefebvre’s examples barely hint at Mediterranean Europe. Gaviria seems to have wanted a more concrete reflection on the architecture created at Spanish beaches, and Lefebvre gave him a philosophical treatise on enjoyment and space. The book is a sweeping review of how philosophy, history, anthropology, economics, psychology, psychoanalysis, semiotics, semantics, and architecture tackled the problem of enjoyment in relation to space. The scope is as epic and erudite as it is, at points, uneven. The chapters I found most compelling are those on philosophy (chapter 5) and psychology and psychoanalysis (chapter 8). Lefebvre’s critique of the ways in which European intellectual traditions confronted the problem of enjoyment from ancient Greece to the twentieth century is not free from an Orientalist common sense that occasionally romanticizes a sensuous “East” in contrast to an austere and moralist “West,” the only moments when the narrative feels dated. And his engagement with Spinoza’s philosophy of affects, an obviously relevant interlocutor given Spinoza’s celebration of joy, is disappointingly brief and superficial, even if Lefebvre is right in noting that Spinoza overlooked the problem of space (60). Yet despite its shortfalls, the book is consistently thought-provoking and reveals how myriad authors addressed or overlooked the affective and the sensory in the making of space.
This engagement with multiple disciplines is Lefebvre’s own effort to answer the book’s foundational questions: What, exactly, is enjoyment? Which are the joys that are genuinely liberating? The book’s brilliant translator, Robert Bononno (who also translated Lefebvre’s The Urban Revolution), warns us in the opening pages about the well-known nuances of the word jouissance (“enjoyment”) in French, including its libidinal connotations that make it resonate with “pleasure.” But perhaps in critical dialogue with Gaviria’s perception that the text was too abstract, Bonono rightly points out that Lefebvre writes about jouissance in the most bodily and concrete sense of the term, and with the aim of criticizing the alienating power of spatial abstractions under capitalism. The abstractions that define capitalist, commodified space are a major theme in Lefebvre’s The Production of Space. The fact that the two books were written almost simultaneously often makes Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment read like the former book’s “lost,” most assertive chapter: the moment when, after examining how space is historically produced and turned into something alienating, Lefebvre pauses to reflect on his disruptive spatial utopia of collective joys.
For Lefebvre, enjoyment is crucial for a political understanding of spaces of freedom because its raw, sensuous materiality is inseparable from the social conditions that define space. Yet he also shows how elusive, multifaceted, and fleeting this physicality is. He insists that enjoyment is momentary, slippery, appearing only to disappear again. Joy, he writes, is like a “surplus” that only emerges from “use” and “efforts” (62, 75). In one of the most Nietzschean yet also most dialectical lines in the book, Lefebvre writes that enjoyment “is merely a flash, a form of energy that is expended, wasted, destroying itself in the process” (115). This is why for him the idea of “architectures of enjoyment” is primarily a problem, a question for which he does not have a neat answer, and for which no clear answer, in fact, will ever exist. Lefebvre gestures at a generative void: a horizon of spatialized enjoyments that may be momentary and not fully apprehensible but that are important to appreciate the liberating but also oppressive ways in which affects contribute to producing space.
A central theme in the book is that these flashes of joyful surplus can easily become deceiving traps that create spaces of domination. The state always strives to domesticate popular joys and turn them into mere “satisfaction,” which under capitalism becomes the fetishized “illusion” of private enjoyment (5, 70). This is the “caricature of enjoyment” through which spaces of leisure are subsumed “to the demands of profit” (101). The ruling classes, in turn, cultivate their own perverse enjoyments, which thrive on the suffering of others. “The powerful take pleasure in crushing the weak and defeating an adversary whose power is equal to or greater than their own” (16). This is why the elites have for millennia built massive, “tragic” monuments: the “architecture of death” of the Taj Mahal in India or the pyramids in Egypt (6). This monumentalized architecture is the best example of the “absolute space” he would write about in The Production of Space: the places saturated with religious meaning and claims to transcendence that dominated medieval Europe, and which were to be eroded by the rise of capitalist spatial abstractions and their commodified functionality. 
           “The site of enjoyment, if it exists,” in contrast, “perpetuates what hostile space can kill, erode, exterminate” (113). This generativity of an enjoyment that arises against “hostile space” is a positive appropriation of space: the production of a collective space where use-value, life, and the body predominate. Architecture, in this regard, is for Lefebvre not just a discipline; it is the very practice of producing space (3, 152) and has potentially insurgent elements in the creation of spaces of joy that  rebel against the abstracting, alienating commoditization of space. 
There is an important caveat, however. Architecture will never magically generate enjoyment in and of itself. Lefebvre is hostile to this spatial fetishism, for enjoyment can emerge from anywhere because of its elusive, bodily, fleeting nature (an abandoned warehouse, he says, can be quickly turned into a place of celebration). Further, if the goal of creating “a space of enjoyment” becomes too explicit and spatially fixed, genuine enjoyment is destroyed. In a particularly important section, Lefebvre writes that “the places of enjoyment” should not have pleasure or sensuality “as their function.” “Discotheques and bordellos” are for him far from being places of enjoyment; they are defined by “the death of pleasure,” because “the tireless pursuit of dead pleasure is hell.” “The place of sensuality,” he adds, “need not be sensual.” This is why an architecture of enjoyment should draw from the only possible source of pleasure: the body in its non-commodified immediacy in relation to space. “Places have no way of giving beings what can only come from themselves, the vitality known as desire” (112).
For Lefebvre, therefore, only collective gestures and actions can create spaces of enjoyment, primarily through an “economy of joy” where use-value and egalitarian appropriations prevail over commoditization and class domination. This is an enjoyment with anti-capitalist dimensions, created by an economy that does not have enjoyment as its goal, but “allow it” and “lead to it” (151). This is why Lefebvre argues that “spaces of enjoyment cannot consist of a building, an assembly of rooms, places determined by their functions.” Rather, they emerge through bodies expending their vital energies in “moments, encounters, friendships, festivals, rest, quiet, joy, exaltation, sensuality, as well as understanding, enigma, the unknown, and the known, struggle, play” (152). Lefebvre knows very well that this is a utopian project, to be created collectively by a revolution that has yet to take place. Yet he also warns the skeptic reader that this is a concrete utopia whose affective and spatial materiality already exists among us, for “every time you find a place genuinely pleasing and enchanting… you enter this utopia.” And he provocatively asks us, his readers: Would you be able to survive “if you cannot refresh yourself in a short bath of enjoyment from time to time?” (132).
             During his stay in Spain while writing the book, Lefebvre took time to enjoy the beaches of the Mediterranean in Catalonia that him and Gaviria had examined as alienating places of leisure. A photo taken by Gaviria and reproduced in Stanek’s introduction shows Lefebvre enjoying the waves of the sea with his young daughter Armelle and his then partner Nicole Beaurain —who typed Lefebvre’s hand-written version of the book. In Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment, Lefebvre refers to the beach only briefly, but notes that whereas beaches used to be feared places associated with “fishermen, peasants, and pillagers of shipwrecks,” in “the modern era” they have been discovered “as a space of enjoyment that could be used by everyone, all class distinctions being dissolved in a strip of land near the sea” (49). In The Production of Space, Lefebvre would argue that seemingly democratic places of leisure like the beach are “an extension of dominated space,” for “leisure is as alienated as it is alienating.” Yet he added that the beach is also a contradictory place with disruptive edges, because the body enjoying it “takes its revenge—or at least calls for revenge.” This is a body that “seeks to make itself known—to gain recognition—as generative.” When the beach is enjoyed through the senses, Lefebvre added, the body tends to behave “as a total body, breaking out of the temporal and spatial shell” of alienated labor, thereby hinting at potential breaking-points in an everyday life devoid of joys (The Production of Space, 383-85, italics in original).
In retrospect, Toward an Architecture of Enjoyment helps us better understand these lines and in general Lefebvre’s political philosophy of space. The idea that a body enjoying the beach generates a surplus of vital energy irreducible to that place’s commoditization is probably inseparable from Lefebvre’s experience at those beaches that inspired him to write about the spatiality of enjoyment. In a section that sums up the book’s nuanced argument, Lefebvre wrote that enjoyment requires “bodily immediacy,” and that it is space that provides this immediacy “between enjoyment and pleasure” (116). It is, therefore, “space,” he wrote, “that maintains this connection between pleasure and enjoyment: by preparing pleasure, by calibrating it, by enabling it to surround enjoyment, even if enjoyment, in the narrow and absolute sense, has no space.”