What the Image Leaves Out

When we look at a photograph—especially one online—the brain misses a lot of detail. We see only a flattened, two-dimensional version of an experience, even though it has many more dimensions.

If the photograph is of a beach, we don't feel the sand between our toes, or the feeling of the setting sun sinking slowly under the horizon. We miss the smells of automobiles, plants, and the dust of the sand, and we hear none of the ambient sounds, near and far, mechanical and natural. But our mind tricks us. It makes up for the missing details. We might substitute details of our last time at the beach: the feeling of the air in space, or the temperature on our skin.

But let's consider what happens when we look at a photograph of a hotel room.

Here, we might be more easily tricked.

We know that the experience of a room is often different from the photos. If the photos are good enough, our mind forgets that hotels are built to be rotational: a behind-the-scenes staff of people who press forward the daily patina of politely pushing people through a bustling turnstile of bedding and fresh towels, at once a non-place for business travelers or an unforgettable honeymoon.

We see a photo of a clean room, and we assume the air is also clean. We see simplicity and forget the sound of the radiator clicking in the middle of the night. We forget the air vent, built up with dust, wheezing with the effort of its burden to clean the air of 500 sleeping quarters.

Because we need a place to stay, and because we have only a few senses to lean on—a photograph and a review—and since we have limited time, we approve the room. Our eyes do not approve of the bright blue lights of the thermostat as we try to sleep after we've landed. Our ears do not approve of the distant THUD of the elevator as it shovels noisy guests through a dozen landings just a few doors down.

A photograph cannot be cold. It can only be seen. We choose spaces with the sense that survives the transmission through this medium. Yet, we inhabit these spaces with all the senses that don't.

This deep asymmetry runs backward, not just in how guests choose spaces, but how spaces get built. The wheezing HVAC unit, pushing air ineffectively from a tube too long for its capacity, is not considered in the photograph. A blue light on the thermostat is not considered. The THUD of the elevator is not taken into account.

Unless a framework exists for these annoyances—nothing can be done about them. We will keep building hotels to ensure they sell rooms through photos, and we'll keep having travelers who have to put up with them. That lack of rest will build up, and affect meetings, ideas, the writing of books, and even the relationships that choose the hotel as a temporary base for their development.

The mind doesn't want technology to draw more attention to itself than the environment. In nature, air is a pleasant breeze. It doesn't make a wheezing mechanical sound as it pours poorly filtered air into a stuffy container. An HVAC system should be built that way as well, and recessed, so the sound is farther from the air vent's exit point.

I've been studying this discrepancy for many years now. It's the subject of the work that I do with a foundation called the Calm Tech Institute. We're deeply interested in how technology and spaces feel, not just how they look.

I firmly believe that the back brain—the older, faster, and more tactile part of the brain—evaluates the experience of a room the moment we enter. The prefrontal cortex, in contrast, is excellent at reading text and making decisions (like which hotel image looks best for the trip), but we are ruled by the brain that evolved first. It gives us the unsettling feeling of sensory deprivation—a hotel room with a blank wall, no character, and a lack of air—vs. a harmonious state in a room with a view, a balcony, and real materials.

We've built our research into a standard called Calm Tech Certified® for Spaces, which deeply looks at all of the things we feel, yet do not see, and how hospitality can increase joy, satisfaction, and return trips by focusing on the aspects that are typically invisible: air, light, sound, texture, material, and smell.

We have an opportunity to change the future of experience by expanding our care beyond the image and into the senses. We must care deeply about the materials, sounds, smells, and air in a space, as we need to recreate it as deeply and as multisensory as we experience it in nature. Otherwise, we will be doomed to a future we're already experiencing: indoor environments so devoid of care and design that the only option is to look at our phones to find some meaning.

 

 The lobby at Hotel Sommerro in Oslo, Norway uses textures, patterns and delightful materials to transform a historic building into a welcoming place. Technology is hidden away on purposefully designed physical control panels. Photo © Amber Case