Written by Philippi Roupa
Illustrated by Jessica Chan
If one manages to see through the all-pervasive swarm of quarter-zips and chinos that dominate the LSE Library, one may discern the striking spiral staircase spanning five floors. Perhaps ‘stepped ramp’ would be a better way to describe it: the awkwardly-sized steps make it impossible to go up or down with even a sliver of grace.
You realise too late you should have taken the lift, but the meagre two lifts for five floors never seem to be able to service the demand. Besides, you only wanted to go to the second floor, and can’t help but wonder if your fellow lift-peers will detest you for shuffling past them to get off—for choosing the idle route.
So now you are faced with a crucial decision: one step or two? Should you make outlandishly goofy leaps and go up each step with only your left foot, or instead take an unnecessary quasi-step so as to alternate feet?
As you traverse each floor, you are met with watchful eyes from every angle. A giggle would reverberate throughout the building and may be met with disapproving glances; you’d know you’ve stepped out of line. Or maybe it’s all in your head: as per Foucault, this power is unverifiable. Regardless, you wouldn’t want to look silly.
According to the architects that designed the library, the lower ground floor was remodelled to foster a “more welcoming and flexible working space”. Instead, the cool-toned artificial lighting makes you feel even more scrutinised, like the cross-section of some invertebrate in a lab, magnified and picked apart by med students. In the words of Foucault, the old schema of confinement has been “replaced by the calculation of openings […] and transparencies”. The architectural design and spatial arrangement of the library only amplify the feeling of “constant and permanent visibility that ensures the automatic functioning of power”.
But unlike in Bentham’s panopticon, you are not a convict in a cell, the library is not a prison institution, and there isn’t a tower or a watchman observing you. In fact, no one is watching. In line with Foucault’s theory, it is you who has internalized the feeling of authority. There are no laws dictating how you should act; you could very well prance or dance or skip up the stairs. But your behavior categorizes you in the stark dichotomy of social etiquette and aesthetic standards, “between the normal and abnormal”. You are self-policing, self-monitoring, and ensuring you conform to social norms. You are your own watchman. Is this not but another iteration of a regime of disciplinary power? Are you not painfully trying to reach “a minimal threshold”, with an optimum of normalcy and conformity in mind?
As Foucault tells us, this “surveillance rests on individuals”, and functions in the library metaphorically and literally “from top to bottom, […] from bottom to top and laterally”. This machinery is so seamless and well-oiled that supervisors themselves are being supervised. The result of this panopticon is the homogenising effects of power: “docile bodies” are normalised and disciplined. In other words, less prancing and dances and giggles.
