Architecture of artistic venues and cultural rights

The architecture of cultural venues shapes roles and often limits participation. An approach inspired by digital spaces would enable cultural democratization that respects everyone’s rights.

An Architecture That Fixes Roles

Architecture—meaning both the construction of buildings and their form, as well as the way this construction organizes how humans function within these spaces—naturally has a profound human impact. This is entirely logical.

In the cultural sphere, take a theater, for example: How do you enter? How are you positioned to receive what’s presented? Where are the offices? How are the technical areas visible or hidden? What is the placement of the stage relative to the audience? Where are people seated? All these bodily positions, in relation to what is expected of them, inherently program—or rather, frame—the practices that can unfold there.

We can analyze, for instance, spatial volumes: How much space is allocated to participants? (I don’t say spectators, I say participants.) And how much is reserved for hosts? What are the shared spaces? Are people behind a counter or in a communal area?

Over the years, we’ve seen non-cultural spaces evolve in surprising ways. Take post offices, for example: they used to be highly administrative, with glass counters, queuing systems, and customers assigned to regulated herd-like positions. Stores, too, like self-service shops, have completely transformed how customers are positioned relative to professionals.

Consider a newly built theater. You’ll notice that the way people enter the spaces permitted to them enforces a strict separation, making it nearly impossible for visitors or spectators to participate in any way other than passively—or at least, solely as receivers.

Thus, the architecture itself enforces a division of roles: participants as receivers, creating a radical opposition between emitters and receivers. Physically, upon entering, you’re assigned to that role. This is a deliberate architectural choice, whether conscious or unconscious.

Today, with digital tools or social media, for example, you can be a receiver, but you also have the means to become a content producer. This has been possible since the advent of Web 2.0 (around 2004–2005). It’s a form of democratic possibility in digital spaces that is far less attainable in physical cultural spaces—where democracy is simply less possible.

I’m not judging this: if people choose to simply be spectators at a show or a movie, that’s their choice, and it offers a singular experience compared to social media—which is perfectly fine. Being a spectator is a pleasant and constructive role. The problem arises when it’s the only role available, and we’re barred from occupying another if we wish.

On social media, you can be a passive spectator, but you can also, if you choose, become an active contributor. What I’m highlighting here is that the way cultural spaces are built affects and entirely shuts down the possibility of stronger participation from people, should they desire it. They know they don’t have the right or the status to do so—it’s social and even legal (e.g., insurance policies forbid it).

Try this experiment: if you go backstage in a theater as a non-professional, you’ll be poorly received because your transgression will be seen as intolerable—unless, of course, you’re invited (but then, you’ve crossed into the professional side). As a spectator backstage, you’ll immediately be viewed as a potential threat: maybe you’ll steal something, commit an attack, or who knows what?

At Ariane Mnouchkine’s Théâtre du Soleil, the approach is slightly different: you can glimpse the dressing rooms, suggesting an attempt at something else. Moreover, the staging isn’t confined to the stage—the entire space is scenographed to match the show’s theme. So, it’s a small step in another direction.

Drawing Inspiration from the Cultural Democracy of Digital Spaces

I believe that artistic venues should draw inspiration from the democratic dynamics of digital spaces and open themselves to people’s creativity in evolving ways, as happens online. Their very architecture should allow for functional flexibility in all aspects, including the workspaces of professionals, which should be adaptable—perhaps remaining in one place for a long time, but with the possibility of change.

This is also how professionals can more concretely envision shifts in their own roles. Because spaces assign specific social postures and positions to people, who then perceive themselves in rigidly defined roles.

Of course, it’s not just about architecture: it’s also about how people inhabit it. For example, a movie theater in India might resemble a French one, but people are allowed to talk, eat, etc. The films are much longer, and the spaces function as different social environments—even if they look similar from the outside.

Architecture remains crucial. I’m not saying everything should be wide open—some structures are necessary for functionality. But take this example: managing door access can be an incredibly complex gymnastics. Even mediation professionals in museums, who don’t have the same hierarchical status as curators, may struggle to get a door opened. You have to ask a staff member (who resembles a police officer) to do it—you’d never get a badge to open it yourself. The reasons for this are often fantastical.

So, it’s both the architecture (with its closed doors) and how we use it. Whether rethinking an existing space or designing a new one, we must consider cultural democracy—meaning respect for the cultural rights of all involved: professionals, audiences, artists. With all the fluid boundaries and overlaps that should increasingly blur these roles.

This way, cultural spaces can continue to fulfill their role without becoming frozen traditions that, architecturally, function as spaces of exclusion, rigid assignment, and limited possibility—unlike digital spaces, where possibility is far broader and more open.

The IKEA Example

At IKEA, for example, there’s no longer a separation between the stockroom and the store. Or rather, the stock is no longer hidden. There are two spaces: the showroom, and then you retrieve your packages from the warehouse yourself.

This design, which might seem purely functional and economic (cutting labor costs by making customers work), actually assigns people a different role. At IKEA, you buy flat-pack furniture to assemble yourself. The very experience of the store involves co-construction: you fetch items from the warehouse. So, you’re cast in the role of building your furniture in cooperation with the store. And IKEA assigns you this role through the layout of its spaces.

That’s why IKEA isn’t just about flat-pack furniture. It’s a holistic experience that begins in the store. The furniture may be standardized, but you’re given an active role. Moreover, the assembly instructions are extremely clear. Thanks to professional designers, the kits are designed so anyone can assemble them if they follow the steps. This is a social role, a form of empowerment that even changes your relationship to your home. It’s not just “cheap” stuff—it’s anthropologically much deeper. And it starts with the in-store experience.

That said, at IKEA, certain services (like communications or accounting) aren’t accessible to the public. But the public doesn’t demand access. My point isn’t that everyone should do everything, that rules and boundaries should vanish into total anarchy. Rather, within established rules, participants should be granted a more democratic role than before.

Paradoxically, this generates immense capitalist wealth—contrary to what one might expect. Another paradox: IKEA was founded by a Nazi. As Johann Chapoutot documents in *Libres d’obéir*, the Nazis understood that empowering people made systems more efficient. It’s chilling to realize this, and Chapoutot explains how Nazism influenced post-WWII corporate HR systems, boosting efficiency. So, this seemingly tangential reference highlights how a more democratic system emerged from figures who, tragically, harnessed efficiency for absolute destruction.

This is crucial: greater efficiency and democracy must serve ethics. Because efficiency can also manipulate people—as happens in some digital spaces and social media, where censorship is strong and algorithmic manipulation powerful, even as users believe they’re in a democratic space.

But the flexibility of digital spaces should teach us much. We must never forget—hence the Nazism example—that these systems must always serve ethics.