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| Photo by Lazy_Artist on Flickr |
Freud writes about the quality of 'unheimlich' which, though is usually translated to be 'uncanny', literally means 'unhomely'. This is the jarring feeling of the same but different, with that difference having a niggling uncertainty to its nature. Empty houses have this quality. They should be lived in. On encountering such, our minds cannot settle on a present state for that house, as in our experience the present state of a house is full. We drift into potential past and futures for the house hoping to construct some form of present. It is hopeless, and it is unheimlich. (For a better explanation of 'unheimlich' read Anthony Vidler's 'The Architectural Uncanny')
To a child the surface of a puddle is unheimlich. It hides an unhidden depth, or an unknown expanse of sky, but is still a percievable surface. In many cultures water as a reflecting surface is a gateway to other worlds, so perhaps it is unheimlich to our very psychology.
As we grow older, and experience more puddles, and jump and splash, we realise that there is no hidden depth or unknown expanse, and it is simply a component of the world in which we live. We can make of it what we choose. Were they to be ignored, they would simply remain an unknown mystery.
Perhaps the greatest instance of unheimlich is the death and grief of a someone we know.
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