The first thing I thought about in designing the approach to this private member’s club in Chiang Mai Thailand was, I wanted people to feel lost. When you feel lost, you seek to find your way through a novel process of inquiry. There can also be an unease that causes you to question your judgment and the decisions that brought you to this point. When you find a way, there’s transformation as the unexpected is revealed.
Liminal spaces, from the Latin Limen meaning threshold, function as transitional realms that are neither here nor there. These in-between areas such as corridors, that exist between two distinct states, often evoke feelings of unease. The dark unmarked alleyways of the Algonquin elicit these same uncomfortable feelings for first-time visitors.
There is something counterintuitive in this arrival process, because you must form a new way of relating to your environment. Things don’t go the way you expect. There’s frustration. There’s momentary confusion. There’s doubt, like, “This can’t be right.” Or “We must be lost.” You will find resistance and you must pause to allow yourself to think differently.
Some people get angry. They pass by the unmarked gate a few times only to find the dark staff entrance to a guesthouse. They double back, going all the way out of the alley and back in again. They pound on the steel fencing demanding an end to the ruse. They huff in consternation then feel foolish for giving up so easily.
Some women report feeling momentarily unsafe. This wasn’t intended as part of the design, but arises from the anxiety of a dark, unfamiliar environment, not knowing what will happen next. They briefly question their judgement and wonder if they can fully trust the man they came with.
Many speakeasies pride themselves on hiding from customers not in the know. This is a novelty or gimmick, as it no longer serves the original necessity of prohibition. If you’re truly trying to remain anonymous to outsiders, why be on Instagram and Google Maps? It’s actually easy to hide something. The question is why are you hiding it? Knowing a secret entrance gives people the feeling of insider status. But the club is designed for member privacy above all. The approach generates a sense of mystery, becuse I wanted people to be delightfully surprised by what they discover with each visit.
Any great arrival experience is a process of discovery. For the Algonquin, you must first find the blind alley, then the gate, then be guided to the front door and make an unexpected turn, only to find there is a completely surprising moment that contrasts starkly with the outside world.
I force the visitor to open three doors and each one deepens the mystery. This also slows down the approach and offers a moment to appreciate the unexpected. In the vestibule you must pause, and in the process is the opportunity to appreciate some local artwork under transitional lighting, and take in the club’s bespoke fragrance.
In Asia, things tend to move clockwise around structures, and the club entrance traffic pattern follows this convention. Despite the fact that there is an obvious footpath to the left, many first time visitors will still try to go right, through a crowded, narrow gauntlet of potted plants toward the kitchen. In traditional Chinese courtyard design, the South facing door forces an immediate turn to the left, because as any fengshui master knows, ghosts can’t turn left.
As a child I was fascinated with the story of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. My grandmother’s house had a closet with a second interior door, leading to another closet. This was the coolest thing in the world to five year-old me. There must be something worth keeping secret in here, I thought, and I’m the only kid who knows about it. The only thing better than this feeling was sharing it with my younger sister and watching the amazement on her face.
Another inspiration for the Algonquin arrival experience is the restaurant Felix on the 28th floor of the Peninsula Hotel Tower in Hong Kong. I had discovered it in 1997 completely by accident which was an unexpected delight. Designed by Philippe Stark in 1994 with sweeping floor-to-ceiling views of Victoria Harbor, the entrance is unmarked, except for a small brass placard that reads: Felix, next to a service elevator in a nondescript corridor off the hotel lobby. Doors open to reveal an interior lined with polished wood branches, and only one button which takes you to the top floor.
Upon pressing the button “Felix”, doors close, soft music begins to play and as the elevator ascends, the lights slowly dim to a soft lavender hue. By the end of the short ride to the top, the elevator is almost completely dark.
The doors open onto an equally dark long corridor, softly illuminated by the same lavender ambience and ethereal music. There are no signs or guidance, just a light at the end which opens into the restaurant itself. I won’t spoil the unforgettable bathroom experience.
Sacred things are secret. Any space for transformative experience must honor this agreement. Sacred things can hide in plain sight but are only revealed to those willing to leave their egos at the door, embrace ambiguity and welcome the mystery of the Divine into their heart.