Our modern world has made the dream of travelling through time and space come true. How convenient in pandemic times! And so, I travel back in time to the year 1485 to find myself in front of a 1.72 x 2.78m canvas. It is Sandro Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus — actually the arrival of Venus at Cyprus’ shores — in tempera paint. By means of the zooming feature of my space and time travel assistant, Wikimedia Commons, I contemplate the delicate stroke that is the Venus’ right elbow in the high-resolution image. Her hair is flying in the wind, and yet these are only golden yellow lines. The west wind Zephyr is giving his all. Still, the flood and the wash of the waves, which carry the seashell to the beach, appear to be fragile. I would not have detected the drawings in the figures’ contour if it had not been for my digital travel assistant. These well-balanced strokes adding to the painting’s composition easily get lost in the overall view. Even more so if one is standing in the halls of the Uffizi in Florence, with the painting blending in with the other works of art, and with me being just one spectator of many in the constant flow of tourists. Yet our modern world also fosters zoonoses and, thanks to pandemics, inhibits physical journeys through space.

Something is conspicuously missing in the case of digital contemplations of images: the physical presence in the concrete here and now, in the Botticelli Room in the Uffizi, for instance, at a particular time of the day. Standing in line in front of the museum in the heat of the day; the creaking of the hard wood floor in the cool building; the smell of canvas and wood; the distances, marked by barrier tape, one must keep away from a painting — these are unheard of in the virtual space, as would be one’s playful conversation with a partner about whether the scene depicted is not a surfer scene after all.¹

With the absence of physical presence, what is missing is the actual sensing of the atmosphere of the place. This atmosphere is not only shaped by the work of art, but precisely by the spatial and temporal circumstances of on-site perception. Without its surrounding atmosphere, a painting can only be mediated quantitatively — by means of the bytes and pixels transmitted over the internet. The qualitative mediation depends on the space and the sensing body therein.² We experience space primarily atmospherically, and we sense its spirit physically: whether it is “sublime” or “common,” “festive” or “mundane,” “warm” or “cold.” Referring to a space as being “full of atmosphere” even suggests that a space is comparable to an envelope or a container, which can be “full” — full of atmospheric qualities. This is also the reason why, for atmospheres, there can be gradual differences, like in a container (i.e., some atmospheres are distinctly recognizable while others are like a gentle breeze and can hardly be felt).

All spatial atmospheres are felt in the here and now as a site-specific interplay between the dominating qualities of the surrounding and the subjective being in these very qualities.³ Thus the being is not only a where-being, but also a how-being. The sensory and affective quality of the atmosphere tinges the way we perceive our surrounding environment and the way we emotionally orient ourselves in it. "Air, ambiance, aura, climate, environment, genius loci, milieu, mood, numinous, Stimmung, Umwelt"⁴ — these are terms to describe the atmospheric, which seems, in fact, to point to its vagueness. The vagueness of atmospheres, however, is not a flaw at all. Atmospheres surround and influence us like a gentle breeze — a venti-something — like how the where- and how-being of Venus is influenced by Zephyr. What is moved (physically and mentally) is the body, which, as an organ of atmospheric perception, determines the human dimension of sensing. The referentiality of atmosphere and a body sensing this atmosphere is that of a communion and reciprocity between eros and pathos. Desire and attention are coupled with suffering and aversion. The process of atmospheric perception is rated as a relation of inherence and subsistence, rather than the relation of a one-sided cause and an unambiguous effect. Being confronted with this kind of sensing can teach us to appreciate staged atmospheric emotional worlds or to assess them critically and, moreover, to enjoy the manipulative potential of atmospheres (or to contain it). In this context, the (perceptional) relation of objects in situ and the design of a space for one’s own current being in a given locality plays the most important role.

At the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic, I frequently went grocery shopping for my family, and particularly my parents, who stayed at home.⁵ The lack of knowledge and uncertainty concerning the virus, the restrictions and propagandistic announcements in the supermarket (“Thanks to our staff members for their incredible work!”; “Please keep your distance!”; “Please follow the instructions of our staff members at all times!”; “Please do not bring your children to the supermarket!”), the social distancing and trying to evade fellow customers, the self-imposed rigid hygiene measures: it was all very depressing — I could hardly breathe, and that was not because of the mandatory mask-wearing (which, by then, had not been put in place). I felt a depressing atmosphere, comparable to a tension clasp, wrapping itself around my chest.⁶ The supermarket had its very own atmosphere, an enclosed environment for me as a sensing being. Obviously, upon entering the store I can be drawn into this atmosphere, I can dive into it. Upon leaving the store, there is another atmosphere I can change into; or rather, this other atmosphere is clearly discernible, in stark contrast to the previously felt one, even resistant to it. In order to recognize this change of atmosphere, transitional zones ranging from well-marked to less well-marked ones are needed, such as the way to the supermarket and back home. As a transitional period, as an atmospheric buffer zone, this passage keeps strong atmospheres from clashing. This buffer contributes to the fact that one consciously experiences the change of atmosphere. If it were possible to enter the supermarket or the Botticelli Room directly from one‘s own apartment, the contrast would be overwhelming. Consequently, when it comes to a digital visit to a museum, the atmosphere cannot be felt not only because one is not physically present in this particular location, but also because one does not have to get there. Getting there is the path one must metrically tread and stride through as a kind of preparation and slow attunement to the already existing spatial mood in situ. Getting there contributes to the atmospheric success.

Not only is the atmosphere of the supermarket different from that of one’s own apartment. The supermarket itself has a unique atmosphere in pandemic times. A change is perceptible that takes the experiences in the supermarket and the knowledge about current health risks into account. In addition to the objects in situ, the spatial design and one’s own current being — past events as well as the already thought — play a role in the context of the constitution and reception of atmospheres. In the following, “tension,” “change,” and “experience” are crucial terms for my investigation; I want to ask how tension is caused and how it can be reduced, how the change of atmospheric tensions takes place or how it can be triggered, and what role one’s own experience plays in this context.

The sensing of atmospheres is comparable to a tension clasp. As bodily sensing persons, we encounter atmospheric areas of tension, climatic conditions of our being in the world without which we would not be in the world. Bodily sensation operates by means of the “tension clasp” — environmental conditions which one usually does not recognize, that is, can cause tightness (tension in a positive sense) or stiffness (tension in a negative sense). These conditions can change, which can also be deliberately initiated, yet one can easily (and rather unconsciously) fall back to the original state. If I want to generate an atmospheric tension, I have to make sure to maintain a particular aesthetic tension over a certain amount of time and duration. If I perceive an atmosphere, the tension is on my body. Upon easing, this tension does not vanish into thin air and disappear, but it is at the body’s disposal as a possible connecting factor in case of a relapse. This is also the reason why atmospheres, which one successfully perceives, can become experience points, or anchors of atmospheric experience. These experience points, in turn, can become expectation points. One falls back to past events against which present events are pitted. A game of points and tensions emerges — like the different respirational phases, breathing in and breathing out as bivalent, contrary, yet necessary coherent conditions of the lung. In addition to objects, the spatial design, one’s own being, past events and the already thought, the expected, and the imaginary obviously play a crucial role in the atmospheric interplay.

Someone who runs an election campaign, for instance, builds on experiences and already existing things. Here, the ambiance is fueled to heat things up. An election campaigner refers to, extends, and elaborates on personal ambiances; they make implicit thoughts explicit to bring about an intensification of the atmosphere among their followers and a change of atmospheric perception among their opponents. The question is: how can this change be controlled? This is because the starting point of the everyday sign-based perception is precisely that atmospheres are there but no one notices them. Atmospheres are real, sometimes one can feel them rather powerfully, and sometimes one cannot feel them at all. Where are they if they are not there? Is this question even worth asking? Is it advisable to ask this question more specifically? What does it do to our understanding of being? Are misunderstandings inevitable? And what if one wants to scrutinize it: Does it still comply with academic standards? A comparison to the novel coronavirus suggests itself. In this case we are dealing with something not directly visible, not even an independent living thing, but rather a condition. A vague entity is threatening our reality. We sense the invisible by means of the atmospheres that are co-determined by it — comparable to the situation in the 1980s when insights gained from the discourse on nuclear power (the non-noticeable nuclear radiation as opposed to the clearly noticeable nuclear threat) brought the atmospheric phenomenon to the center of phenomenological debates revolving around ecological aesthetics of nature. Yet, similar to atmospheres, this virus is not just a conversational topic that can be argued away and which dissolves in other discourses. Resulting uncertainties are due to the difference between the phenomenon itself, the very term of the phenomenon, and the term’s correct use. If, for instance, there are no active cases of coronavirus in my administrative district, this does not mean that there are no new cases at all. It only means that nobody has tested positive for COVID-19, or that the results have not been reported yet.

Now the question is how this change of atmospheric sensing in the museum, in the supermarket, or at an election campaign rally or a protest march comes to pass?⁷

The starting point is the sensing of atmospheres in a tension clasp. The tension is a condition I am in, but for which I am seemingly only partially responsible. If these conditions are the result of a design (supermarket) or a staged process (election campaign), they attract interest and inspire further perceptions, designs, or stagings. In this sense, tension serves as an indicator that shows the degree of positive tension (tightness) or negative tension (stiffness) which I have changed from or into. The specific moment of this change is not determined by the removal, addition, or supplementation of creative elements, but by becoming aware of the atmospheric interrelatedness of these elements and one’s own perception of one’s own body at a specific place at a specific point in time. The change of perception that enables the perception of atmospheres is characterized by a kind of inconstancy.

In the game of tensions, in the change of referentialities, the points of experience and the points of expectation of one’s own perception collide. As the lifeworld has always been basic repeated praxis, implicit as well as explicit experiences almost automatically accumulate as knowledge. No one has no experience. Atmospheric events only become instructive experiences if they contribute to an instruction in the sense of an exceptional encounter with the atmospheric tension. The tense atmosphere in the supermarket once again made it clear to me that I am living in a tense societal surrounding that is threatened by a virus. Atmospheric instruction in this context is the educational process that takes place in the constant sensing — in the course of change and in the relation of referentiality and subjectivity. The point of expectation is the condition of tension that is implicitly based on experience and that is responsible for somewhat erratically getting ready for whatever might happen — an impatient patience as one does not know what is going to happen; but one wants to know what is going to happen, as one appreciates what happened in the past. This appreciation is both an expression of affection for the explicit past experiences and a guessing concerning the implicit ones.

In contrast to visiting a museum or going grocery shopping, mingling with the crowd at an election campaign rally or at a protest march even more clearly demonstrates that atmospheres are, in fact, contagious. They go viral as sentiments and one is easily infected by them. If they spread and multiply, they can become broadly effective like an extensive firestorm. The contagious atmosphere carries and transposes ideas and feelings. It affixes itself to new places and multitudes of bodies, it is attached to unfamiliar sentiments and defines a sphere of activity. The latter then becomes the space of transmission to indicate another contagion as well as to foster further dissemination of the atmosphere. Far from offering an exact definition as to how infectious atmospheres are in metrical terms, it can be said that they are as contagious as viruses. They dispose of certain ways of dissemination, which become apparent by means of the change of perception and the change of meaning — based on the contact at a particular “here” and a particular “now.” To be sure, atmospheres like viruses do not compare to living creatures. However, they are alive in their respective medium (host), which helps to transmit them. Characteristically, when shared, they become more rather than less.

A change of atmosphere as a change of mood is a diversion; it is a way away from the familiar, a change of the surroundings. The semantic field of individual words can become important in this context — the fact that a word is not simply a word but dynamically shaped by many different perspectives. The experience of art at the museum demonstrates that specific experiences can (only) be made at concrete places, which leads to a certain exclusivity that is perhaps not easy to comprehend, such as the primacy of bodily presence in concrete atmospheric experiences. The shopping experience at the pandemic supermarket reveals how fast certain behaviors and (re-)configurations can turn something normal into something abnormal or even depressing. The atmospheric sentiments and their changes resulting from different influences (i.e., the transmission of ideas) during an election campaign show that even intimate ideas or feelings can be passed on to others — beyond mere imitation. Influencers, who want to shape atmospheres, and instigators, who want to direct a change of atmospheres, need to have perspectives; they need to develop and spread them for others to catch, absorb, and adopt them. That is the moment of change. The way I perform and behave at a particular place shapes the place and the people currently present in it and, in turn, it shapes my and our very experiences at the place in question. There is a difference between wandering through a museum and running through it, between concentrating on the texts printed in the exhibition catalog and freely associating. And even if terms may have different and changeable semantic fields, in an atmosphere, at a concrete place, it is possible to have the experience that such a field can actually be a broadly delineable space. Therefore, the terms are never entirely vague, but they do have rough boundaries and concrete areas. The recollection of and talking about an emotionally attuned atmosphere (even in a vague sense) is less suspicious than the reference to a remembrance in the context of cognitively stored knowledge. This is because the atmosphere creates a feeling of safety about a certain situation, which possibly supports the cognitive retrieval of knowledge and, in so doing, prevents false memories or helps to conceal them.

The change of tension is a solvent; when the tension dissolves and shifts, ideally when a negative tension (stiffness) becomes a positive one (tightness) — that happens when I am leaving the pandemic supermarket, when I am stepping out of the depressing atmosphere. The tension is only an experience if it is possible for me to refer to it, if I become aware of it — if it changes, if my tonicity alters. The changing experiences are the quality compass that helps to categorize the change of tension and perspectives — that happens, for instance, when I return home after the shopping spree and recount the experience, how I felt and that the threat I felt earlier has almost disappeared by now. An atmosphere is (comparable to) a solvent that eases tensions and allows for them to change. The change then becomes the quality compass that facilitates the change of perspective.

The restrictions caused by the pandemic and the necessary focusing on digital alternatives have shown that the concrete space of the here and now is indispensable for being infected by atmospheres and for becoming emotionally attuned and affected. Impressive experiences (of art) become stale. Ordinary shopping tours become risky. Impressions become less lasting as do the passing on of ideas — this becomes clear if, for instance, a global protest movement like “Fridays For Future” no longer acts by means of masses of people, but solely digitally. The digital world is good and allows travelling through time and space. That being said, the digital world lets us feel the loss of atmospheres. Venus is surfing on a seashell, not on the internet, as she wants to arrive at the shores and enter life: she is about to be born. We make experiences always and everywhere. The way they make us tense, and how a change goes on smoothly, is something that should not remain undetected.