Horror Vacui

I’ve become enamored of the phrase: “horror vacui”. It came onto my radar through an article in the NY Times about the auction of the belongings of the late decorator/collector/hoarder, Mario Buatta, aka the Prince of Chintz. Buatta, who was unknown to me until the article, was described as a maximalist. A man after my own heart. I believe that a blank space on the wall is crying out to have something hung on it. My husband, on the other hand, is a minimalist. We’re a classic example of opposites attracting.

I was thrilled to learn that my affliction has a name. One of Buatta’s colleagues said of him that he “had a horror vacui of a plain surface.” The term is generally applied to visual art, especially on walls, but it can refer to a wide range of décor, such as tables and shelves. Simply put, horror vacui leads to the filling of the entire surface of a space or an artwork with detail. It’s also known as kenophobia, the fear of empty spaces, rooms or voids, and is the opposite of claustrophobia.

There is no shame in acknowledging that you have a horror vacui. Even Aristotle believed that nature abhors a vacuum. I feel so much better now that I know I’m not simply an incorrigible hoarder. I always believed there was a psychological basis for my collecting (a term I prefer to hoarding).

I saw my behavior as compassionate anthropomorphizing. I felt that one of something was lonely and needed a friend, so I’d seek out a second. Then whenever I came across another related item, I was compelled to bring it home to introduce it to the others. As I’m writing this, it occurs to me that “compassionate anthropomorphizing”—a description I just now made up—sounds like more of an affliction than horror vacui.

Getting back to this evocative newfound term, it dawned on me that the dislike of a vacuum can apply to a lot more things in life than just visual décor. Take for instance anatomy. Certain women’s surgeries leave a void in their aftermath. I’m thinking in particular of hysterectomies. No one prepares you for the fact that removing your various reproductive organs leaves an empty space behind.

Just as nature abhors a vacuum, so also does the female body. Over time, things move around. Without getting too graphic, I urge you to think of what else is down in that area of the anatomy. Things shift; they change shape; they twist. Your stomach expands, so you eat more. Your intestines spread out, so your colonoscopy takes longer. Sorry. I guess I did get too graphic. It takes a period of adjustment to get used to these changes.

As I mulled this over, it occurred to me that the medical community should come up with some ideas for how to fill that vacuum so there is no horror months later. As you might expect, I have some suggestions.

How about packing that void with Styrofoam peanuts? Of course, they’ll need to be biocompatible ones, but not biodegradable. Otherwise you’d have to go in every few years to get repacked. Not a pleasant thought.

I suppose it’s too ridiculous to consider adapting that space to become a convenient dispenser for disposable personal wipes. They’d certainly be handy down there. And yes, I know these should never be flushed. Moving right along…

My favorite idea is one that could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Let’s fill that vacuum with delicately fragrant potpourri. That might require more extensive R&D than the Styrofoam peanuts, but I’m sure it would be worth it.

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