Concept

Not every social imaginary is political. Political imaginaries are distinguished by the way they organize understandings of collective agency, authority, power, and the possibilities of self-government.

Not every social imaginary is a political imaginary. What marks an imaginary as political is that it bears on the question of collective self-governance, distribution of power, the scope of collective agency, the legitimate basis of authority, etc. Cornelius Castoriadis and Charles Taylor are the two foundational theorists of political imaginaries. Here is a short summary of their theories of social imaginaries:

Cornelius Castoriadis, especially in The Imaginary Institution of Society (1975) developed one of the foundational accounts of the social imaginary.

1. Society is not held together by rational consensus or functional necessity but by what Castoriadis calls the “magma of social imaginary” (Castoriadis 1987, 344), i.e. a dense, non-systematic field of meanings.

2. The social imaginary is fundamentally creative: it is not a given or a constraint, but a capacity for self-institution that democratic societies can either exercise or repress.

3. The crisis of political imagination is a crisis of democratic self-governance, a society’s failure to recognize and assume its own creative power.

4. When citizens’ capacity to imagine and institute alternative forms of collective life erodes, institutions appear as given rather than self-created, manifesting in a growing inability to articulate futures beyond the existing system.

Charles Taylor, in Modern Social Imaginaries (2004), offers another foundational account, emphasizing the shared understandings through which ordinary people imagine their social existence and make collective life possible. For him:

1. Modern societies are held together not only by institutions or doctrines but by “social imaginaries” (Taylor 2004, 23), i.e. shared ways in which ordinary people imagine their social existence.

2. Unlike theories or ideologies, social imaginaries are embedded in practices and common understandings; they are widely shared, often implicit, and make collective life possible by providing a taken-for-granted background.

3. The modern social imaginary is structured around key elements such as the moral order of mutual benefit, the public sphere, and the idea of popular sovereignty, all of which ground democratic legitimacy.

4. Crises emerge when these shared imaginaries lose coherence or credibility: when lived realities (inequality, exclusion, institutional distrust) no longer align with the normative expectations they sustain, generating tensions and opening space for alternative imaginaries to emerge.on

Political imaginaries matter not as substitutes for institutions, procedures, or capacity, but as the conditions under which the political will to build and sustain them can be generated and renewed.

A powerful tradition running from Jürgen Habermas through deliberative democracy to David Estlund’s epistemic proceduralism is skeptical of the role of large-scale imaginaries in democratic life. Yet this skepticism is not uniform.

Habermas, however, complicates this skepticism, because his own account of democratic communication depends on a shared background of meanings and assumptions. In Between Facts and Norms (1996), his  theory of communicative action depends on a shared “lifeworld”: a background of common meanings and assumptions that makes mutual understanding possible. This comes close to what we call a political imaginary, because it is largely implicit and “always already familiar” rather than consciously articulated. Yet modern pluralism steadily erodes such shared backgrounds, leaving democratic societies dependent on forms of common understanding that are increasingly fragile.

For Estlund (Democratic Authority, 2008), the picture is clearer: the legitimacy of democratic decisions rests not on their substantive content but on the quality of the procedures through which they are reached — procedures that are defensible to all reasonable citizens regardless of their particular visions of the good. Imaginaries, according to this account, are not resources for democracy but threats to it: they tend to moralize and totalize political conflict, to substitute the mobilization of true believers for the difficult work of justification and compromise, and to license the suppression of those who do not share the vision.

A second challenge states that what contemporary democratic politics most urgently needs is not more imagination but more capacity, i.e. more ability to implement, coordinate, and sustain collective decisions over time. Democracy is failing not because it lacks imagination but because it cannot deliver. Imaginaries, on this account, may even be part of the problem: they raise expectations that institutions cannot meet, generate disillusionment when they inevitably fail, and distract from the harder, less glamorous work of institutional repair.

Yet the very projection of institutions capable of neutralizing competing visions of the good is itself an implicit imaginary. It presupposes a particular conception of the political subject as a rights-bearing individual, a specific vision of legitimate authority as grounded in reasonable agreement, and a confidence in the sufficiency of procedure that is no less a substantive orientation toward collective life for being disavowed as such.

A third framing comes from Karl Mannheim (Ideology and Utopia, 1936). If proceduralism already harbors an implicit imaginary that it refuses to acknowledge, Mannheim’s sociology of knowledge tells us why such disavowal is never innocent. For him, ideology and utopia are structurally opposed orientations whose conflict is constitutive of political life itself. Ideologies work by closing down the horizon of possibility, making the contingent seem inevitable; utopias operate in the opposite direction, exceeding what the present can accommodate and, when they pass into conduct, tending to shatter it.

The proceduralist claim to stand above this conflict is therefore itself a characteristically ideological operation that delegitimizes utopian alternatives by recasting them as threats to reasonable disagreement rather than challenges to a specific and contestable settlement. The boundary between the realistic and the imaginary is never drawn from nowhere.

Description text goes hereWhen political imagination appears absent from formal politics, it may have simply migrated into culture and ways of life and has become a lived ideology.

One reason that might be an overstatement to speak of a crisis of political imagination is that we may be looking for imagination in the wrong places. If imagination is sought primarily in party platforms, electoral programs, or the formal ideological output of political movements, it will indeed appear scarce. These are precisely the registers in which the exhaustion is most visible.

But political imaginaries are not produced exclusively, or even primarily, through formal political channels. They sediment in culture, circulate through art, get built into architecture, technology, and are enacted in the textures of everyday life long before they find expression in policies or programs. Ways of life, habits, aesthetics, cultural attachments, and moral intuitions constitute imaginaries in action. To understand how political imaginaries work, one must follow them into family norms, leisure, religion, humor, taste, and consumption into the symbolic infrastructures that sustain political identities located well below the threshold of conscious belief.

A further and more unsettling possibility is that the fragmentation of political imagination has now reached the level of the individual: that rather than sharing imaginaries, each person curates their own political vision from the competing sources, platforms, subcultures, and aesthetic worlds available to them, without those visions ever cohering into a collective project. Algorithmic personalization accelerates this tendency: your feed constructs a political world tailored to your prior engagements, producing an experience of political reality that is increasingly private, self-reinforcing, and incommensurable with that of others.

What remains may be a proliferation of intensely held personal political visions that generate affect, identity, and even mobilization, but cannot produce the we-subject that political imagination, in the tradition this paper draws on, has always required. Castoriadis would have recognized this as a pathological form: not imagination but its simulation, the radical imaginary colonized by individualism to the point where its collective, self-instituting dimension is foreclosed. The question this raises is whether the we-subject of political imagination can be reconstituted under these conditions or whether the individualization of political vision is now so structurally entrenched that collective imaginaries of the traditional kind are no longer available as political resources.

Political imaginaries are not all future-oriented in the same way. Which temporal grammars are in the ascendant today, which are losing traction? Under what conditions, if any, is a new utopian grammar possible that neither replicates the totalizing ambitions of the twentieth century nor collapses into incrementalist resignation?

Reinhart Koselleck (Futures Past, 2004) provides an important starting point for thinking about the temporal structure of political imaginaries. He argues that modernity transformed the relationship between what he calls the “space of experience” and the “horizon of expectation” (Koselleck 2004, 255–76): the future increasingly ceased to be understood as a repetition of the past and became instead an open field of novelty, progress, and political transformation. Modern politics was thus increasingly organized around competing expectations of futures that had not yet existed. Political imaginaries can be understood partly through this temporal gap between experience and expectation.

Utopia

A Utopia is a political imaginary in which the future is envisioned as a radically improved social order that is discontinuous with the present. It is for this reason that, as Fredric Jameson frames it, “one cannot imagine any fundamental change in our social existence which has not first thrown off Utopian visions like so many sparks from a comet” (Jameson 2005, xii). The meaning of utopia is contested, seen either as a critical device that reveals the contingency of existing arrangements or as a dangerous drive toward total(itarian) transformation that can legitimize coercion.

On this point, it may be worthwhile to differentiate between the utopian form and the utopian wish, or between the utopian program and the utopian impulse. The first terms in each dyad always “involve a commitment to closure (and thereby to totality)” (Jameson 2005, 4–5), whereas the second terms lack this foreclosure. Whatever else it is and does, utopia is a “stubborn negation,” in Jameson’s sense: “The Utopian idea… keeps alive the possibility of a world qualitatively distinct from this one and takes the form of a stubborn negation of all that is” (Jameson 1971, 111). This sounds noticeably close to Leszek Kołakowski’s transhistorical definition of the left, but it crucial to stress that utopia has not predetermined ideological content; the right can stubbornly negate the present order, too.

Ernst Bloch is a crucial figure in the history of utopian thinking. He reframes the concept by distinguishing “concrete utopia” from “abstract utopia.” While the latter is a kind of fanciful thinking, detached from the material reality of the world, the former is a mode of anticipation rooted in real tendencies within the present: social struggles, cultural aspirations, and technological potentials that prefigure alternative futures. Concrete utopia, for Bloch, does “not lie outside the world but is a possibility that is embedded and can be realized in this world” (Shahar 2024, 320). Because of this, Bloch sees “traces of the Utopian impulse everywhere” (Jameson 2005, 10).

A more institutionally grounded recovery of utopian thinking comes from Erik Olin Wright, whose “real utopias” project (Envisioning Real Utopias, 2010) attempts to hold together radical ambition and practical feasibility without collapsing into incrementalism. For Wright, the task is not to project an ideal society from first principles but to identify emancipatory alternatives already latent within existing institutions (worker cooperatives, participatory budgeting, commons-based peer production) and to theorize the conditions under which they might be extended and connected. The “real” is a rebuke in two directions simultaneously: against abstract utopianism that ignores the question of institutional viability, and against reformism that accepts the existing order’s definition of what is possible.

Dystopia

A dystopia is a political imaginary that reveals the negative potentials of a social order by either projecting them into a catastrophic future or staging them in a parallel present where their logics appear intensified. Its primary function is diagnostic and cautionary, making visible the dangers embedded in existing arrangements by extrapolating their trajectories.

From George Orwell and Aldous Huxley to contemporary popular culture, dystopia has become the dominant mode of political imagination. Its proliferation signals not only anxiety about the future but a negative imprint of utopian thinking that has lost confidence in its capacity to envision positive alternatives. As a result, dystopia can foster a form of imaginative paralysis; when all conceivable futures appear catastrophic, the impulse toward collective transformation risks being weakened rather than activated.

Retrotopa

The concept of retrotopia was developed by Zygmunt Bauman in his final book, Retrotopia (2017), to describe political imaginaries that relocate hopes for a better future into an idealized past. Retrotopian politics looks backward, projecting its ideal onto a lost or suppressed past that must be recovered, restored, or avenged. Retrotopia is the imaginative grammar of the populist right, but it can also be found on the left (pre-neoliberal social democracy, Indigenous politics, romantic anti-capitalism, welfare state nostalgia). What is common across these cases is the structure of the imagination: the future is not an open horizon to be constructed but a past to be recovered, and the present is experienced primarily as loss, degradation, or usurpation.

One distinct version of retrotopia is post-liberalism. Whereas most retrotopias are structured by nostalgia for a recoverable past, post-liberalism’s imaginative logic is restorationist in a more normative sense: it does not simply want the past back but seeks to recover the pre-liberal moral frameworks, be it natural law, community, virtue, subsidiarity or religious authority, that modernity is said to have dissolved. Its key thinkers—Patrick Deneen (Why Liberalism Failed, 2018); Adrian Pabst (The Demons of Liberal Democracy, 2019); and, as philosophical background, Alasdair MacIntyre—share the diagnosis that liberalism has hollowed out the very social conditions it presupposed but could not itself generate.

The post-liberal imaginary thus occupies an unusual temporal position: its critique is directed at the present, its aspiration toward a future, but its content drawn from a pre-modern past held to be not merely historically prior but normatively superior, which makes it distinct from both protopia (explained below) and retrotopia, and raises the question of whether its restorationist ambitions are ultimately compatible with the scale and pluralism of modern societies.

Protopia

The concept of protopia was coined by technologist Kevin Kelly in 2011 to describe a future characterized by incremental improvement rather than utopian perfection: a future that is marginally, measurably better than the present, achieved through iterative improvement rather than structural transformation. Rather than demanding a new world, it asks only for incremental improvements in measurable outcomes: lives saved, diseases cured, poverty reduced, emissions cut. Protopia tends to be a depoliticizing and technocratic epistemology: it places the current order beyond political contest by talking of the manageability of problems rather than the transformability of structures.

These four grammars are not mutually exclusive, nor do they map cleanly onto political families.They are elements which contemporary movements frequently combine in unstable compounds: a climate politics that is simultaneously utopian in its long-term aspirations, dystopian in its diagnostic register, and retrotopian in its appeal to pre-industrial relationships with nature. The populist right, meanwhile, weds retrotopian imagery to a protopian confidence in technocratic management, recovering a lost order through the efficient administration of borders, economies, and populations. What shifts between these combinations is not merely rhetorical tone but the underlying theory of political change: how transformation happens, who initiates it, at what speed, and at what cost.

Political imaginaries do not float free of territorial anchors; they have specific scalar frames: the neighborhood, the city, the nation-state, the civilizational bloc, the planet. Which of the political imaginaries are scaling up, which are scaling down, and which are attempting to hold multiple scales in tension?

The nation-state has been the dominant scalar frame of modern political imagination. The great ideological traditions (liberalism, socialism, nationalism, fascism) were all primarily organized around the nation-state as the privileged site of democratic self-governance, economic management, and collective identity.

All other political imaginaries, infra- or supranational, face what might be called a structural agency deficit: they may articulate powerful visions of collective life but lack the institutionalized capacity to translate those visions into durable political reality. The nation-state is not simply a convenient administrative unit; it concentrates the mechanisms (taxation, law, coercion, etc.) through which imaginaries become binding on populations. Infra-state imaginaries typically depend on either capturing or hollowing out state power to become operative; supra-state imaginaries must either construct new institutional forms or remain, in practice, aspirational horizons without effective subjects.

This does not make them politically impotent—the history of both regionalist movements and international institutions demonstrates otherwise—but it does mean that the relationship between imaginative ambition and institutional capacity can be fraught at scales other than the national.

Intra-State Imaginaries

Regionalism/localism. The most institutionally developed infra-state imaginaries in the contemporary world are those of stateless nations and subnational regions with strong cultural and historical identities: Catalonia, Scotland, Quebec, Flanders, Kurdistan.

Urban imaginaries. The city has re-emerged as a powerful site of political imagination, particularly among progressive movements. “Fearless cities,” sanctuary cities, municipal socialism, the right to the city: these are not merely policy platforms but imaginative propositions about where democratic life is most alive and most capable of experimentation.

Libertarian exit imaginaries. A different form of scaling down seeks not greater local democracy but escape from existing political jurisdictions altogether. From Peter Thiel’s support for seasteading and charter-city experiments to the broader Silicon Valley fascination with privately governed enclaves, network states, and special jurisdictions, the goal is to create spaces where political communities can opt out of existing regulatory and democratic constraints. Elon Musk’s vision of permanent settlement on Mars radicalizes the same spatial logic: political exit becomes not merely territorial but planetary.

Indigenous and decolonial imaginaries. These imaginaries challenge not just the specific boundaries of existing states but the deeper ontological commitments of the nation-state form itself: they reimagine the relationship between human communities and the natural world, between present generations and their ancestors and descendants, etc.

Movements and networked solidarities. Transnational social movements have developed imaginaries that are neither national nor straightforwardly cosmopolitan. The global feminist strike, the climate justice movement, Black Lives Matter as a transnational formation, the alter-globalization networks of the early 2000s, are organized around shared identities, experiences of injustice, and demands for structural transformation that operate simultaneously at multiple scales, connecting local struggles to global analyses without reducing either to the other.

Supra-State Imaginaries

Liberal internationalism. The dominant supra-state imaginary of the post-1945, a vision of a world of sovereign states cooperating through multilateral institutions, bound by international law, and gradually converging toward shared norms of human rights, democratic governance, cosmopolitan values, and open markets. That imaginary no longer serves, and arguably never truly did, as a credible horizon of political aspiration for most of the world’s population.

Civilizational imaginaries. The most dynamic supra-state imaginaries now in circulation. They claim a horizon larger than the nation but are anti-universalist in that they reject the idea of a single global political order in favor of a plurality of civilizational spheres. Civilizational pluralism can function as a critique of imperial universalism and/or as a cover for domestic authoritarianism.

Planetary imaginaries. The idea of common humanity, of shared vulnerability, of obligations to future generations. Nils Gilman and Jonathan Blake’s concept of “planetary subsidiarity” (Blake and Gilman 2024, 102–38), the idea of a layered governance architecture in which different problems are addressed at the scale appropriate to them, from the local to the planetary, is one of the more serious recent attempts to give institutional form to a planetary imaginary. But for now, at least, it remains more of a philosophical proposal than a political force.

The crisis of political imagination may be a specifically Western phenomenon, tied to the declining capacity of a particular civilization to project its own future with confidence. Outside the West, political imaginaries may be not in crisis but in active construction.

The theoretical resources mobilized throughout this concept paper are predominantly Western and, in many cases, explicitly European. This is not merely a bibliographic limitation; it risks reproducing, at the level of theory, the very imaginative closure the paper sets out to diagnose. If the crisis of political imagination is framed exclusively through a Western conceptual lens, it becomes impossible to ask whether the crisis is itself a specifically Western phenomenon — a consequence, perhaps, of some universal exhaustion of political vision.

There are strong reasons to think that the imaginative deficit is unevenly distributed, and that outside the West, and particularly in the so-called Global South, political imaginaries are not in crisis in the same way, and may not be in crisis at all. The shift in the global distribution of power away from the North Atlantic has been accompanied, in many regions, by a renewal of political imagination: the construction of new development models, new civilizational claims, new visions of South-South solidarity, and new demands for a reordering of the international system.

What looks like imaginative exhaustion from the perspective of Washington or Brussels may look like an opening from the perspective of Beijing, New Delhi, or Brasília. China is the most consequential case: rather than merely contesting the liberal international order, the Chinese Communist Party has invested heavily in constructing a positive political imaginary of its own, centered on concepts such as the “community of shared human destiny” and the claim that development without liberal democracy represents an alternative model rather than a deficit.

These imaginaries are built not against a background of institutional stability, but from within conditions of dispossession, colonial inheritance, and contested sovereignty. This is a different imaginative starting point from the one that structures most Western political theory, in which the question is not how to renew a tradition that has lost confidence, but how to construct alternatives in the absence of the institutional resources that Western theories of imagination tend to presuppose. Thinkers such as Achille Mbembe (on postcolonial futurity and the African political imaginary), Walter Mignolo (on coloniality and the decolonial option as an alternative epistemic horizon), and Robin D.G. Kelley (on the radical imagination in the Black freedom tradition) provide additional theoretical resources for this reorientation.

Liberal democracy disavows its own imaginary, ceding the imaginative terrain to competitors. Can it recover a thicker imaginary without reproducing the exclusions that thick imaginaries historically tend to generate?

Liberal democracy sits uneasily with the concept of political imaginary. Rawls- or Habermas-inspired proceduralism is, almost by definition, hostile to the idea of a substantive vision of collective life: liberalism has institutions, rights, and procedures designed to remain agnostic between competing imaginaries.

Yet liberal democracy does have a political imaginary; it simply tends to disavow it. That imaginary includes a particular conception of the individual as the primary bearer of rights; a vision of society as an association oriented toward mutual benefit; a temporal narrative of progressive realization of freedom and equality; and a spatial imaginary in which liberal democratic institutions are the natural destination of political development. These are not neutral commitments but substantive orientations, rooted in specific historical experiences (primarily Western, primarily Protestant, primarily “bourgeois”) that carry their own exclusions. The claim to neutrality is itself an ideological operation, presenting a particular imaginary as the rational form any reasonable politics must take.

When liberal democracy presents itself as a neutral framework, it surrenders the imaginative terrain to its competitors. The result is an imaginary deficit at the heart of the hegemonic form: liberal democracy commands the institutions but has ceded the imagination. Its competitors — nationalist, civilizationist, post-liberal, technofuturist — are imaginatively richer precisely because they are less inhibited by proceduralist self-constraint. They promise not just fair procedures but a particular, textured, emotionally inhabitable world, and to meet a need that proceduralism has decided it cannot.

Can liberal democracy recover its imaginary? Some theorists argue it can, and must. Seyla Benhabib, Axel Honneth, and the deliberative democracy tradition in its more substantive registers have tried to reconnect Habermasian proceduralism to thicker accounts of recognition, solidarity, and democratic self-governance. Philip Pettit’s neo-republican tradition reconstructs liberal democracy around the ideal of non-domination, connecting individual freedom to structural conditions of equality in ways that purely procedural liberalism cannot. But these attempts face a structural difficulty: the more liberal democracy commits to a substantive imaginary, the more it appears to compromise its core commitment to pluralism. This tension cannot be definitively resolved, only navigated.

Not all contemporary political imaginaries seek to renew democracy. Some increasingly imagine collective problems being addressed by forms of authority and technological expertise that bypass democratic self-government altogether.

Not all political imaginaries today position themselves as renewing democracy. Two tendencies that are gathering force at opposite ends of the ideological spectrum bypass or actively suspend democratic self-governance as the horizon of political life.

The first is the growing strand of ecological thought that accepts, or even welcomes, authoritarian shortcuts to planetary survival—what has been called green authoritarianism or eco-authoritarianism—on the premise that democratic deliberation is too slow, too captured by short-term interests, and too dependent on the consent of populations unwilling to accept the sacrifices that ecological transformation requires.

The second tendency comes from a very different direction: the technofuturism of the Silicon Valley right, and its partial convergence with the Chinese developmental model. Here the deeper ambition is not simply to make democracy obsolete, but to make the human itself increasingly obsolete as a political agent. Deliberation, judgment, and collective decision-making are displaced by algorithmic governance, optimized systems, and technocratic administration that promise to outperform human capacities altogether.

What these two tendencies share, despite their ideological differences, is the conviction that the relationship between political imagination and democratic form is contingent rather than necessary, and that the most urgent collective projects of our time cannot wait for democratic authorization, or do not require it.

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