A room fucking itself.
What happens when you stop being able to tell the difference between outside and inside?
When the edge of your body dissolves into walls and mirrors?
When interiority is revealed?
People say it is all about sex and death…well, yeah, but… what is sexier than a corner? A perfectly smooth ceiling? Clean tube socks on polished floors? Moldering attics and damp basements? The space behind a cupboard? What could be more life threatening than a vaulted arch? A nave? A collapsed atrium of a nameless factory or a high school auditorium? Perhaps the erotic rests not in the depiction of bodies but in the depiction of space. Perhaps it lies within the idea of perfection. For example: visualize the image (impossible to achieve), of a perfectly built, symmetrically flawless brick wall, where the space between each identical brick, similar in every way, is the SAME. And as if that weren’t enough! Try to imagine a barely perceptible crack. (The thrill and the possibility of erosion and collapse.) How it forms is hard to say, could be anything, could be weather, or it could be destiny. The crack is the way in, however small.