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This space, not a space where people have ever lived, but a space for transitions, where you can come to rest, between worlds. The couch, worn gilt and faded satin, has many places rubbed naked by the friction of lives, it is without shame, it has become submissive to any act, of love or hatred, even indifference. The stained mirror holds within it multiple reflections that have over the years dimmed the brightness of its gaze.
This space is found by the guests who become lost, the endless corridors a labyrinth with no thread. Its grey emptiness could appeal only to them, a place to rest, unseen.
The objects here change, as articles are removed from the living parts of the house, broken or soiled. Before they can hit the floor, glass and china ornaments curl up and vanish like terrified animals, behind furniture, curtains, into dusty corners, they sink into invisibility and end up here. Their order is constantly changing in the cabinet, on the shelves they gather dust, gently.
The fragility of worlds, so vulnerable to erasure.
The furniture is old-fashioned, highly ornamented, its gilt shimmering through dust. The mirror with its cupids and flowers, its swirling mass of unwanted memories, the large sofa, low, its arms wishing to invite through the dust sheet that shrouds it.
Small tables covered in objects. There are no windows, the space resembles a large closet, a place to hide. A temporary refuge.
The despair at the heart of being unwanted, between worlds.
The sense that anything is better than nothing, entering a space that is merely an extension of loneliness. Possession of this emptiness giving an illusion of relief.
A young girl, face pale and anxious, stands before the mirror.
Her torch creates a halo of dancing light about various objects she studies thoughtfully. The mirror reflecting upon her slender shoulder-blades, bright hair brushing the collar of her elegant grey silk dress. She finds the light switch, and a meager yellowish bulb pollutes the scene. She pulls a small table over to the mirror, a delicate glass vase falls and shatters on the bare wooden floor. She starts, frightened, freezes for a moment. Silence reassures her. She begins to unload her bag upon its dusty surface. A small pile of cosmetics she organizes impatiently. The mirror waits.
Her vivid blue eyes widen, then half-close, a pale grey shadow darkening each lid, the concentrated gaze never wavers, the mascara wand blackening curled lashes. The purity of the skin, illuminated, blazes with purpose, a smile, crimson lipstick applied lightly. Then the pantomime begins, the smiling conversations, the asides to view profile, the lowered gaze, the shy and startled raising of wide-eyed complicity, the self-mocking tongue extended.
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