About the work

Sometimes the smallest spaces hold the most potent atmospheres. A locker room, for example, is rarely just a room. It is a threshold, a pause, a place for shedding and preparing. Here, though, the locker room has been unpacked and laid out under a different sky. The air, which should be close and thick, has been thinned by the sun. And yet, the smell endures. That sharp, clean, chemical tang of disinfectant, now unbound, no longer trapped by four walls, but dispersing into the wider air, claiming a small, precise territory within the general dust and heat. It is a kind of phantom architecture, a temporary, invisible room built solely on an odor.