In a Waiting Room

London. Across from the Peace Pagoda, overlooking Battersea Park and flanking the busy currents of the Thames there is a room. A room where you can take refuge from the autumn wind and let flames and snakes protect you. Silver coins can be used as currency. Wheat can satisfy your hunger as you circumnavigate the mesmerising heart searching for more signs.

A room where reality is inverted: a black sun presides as silver sparkling rain pours down yet remains suspended in its gravitational journey. A streetlight, upside down, still illuminates the stars that have fallen on the floor. You can dance on them if you like.

A room where sounds can be heard only in a box in the centre of a room, surrounded by the faces of brilliant minds and historical influencers who bloom greenery as they look out.  They are silent, surrounded by naturally filtered water. There is a volcano depicted from different angles and different altitudes. You are near the crater. Can you imagine it rumbling?

In this room you can rest your body on a bed and let the vibrations travel through your mind. A bouquet of flowers stretches and contorts in the darkness as if imbued with special powers. Scattered lights illuminate the space where tea is ready to be served and a suit ready to be worn. They can be your guides through this place of transition. Concealed gazes and fictional creatures will keep watch over your time.

When you are ready to leave obsidian mirrors are your portals to another realm, a realm where politics, economics and current affairs are distant, tucked away in a wardrobe, temporarily suspended but not forgotten.  You can come and be until whomever or whatever it is that you are expecting arrives, or perhaps departs.  Here, you invited to wait.

Photos by Nemo Nonnenmacher