Narrow Room

Welcome to the Narrow Room exhibit, a haunting glimpse of a room that has long since been abandoned. The room’s window, once a portal to the outside world, now stands in disrepair. Of the four panes, one is shattered, letting in cold drafts and dust. Déjà vu settles in as you gaze at the crumbling frame, its once-bright paint now peeling away in long, curled strips, revealing layers of neglect. The rotten wood barely holds together, fragile and splintered after years of exposure to the elements. Through the broken pane, shards of glass lie on the floor, hinting at an ausgestorben atmosphere that has settled over the space.

The bare plaster walls, once possibly filled with art or memories, are now cracked and crumbling. Large sections of paint have peeled away, leaving uneven, discolored patches where the plaster has broken through. The cracks snake across the walls, as though the room itself is slowly being torn apart by time. The textures of decay seem almost trompe-l’œil, as if the disintegration of the room is an illusion—yet it is all too real. The walls speak silently of vergangenheit, the past slipping away as the once-lived-in space turns into a forgotten relic.

Below, the tiled floor is scattered with discarded books and papers, papier maché memories now strewn carelessly, as if someone left in haste. The books lie open, their pages torn and yellowing, revealing long-forgotten stories and histories. Torn paper edges flutter slightly when a breeze sneaks in through the broken window, echoing a whisper of life that used to fill the room. The floor itself, once clean and perhaps polished, is now layered with dirt and debris, adding to the schadenfreude sense of abandonment that surrounds the scene.

In the center of the room sits an old brass-framed bed, its elegant design now shrouded in dust and cobwebs. What was once a sturdy symbol of comfort and rest is now tarnished, the brass losing its shine under the weight of time. The bed is no longer a place for sleep but a stage for decay, draped in layers of neglect. Cobwebs, thick and tangled, stretch from corner to corner, clinging to the brass rails like faded memories that refuse to let go. The bed itself is scattered with more discarded books, perhaps once cherished, now forgotten—relics of a life that is no more.

The bric-à-brac of this forgotten room hints at a life left unfinished. The scattered books and papers, now abandoned, offer a glimpse of what might have been a space for learning, dreaming, or réflexion. Each object tells a silent story, one of use and eventual neglect, as the room transforms from a place of purpose into a ruine of memories. The books on the bed seem to have fallen haphazardly, suggesting a last moment of chaos or hurried departure. The entire scene radiates a feeling of fin de siècle, where the elegance of the past meets the slow, inevitable decay of time.

Stepping back, the room’s atmosphere is both bizarre and melancholic. It speaks to the fragility of the everyday objects and the spaces we inhabit, which can quickly fall into disrepair when left unattended. The broken window, the cracked walls, and the cobweb-covered bed all remind us that time is an unstoppable force. In this run-down bedroom, zeitgeist no longer exists—it has become a forgotten monument to a life left behind, a space where the past and present have ceased to intersect.