The Room That Will Not Let You Walk Straight

Three walls have already endured one passage. The ruptures are not clean: the volume that once occupied each opening has collapsed beside it, leaving pale placeholders of equal size on the floor and several broad abrasion marks. The three gaps are staggered from one another, barely joining into a winding route; from any position, it is impossible to see the entrance and the exit at the same time.

Dragging the view changes the position from which you turn sideways. Passing quickly only changes what is seen; only sustained lateral pressure near a rupture in the wall will be remembered by the material. The opening before you widens accordingly, while the very same piece of wall that has been moved aside turns laterally and, a little later, squeezes into the next stretch of path. Nothing happens when lingering in the blank spaces.

When untouched, the walls still undergo a very slight bearing and settling, but they will not create new damage on the viewer’s behalf. What must be found here is not the shortest path, but a viewpoint with weight: when seeing clearly also requires taking up space, can viewing still pretend it has never touched the scene?