2026SS

“Unwritten Familiar”

I visited an acquaintance’s atelier.
It stood like a warehouse, almost like a box.
Stepping inside, I felt a low, unfinished atmosphere—there were no clear boundaries between the parking space, the living room, and the kitchen.

When I went up to the second floor,
guided somehow by his cat,
I found myself casually sitting down on the sofa.
The moment I did, I had the strange sense that I had stepped into his “usual spot,”
and, feeling restless, I moved to a silver chair nearby.

He came upstairs a little later
and sat exactly where I had first been.
He looked relieved.

After that,
in a house that felt like a warehouse,
we were given beer from a can—so cold it felt almost too pleasant for the setting—and donuts.
I don’t remember what we talked about, but we each shared our stories.

At some point,
that earlier sensation—of stepping into his “designated place”—
came back to me, layered over Cindy Sherman’s Bus Riders.

Like a shadow someone had left behind,
like a trace of friction. Not warmth, exactly, but heat.
In a space that carried such a sense of routine,
I entered from a distance, almost intrusively,
and replaced it with my own words, thoughts, and shadow.

This season, I want to create an atmosphere like that—
like a vegetable that has never stood beside the main dinner as a proper accompaniment,
yet somehow presents itself with the face of the main course.