ROOM THREE
Participants enter a final room.
It begins in a moment of silence.
Then the sound gathers, almost below hearing.
The sounds are traces of the life that became the room, all emerging from the bed.
Breath, voices, customer service calls, cries, rhythm, pleasure, pain, performance, hold music, and silence dissolve into an indistinguishable accumulation of sound.
What shaped the room's inhabitant has become the room itself.
*The sound is constructed from an archive of audio recordings collected over the past ten years by the room’s inhabitant. Only recordings in which every audible participant was an adult at the time of recording are included. Through heavy distortion, processing, and layering, no individual voice remains recognizable.*
The room is warm.
A vanilla-scented candle burns in the corner.
Underneath, the room smells of drying paint, sawdust, and sweat.
The wall are painted black, very unevenly, with small patches of white showing through.
In the center of the room sits a large unmade bed with soft black sheets.
A large oval cheval mirror stands facing the bed. Its frame has been painted black; like the walls, patches of white remain visible beneath the paint.
A dim incandescent bulb beneath a faded, slightly torn lampshade illuminates the room.
A disco ball, far too small for the proportions of the room, turns very slowly overhead.
Gold reflections drift across the walls.
A customer service headset rests near the center of the unmade bed.
Its microphone hovers where a mouth would be.
Tossed beside it is a stappled packet of customer-service script and heavily annotated pharmacy information sheets and medication guides for Viagra and Estradiol. A stack if yellow post it notes and a black ball poin pen sits beside them.
A beaten carbon steel kitchen knife rests atop a stack of unopened mail on a bench by the door.
Next to the door knob, there is a taped piece of white paper with a handwritten note that says: HELLO. PLEASE LEAVE YOUR SHOES AT THE DOOR.
Below the note is a pile of shoes.
Small yellow Post-it notes have been pressed onto each pair.
In messy black handwritting:
men’s size 9.5 shiny black dress shoes
10:36 am
late 50s
weathy
hairline
ED
asked three ways
kind
seemed scared
men’s size 11 black boots:
10:36 am
contractor
ex
early 50s
use more pauses next time
silence sells
use discomf.
dont sell miracles
women’s size 8 Adidas tennis shoes:
2:54 pm
hot flashes
use wrench for shelf noise again
daughter 35
babies
responded well to body image thing
more pauses next time
sound more like confesion
i hope made her feel a litle better
men’s size 10.5 scuffed boots.
2:30 am
photographer
electrician
late 20s maybe?
british lol
attentive
good ear
different from mine
good stories to remember
ID left in bed - call to return
invite back
talk less/learn more
A pair of women’s size 6.5 black boots is the only pair without a Post-it note.
A heavily worn black leather jacket lies on the floor beside the shoes.
A Pixy Stix sticks out of one of the pockets.
A black purse lies partially open on the floor. Its lining is stained with black ink from a broken ballpoint pen. The contents spill out: candy wrappers, three yellow Starbursts, a folded kids’ menu from a dinner, scribbled on in different-colored crayons, crumpled receipts, a citation for smoking in a public park, a library card, an EBT card, an expired driver’s license, a folded and slightly torn tax refund form, loose Zyrtec pills, red lip liner, a sheet of sparkly blue butterfly tattoos, a miniture tape mesure, a fully charged portable charger, and a set of keys attached to a faded keychain labeled HOW TO LOCK THE DOOR.
Four empty electrolyte bottles on top and a ripped open box of bandaids sit on a wooden dresser painted black.
On top of the desk sits a lopsided light green ceramic bowl. It holds two pairs of earrings, seven paperclips, one binder clip, four bobby pins, three quarters, two needles, and an Elvis Presley lighter. "KB 2009" is etched into the bottom.
A steaming pot of coffee.
A worn claw hammer and one 2 inch nail.
A rusted crescent wrench, needle-nose pliers, and wire strippers.
A 2-inch wooden flat brush, black paint dried on the bristles.
An unopened severance check tucked beneath a tube of red lipstick.
A late notice for an electric bill.
A worn manila folder. Inside are printed WikiHow articles collected over many years. Many pages are highlighted, annotated, and stained.
HOW TO CHANGE A TIRE
HOW TO FILE TAXES AS A FREELANCER
HOW TO JUMP A CAR
HOW TO REPLACE A DOORKNOB
HOW TO GET A RED WINE STAIN OUT OF CARPET
HOW TO STRETCH A CANVAS
HOW TO EXPLAIN A GAP IN EMPLOYMENT
HOW TO APPLY FOR EBT
HOW TO USE AUDACITY
HOW TO FIX A LEAKY FAUCET
HOW TO COOK CHICKEN WITHOUT DRYING IT OUT
HOW TO GET A JOB YOU AREN'T QUALIFIED FOR
HOW TO GROW TOMATOES
HOW TO TREAT A BURN
HOW TO CURE A HANGOVER
HOW TO PATCH DRYWALL
HOW TO SURVIVE OFF COFFEE, NUTS, AND FRUIT
HOW TO CHANGE GUITAR STINGS
HOW TO COOK CHILI
HOW TO FIX A JAMMED PRINTER
HOW TO GET HEALTH INSURANCE
HOW TO REMOVE MOLD FROM A BATHROOM CEILING
A printed Beef Stew recipe with a handwritten note at the top: START BEFORE WORK
A pile of unfolded laundry wrinkling in the corner.
A large cardboard shipping box sits beneath a pile of clothing: a pair of worn low waisted blue jeans with a black belt still in the loops, a black jacket, a black slip dresses, a pair of ripped black tights, and a deep red scarf.
The shipping label is dated October 2016.
The top has partially collapsed inward under the weight of the clothing.
Visible through the opening:
The Complete Painting and Drawing Handbook
Piano Book for Adult Beginners: Teach Yourself How to Play Famous Piano Songs, Read Music, Theory & Technique
Stick Control by George Lawrence Stone
Hal Leonard Guitar Method Book 1
Understanding Exposure: How to Shoot Great Photographs with a Film or Digital Camera
Acting for the Camera: Revised Edition
Birds of North America
How to Speak Conversational French
The Complete Book of Gardening
Joy of Cooking
None of the contents of the box have been opened.
A creased, photocopied, stapled exhibition handout dated May 21–26, 2026 rests atop the pile of clothing on the box. It lies open to an essay asking what can function as an instruction.
*Depending on the artist’s preferences and comfort with the subject matter of the work and the handout’s proximity to the sound and other objects in the room, the handout may be altered, partially obscured, substituted, or omitted entirely.*
On the nightstand beside the bed sit black thin-framed reading glasses, a broken blue crayon, a small black composition notebook, and a black pen.
The notebook contains messy handwritten instructions.
Unlike the printed instructions in Room One, these appear to belong to the room's inhabitant.
The handwriting has changed.
The format remains.
*Many of the instructions in the notebook draw from perceptual experiments documented in the Recording Archive (2016–2026).*
Near one of the black pillows rests a small pile of sparkly blue temporary butterfly tattoos beside a water bottle and a few tissues.
A note written on torn composition paper sits beneath them, half in black pen and half in blue:
Black:
You should get into bed.
Aren’t you sleepy?
I just washed the sheets, so remember to take your day clothes off first.
I left you some activities to do while i’m gone.
Blue:
TRY PLAYING WITH BUTTERFLIES.
YOU WOULDN'T WANT TO END UP LONELY, WOULD YOU?
PUT ONE WHERE YOU WERE TOLD NOT TO.
HOW TO:
PICK A SPOT.
PUT THE TATTOO FACE DOWN.
WET A TISSUE.
PRESS GENTLY FOR ABOUT A MINUTE.
PEEL.
Black:
Save one for me.
On the floor rests a pile of used and broken crayons scattered across several sheets of white paper. A small white flower sits in a glass vase nearby. A second note written on torn composition paper rests beside them:
IF YOU DECIDE TO STAY,
SIT ON THE FLOOR,
DRAW SOMETHING,
I'LL BE BACK EVENTUALLY.
Participants may remain.
Leave.
Return to room two.
Or move freely between them.
The room is not presented as a trap.
Nor as a mistake.
It is presented as an inheritance.
What will you do when you’re not instructed?
If the fantasy gave us nothing, why does it feel like home?
If we do leave home, how long will it be until we return?
How long until we begin writing on the walls?
How long until you can no longer see the white that’s beneath the paint?
How long until it’s just another black room?
The rooms remain.
The sounds continue.
The invitation stays open
After everything we inherit, can we still encounter an ordinary body without immediately transforming it into a performance, fantasy, product, danger, or symbol?