NOWHERE

CHAPTER I · LET GO

Mexico City · January 15 — February 15

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A forest inside the city.

A forest of bare trunks around an amber sun reflected in still water.

Twelve steps and the city goes quiet.

You arrive at an exact hour. A host receives you by your name. Your phone sleeps in a linen bag.

Aerial view at dusk: a dark pavilion glowing amber in the middle of a city parking esplanade.

Trunks. A sun. Water.
A ceiling with no end.

An eight-meter sun that sets over a hundred minutes. Water at floor level that doubles it.

The room: trunks to a mirrored ceiling, a sun, water at floor level.

Seven plates. Seven things you let go of.

A host carrying a plate through the arch of the sun.

No one tells you what to feel. The night works from the inside.

The room turned violet, everyone standing around the water.

NOWHERE

In the middle of the city, nowhere.

What you let go of, arrives.

A figure alone at the edge of the water, facing the sun.

RESERVE

Forty-four places a night. You enter by name.

By sending, you accept the privacy notice.

or write to me at g@gastonlombardi.com