The empty room

The key has no teeth, which has led the museum’s locksmith to describe it as a handle with ambitions. Nevertheless, it opens the last door on the second floor. Other keys fit the lock and turn quite satisfactorily, but reveal a broom cupboard.

Behind the correct key is a room containing nothing except the window through which it can be seen to contain nothing. The first curator installed a bench so that visitors could contemplate the emptiness. By the following morning the room had become a waiting room, and three people were asking when they would be called.

The bench was removed. A second curator proposed an exhibition about absence, with a modest catalogue. Before the catalogue went to print, the room had acquired a ticket desk and a problem with its heating. The key would no longer turn.

At present we leave the room alone. The cleaner goes in on Thursdays and reports that it is much the same as anywhere else, only quicker. We considered putting this on a label, but have decided not to risk it.

Catalogue note: this key, its room, and the museum are fictional. The locksmith’s invoice is also fictional, although the accounts department remains unconvinced.