“It seems we have learned something about art when we experience what the word solitude designates,” wrote the French writer and philosopher Maurice Blanchot in his essay, The Essential Solitude. What Blanchot has in mind is not any ordinary solitude, however, but rather the solitude of literary work and a work of art. This solitude is different from a simple desire “to be alone”, or the solitude artists might require to be able to practice their art. The solitude of the work of art hinges on its existence outside of any commonly perceived time and space. “To write is to surrender oneself to the fascination of the absence of time,” Blanchot explains, “when here is also nowhere, when each thing withdraws into its image and the ‘I’ that we are, recognizes itself as it sinks into the neutrality of a faceless ‘he’.” What Blanchot describes is a creative act through which one severs his or her ties to the surrounding reality and forgoes their individualism for something universal and primordial. And, without doubt, something not so dissimilar also affects a reader or a viewer, who too can lose themselves within the nowhere of the work. I wanted to render my personal vision of this nowhere space that is at once familiar but strange; existing on the threshold of the imaginary and the real; rooted in history but always somehow outside of time.