6 October 2026
Tuesday. I have been drawing vans. Page after page of them, in the margins, on the backs of menu cards, once on a napkin the waiter had not finished with.
Here is the thought that will not leave me alone. Every one of my works so far stays put. Coffins, cells, lockers, slaughterhouses: they wait for the guests to come to them. What if the room went somewhere? What if the hour were a journey, and the clock were the road?
I have drawn a white panel van, plain as a postcard. A sliding door that shuts with a soft, well-oiled click. A cargo hold just big enough to be unpleasant. A grille between the guests and the driver, so they can see the back of his head and not much else.
One hour. The length of the drive. When it stops, the game is over, one way or the other.
I showed a sketch to the studio. They did not say no. They said “concept”, which in my experience is how they say yes slowly. I have bought a new notebook just for the van.
— U.
