To know a space is not just to take it in, but to be aware of exactly how your body stands in relation to it. You know to skip that creaky step, duck under that low door frame, and sit cautiously on that rickety chair. Every item is a cue for the initiated. Thankfully, Hannah Szabó’s place comes with some instructions.
At the end of a long hallway, the first stop is the bedroom. The room is split into stations. Above the keyboard: a print of a violinist composing a sonata in a verdant forest. You know what to do. Hit the keys. Above her austere work desk: an image of a schoolgirl dozing off next to a patch which repeats hypnotically, “NO SLEEP. NO SLEEP. NO SLEEP.” Stay up. Do your work.
Lacking a closet, Hannah hangs her clothes on metal racks, everything on display. A vibrant procession of fuzzy sweaters yields to her many pairs of slacks, which form a long black curtain like in a funeral parlor. Above this corner-turned wardrobe, portraits of figures demonstrate possible states of dress and undress: a bundled madame or a nude Venus, the choice is yours. Everywhere in between is piled with books, not stuffy display volumes, but well-loved pocket editions, the kind you can’t resist sliding into your palm and opening to a random page. “This is my grandad’s old copy of Don Quixote,” Hannah says, “And this is a Spanish edition of Goethe’s Faust. And this one, you can just take this one.” She hands me a square volume bound in maroon laid cardstock: Intimate Ties: Two Novellas by Robert Musil. I consider this a bribe.
In the living room, the plush jewel-tone blue couches beckon me to sit. Playful flipbooks stand on the coffee table, bookended by foot-shaped finger puppets. I put on the feet and take a stroll around the table. In one flipbook, a dancer pirouettes. In another, a pair of cats steal a muffin from their unwitting owner.
Hannah has stocked her bar cart with hard liquor and five wide margarita glasses, just like you’d see at the poolside of a Sandals Resort. Make yourself a drink and make yourself at home. I refrain and, instead, consider the vitrine nested in the wall. Inside: another pair of feet prop up a photo of Berninni’s Apollo and Daphne. Bernini’s dynamic sculpture pairs well with the intertwined hands of a Rodin poster on the wall and the watchful gaze of a styrofoam head, which peeks into the living room from a kitchen cabinet. Marble or styrene, the longing and desire shines through.
The human figure is always on display in Hannah’s apartment. The decor reminds you at every turn that you, too, are an embodied creature. It asks you to pay attention to the senses you often neglect. I begin to notice things: the softness of the velvet couch, the smell of the beeswax candles on the breakfast table, the perfect click-clack when I pull a string on the lamp.
But embodiment isn’t all pleasant sensations. I feel small under the high ceilings. I’m exposed in front of the wide windows. I’m just a little too warm from the heat of the radiator. These are the small discomforts that make a home. As a guest, you either don’t notice them or don’t mention them. Hannah’s apartment asks you to bear them with her.