Room №1 began as raw journaling prescribed by a psychologist during my rehabilitation after escaping domestic violence. I had been diagnosed with anxious depression and asked to rest at home as much as possible. The home, instead of safety, became a trap — every object, texture, and surface carried memory. Over time, those diary notes grew into a poetic, fragmented novel: a work of therapy and survival, where the interiors of a home mirror psychological states.

Each chapter enters a different domestic space — walls, windows, corridors, bedroom, cellar, roof — where ordinary details reveal the weight of emotional cycles: walls carry blame, windows surveil, doors open only to ultimatums, a spoon or a ring hold entire histories of shame and care. Threaded between are therapy interludes naming gaslighting, financial neglect, sexual pressure, and abandonment in raw clinical terms. What emerges is both a diary of survival and a literary work of atmosphere and metaphor.

The installation Room №1 brings this experience into full scale. A 1:1 room is built entirely from the handwritten diary itself: a paper interior, as fragile as the feelings it contains, fragmented like memory, translucent like skin.

This work confronts the impossibility of beginning anew. Even on a blank page, we carry every page before it. Room №1  is not a reconstruction but a memory-room: an architecture of trauma and survival, where text becomes walls, the house becomes the body, and the body carries everything that was done to it.