Whitechapel Gallery, E1
I leave my incredibly filling arancini ball half eaten in the gallery cafe, and make my way downstairs past signs telling me to be Quiet, Please. It’s like being backstage somewhere, but the toilets are the stage. The stage lightning is theatrical - like evening light, gentle and monastic. But maybe one of the bulbs is broken.
The ceiling is on a slant. It’s a relaxing space, like being inside a tent. You look up and see a ventilation grill. It feels as though you could set a science fiction film in here, though in terms of practicality you almost definitely couldn’t.
I wash my hands. The mirror is flattering, the paper towels soft.