The door does not open—because it was never closed. The key lies under the doormat, the very place where the body has been buried. What we tread is not ground but what we permit to be crushed. What is crushed is memory; the doormat covers it. The key concerns not the inside but the outside.

This is not a threshold; it is the refusal of one. We are not at the doorstep—the space itself has become a threshold. The line is neither drawn nor crossed; it is blurred, like the act of remembering: partial, unfinished. Sari does not speak with objects; she keeps silence with them. She does not give them form; with them she signals formlessness. Chairs, rusted drawers, locks that will not open… Not de-functionalised, but forms resisting function—resisting power, order, space, and the coercion of memory. The key is not under the mat; it is lost. Yet in Sari’s work that loss is no absence: it assumes the task of producing an intensified presence. We do not stand where nothing is; we are left breathless where too much collapses at once. And in that collapse, the geography of remembering is rewritten.