The wallpaper is torn, scaling. Layers upon layers flaking away like old skin: paisley on shredded pink, dirty roses on tarnished lavender and lace. Rafters exposed, walls and sills eaten away by rot: a place with a past but no present. Charred debris on dusty floorboards, a mattress reduced to rusty wire springs and rising from it, phoenix-like, a young girl, ethereal, semi-translucent, a spectral presence flickering like a flame.

It is the photographer herself, Norwegian Anja Niemi, who inhabits abandoned buildings sometimes for weeks, then photographs herself ghost-like in these decaying and forgotten spaces, her vulnerable young flesh in stark contrast with the decrepit materiality and textures of her surroundings.

Using a Hasselblad camera, multiple exposures and natural lighting only, she inscribes herself as a fleeting presence against these mouldy interiors. A memento-mori alluding to the many transient presences witnessed by these silent architectural vessels: obsolete containers that, like our fragile bodies themselves, are only empty shells that inevitably come to pass. Walls screaming out for my pity, in the words of the artist, me screaming out for theirs.