We play a prince that needs not make his bed. Play a whore that knows not whom she sleeps next to. Play an editor of a culture and nudes magazine, adorn the robe and let the freak flag fly. Hotel's privacy screams of sex and if sex sells, hotels sell the promise of the deed. It’s the end of the road, in some sense. The end of the night at least. Or is it where the night is just beginning? After-the-after-party type of thing.

It’s so much more than a room with a bed. So much more than a place to rest your head. Firstly, rest your head from one of our menu of selected pillows, the choice is yours, valued patron. Leave the tip in the envelope. A closed door, the nice beep of your entry, the click of your unlock. A moment to see how small your selected room is, so hopeful at this moment yet so knowing of your slight disappointment. Here we are, hoping our lives will become more interesting behind this door. Hotels offer privacy where I wish I had secrets and turn downs to mirror your turn-ons. A do not disturb sign, a coiled phone cord and a few laps around the room each time you hope to turn a light on or off, to discover wich switch does exactly what. A pile of plush, fluffed, floofed towels. And then the main event—the crisp, white, tight and tucked sheets. Hoping to be anonymous but begging to be discovered.

We pay to behave out of character from our norm, we pay for someone to bring us food past the time we should be eating. Pay someone to make our bed each morning and not look us in the eye. Do we like hotels because they make us feel special or do we like hotels because they enable us to act lousy and no one will tell us off? The underbelly of hotels is what brings me in. It’s the lies, the performances, the pay-to-play behaviours. I can’t get enough. I want to watch people present themselves to the public and then unravel and dismantle behind that closed hotel door. It’s mystique and housekeeping. Facades and black-out curtains. Blowouts and Bellboys. I can’t decide what’s more interesting—who we are or who we want to be. But my god, the facades look good. That’s the whole idea. That’s what I’m here to show. Fool me once, fool me twice. I love the charade, I love the performance, the effort, the promise of glamour, desire and lust. Just bill it to our room.