IMAGINE an old telephone booth — the nostalgic British kind. As a functional relic, the paint is chipped, the windows fogged, the receiver long gone. No one calls from here anymore. Inside hangs Shiota Chiharu’s Rain of Memories: red threads tangled from wall to wall in the meter-wide frame, turning the booth into a soft trap of memory. Keys dangle gently as the door opens, like forgotten voices waiting to be noticed. The strings, like nerves once meant for connection, now carry silence — and yet the booth remains, no longer in use, but standing still with quiet dignity, holding this deep crimson of nervous system and blood vessels of memory.
Would you hang here?
How I'd Hang 