Notes and images littered the floor illuminated by two upturned table lamps, the Art Nouveau interior of The Metropole Gallery could have been a bohemian apartment or a space of European opulence that had slid into an existential malaise. Some of Hiromi Nakajima's paintings were fixed with Blutak into the moulded frames of the walls but others were stuffed into shelves or thrown on the floor.

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In the plastered corner reliefs of an observant visitor could see violins, Venetian masks and coronets, a ballroom where Edward VII had entertained.  Around the perimeter appeared to be small brass doorbells, perhaps these had once summoned individual waiters to tables during the height of Empire. Did the dancers delirious on French Champagne order Italian truffles and caviar from the Caspian Sea, whilst  Schubert played and war was still a distant portent.

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Now these might have rung to wake up Hiroma Nakajima if any famous curators walked into the gallery and a demanded sleepily recital, the jet-lag creased texts were crumpled and dissipated and at the centre of all this accumulation lay the Artist on a tatami matt covered in a painted canvas