The door is not a curated experience. It is the first room. We do not publish criteria because criteria, once published, become a costume. The door reads posture, sobriety, intention, and the small unflattering tells that arrive when you have been standing in a queue for forty minutes and remembered that you have not eaten since lunch. None of these things are personal. All of them are the work.
We have been told that this is exclusive. It is not. Exclusion implies a bouncer who knows you. The door does not know you. The door knows the room behind it. The room behind it has asked for the night it intends to have, and the door is the only instrument we have that listens.
If you are turned away you will not be told why. If you are admitted you will not be congratulated. The room is not a reward. The room is an obligation. To the artist on the floor. To the person beside you who paid the same twenty-five euro and travelled further. To the building, which is older than you and more patient than the city that surrounds it.
Do not photograph the inside. Do not photograph the queue. Do not photograph the queue from across the street with a long lens and post it later as documentation of a scene. There is no scene. There is a Saturday, then a Sunday, and then the building is locked and the floor is washed and the chairs are stacked and we begin again.
We are aware that this reads as posture. Posture is a discipline. Discipline is the only reason any of this still works in a city that has learned to monetise every inch of its own grief. We will continue. The door will continue. Arrive at 23:59. Bring cash. Wear what you wore on the train.