Responding to the increasing unaffordability of London’s housing market, “Bedroom, London, 2025” predicts a dystopian future that includes a prototype for a 7-tiered bunk bed that maximises the number of residents in a given space. Live bodies sleep in the bed, having escaped their material conditions through the use of virtual reality headsets. The smell of sweat, due to the absence of air conditioning or ventilation in the summer heat, permeates the room. Occasionally, another person comes to wake up one of the performers and take their place, a theatrical intervention that reveals the difficulty of contorting one's body to fit into the small spaces. The performers wear black padding along the bridge of their noses to protect them from the injury of wearing the headsets for so long. The remaining space is empty and bare, suggesting the absurdity of existing distributions of space--condominiums are purchased by the rich as investments and remain empty, while others struggle to find affordable housing.

A fake window made of LED lights acts as the only light source in the room, failing to convincingly simulate daylight. Diatomaceous earth, a chalk-like powdered pesticide, lines the perimeter of the room, complete with dead insects and a trail of mouse droppings.c

Made of the steel, the VR headsets are heavy and uncomfortable, exaggerating the absurdity of their use. An unworn headset placed on a shelf made of reclaimed pallet wood invites the viewer to watch a VR film of a walkthrough of a luxury condominium that acts in sharp contrast to the physical space. Inspired by structuralist films, the VR film deconstructs itself, preventing the viewer's illusory absorption--the view outside of the condominium is revealed to be a repeated stock photograph of a city skyline with nothing else surrounding it. The camera searches for human companions, finding none.