In January 1937, when he accepts the commission from the Spanish Republic to create a large mural for the International Exhibition in Paris, Picasso is living what he would later recall as “the worst time of my life.” The painter is 54 years old and his previously carefree polygamy is showing its teeth: the divorce from Olga Koklova has become a nightmare; Marie-Thérèse Walter, the lover with whom he had started a relationship when she was still underage, has made him a father again (Maya) and he has fallen in love again with the artist and photographer Dora Maar.

When I was a child, I loved receiving wedding invitations at home. As an adult, a wedding is simply one of the worst pieces of news one can receive. That invitation should be replaced by a black dot like in Treasure Island where pirates received their death sentence. Something similar happens with hotel stays. At first glance: Who doesn’t want to go to a good hotel? From which day of the stay does the hotel start to do harm? What does a hotel room, as an emblematic non-place, do to your body night after night? You can never trust a hotel room because it is made not to be honest with anyone. It flatters you, welcomes you, makes you feel special when to it you are just another, the same as those before and after.