Art exhibitions usually do not touch me.
Unless they immerse me completely in the atmosphere of an unknown world. Like an urban art exhibition in an abandoned, dilapidated amusement park, in the heart of an arctic winter.
Lights flicker as I stumble through concrete tunnels, shivering with cold. Behind spotlights illuminating the splashy colours of graffiti all over crumbling walls, I glimpse sagging roof beams and broken electrical wiring. Cheerful, rusting signposts still advertise amusement rides. Over the dusty shelves of an old shooting gallery, an artist has made a statement by hanging toy bunnies by their necks from the ceiling.
There are mouse droppings, broken glass and snow that has drifted in. And unexpectedly, small rooms full of pink fluff and fairy lights.
In the Haunted House, everything gleams under black light in the winding tunnels - stars and planets, skeleton hands and spiders, Oriental art and wrinkled posters shouting "Cancel Commercial Christmas".
Outside, narrow paths wind through thick snow from one building to another, every wall covered in exuberant graffiti artwork. An icy wind whistles between creaking doors and broken windows, the midwinter sunset twisting shadows.
It is minus ten degrees Celsius and my fingers go numb when I take off my mittens to take pictures. It is glorious.
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