The office that I work in is an old family business on the west side of Oslo. It is run by the son of its founder, and he in turn will no doubt pass it along to his son when the time comes. It bares the name of the family on its front door. Inside is a place that trancends categories. It is not really an office, because offices today are not supposed to include two pianoes and a bathtub. It is not a home, even though my boss probably grew up there as much as he did in his house. I know I came to see my fathers office as an extention of our home, and regularly went there after school to draw or hide behind a couch and listen. So what then, is it?
I don't really try to answer this question, but it hangs in the back of my mind as I wander its office rooms, some busy, some long vacant, documenting its history, as it is written in the walls and floors of this house.