We access artwork through imaginative perception and through immersing ourselves  within it—we make readings of it—interpretations that may very well be different from the intentions of the author; and it is quite possible that there are methods and compositional treatments that elicit our attention. A drawing can be open like an empty and inviting room. Drawings, in architecture, are often means, rather than ends: they might be means to creating a building, or sometimes to an atmosphere or scenario held in the mind. Maybe it is possible for drawings to operate somewhere in a spectrum between instruction and a segue to something else. Where it is hard for an architectural construction to be ambiguous once fixed in bricks  and mortar, it is easy for a sketch to do so, with its suggestive, repetitive, faint and freehand lines. But a measured or developed drawing can hold ambiguity, too, and I  would argue that the Corridor is one such image. ⁷ While some architectural drawings are concerned with scene-setting, with detail and resolution or the proposition of a cogent  and comprehensible world, others leave space (often actual space in  their composition) for the viewer to complete the image. ^{8 9} Such images can be seen as prompts for active,  and enactive co-creation with the viewer—as invitations into imaginative attention. Projection in drawing operates in at least two ways: in the construction of the work by its author, both physical and metaphysical—what we might think of as the inward  projection into the surface—and outward, in how it is received by the author and by viewers—the projection of the drawing’s content toward the recipient. Generally,  there  is  a  third  loop, one where the viewers bring their own sensibilities, memories and intelligence, to their visitation of the work. ¹⁰ Imaginative attention confounds simply looking at a drawing: it entails bringing yourself to the work. ¹¹ Such an  extension of self toward an  object or work   is ritualised in a  gallery setting. Within imaginative attention, you  might see  the  object,  and also yourself. Pleasure emerges through this attention. One can imagine how an unadorned room allows individuals to install in it their ideas   and attachments, their own spatial experiences, and there is a likeness to this process in  the contemplation of a drawing that reserves within it some space. Where some drawings are didactic, complete, and resolute, others are suggestive, and open to manifold possibility. Sketches are like that: they say maybe, they ask questions, but it is not only sketch drawings that can be indeterminate. For a drawing to say maybe, the reservation of such space is critical—it is a delicate matter to invite a viewer into a work—to evince without convincing. When we consider Berger’s suggestion that a painting is complete when it is ready to be viewed, an image like the Corridor may seem quite raw, but allows the viewer to arrive with their belongings, so to speak. ¹² A compelling image draws the attention of a viewer into it. Attention can be cultivated, or drawn slowly, but it can also be grabbed.¹³ It may be that there are other ways in—without necessarily a willingness to enter a more-than-looking process, one could be compelled into attention through deliberate gestures. Perhaps familiarity and ordinariness can be thought of as access ways between one’s self and a drawing—by facilitating resonance, and allowing a viewer to bring their own memories and spatial intelligence to the contemplation of a work. Maybe aesthetic perception can be aided by prompts, or tools, and elements of the familiar can act as aids to imaginative excursion. What is remarkable about this Christo image is how unremarkable it is, how banal its components are. What is it that is held so perfectly in it? A floor, just like the floor in the room where I now sit. A window not unlike the one beside me. A making-method not too different from a children’s pop-up book. And, what is particularly beguiling about the Corridor image is the inclusion of the timber floor. This is the “guide rail” into image: the element that is recognisable, knowable, and which can lead the reader into the space of the image. ¹⁴ We all know this floor, meeting off-white walls, mustering all that is usual and pleasant. It is familiar to anybody confronted with it, as we all feel we have lain curled on its sun-warmed timber boards. ¹⁵ Without the floor, left to be only a line drawing, the image would be far less a portal to imaginative attention. The inclusion of this fragment of the real constitutes a small feasibility, an anchor from which we can drift into the scene. As Berger proposes, it is inside the mind of the observer where a drawing like this is completed. In the case of the Corridor, because of the ubiquity of the room, what the observer is constructing might be their memory of building, but not necessarily that building. How does Corridor continue to work, in Berger’s terms? In the same way as our rooms do as we witness the passing of their days: in displays of light, shade, colour and reflection, all of which previously played out unseen while we were elsewhere. We can imagine the light not just here, where it is currently landing, but shifting, increasingly yellow, then dusky. How is the Corridor like a portrait? Through recognition: the proportional inversion of the intimate and the universal. It is a strange phenomenon that the more a person describes a memory—the more detail and specificity that is layered into it—the more accessible and familiar it becomes to others. This is not because we can make their memory ours, but their detail resonates with our  detail, their emotion with ours—in  being able to picture their images, we feel the familiar intensity of our own. POST-AMBLE Corridor Store Front depicts a commercial space, one of a series of constructed shopfronts, displays and cabinets that Christo wrapped internally. ¹⁶ This explains the diorama-like composition of the drawing—the glazing as a layer of folded card, underneath which sits the planes of the shrouding panels. The drawing contains the same physical   layering   as   the   full-scale  sculpture,  making  it   a shallow  relief-model. ¹⁷ The maquette of the same project suggests that this shopfront is one of few in the series to contain its own elevated floor—that is, a floor separate from the gallery that houses the work. The final, full-scale sculpture of the Corridor, as well as the others in the series, is made of salvaged materials. In contrast to the anodized glazing sections, though, the timber boards are visibly worn: again, the floor materially grounds the work in the familiar. A final resonance exists between the actuality of this work and the involuntary artworks captured in social isolation—one of anticipation. The Corridor project made the interior spaces tantalizing by concealing them from view, amplifying the sense of expectation and wonder of the person separated from them. This brings attention to two things—the thin interface of the building, where its glazing is now at a tense distance with the hoardings behind it—and the masked interior itself. There is a total inversion  of  this condition in the realm of the household artwork—the interior is now the ‘world’— brimming with imaginative life and quite literally captivating. Windows now stand between the individual and the external world that has become inaccessible, shrouded with curtains or blinds, and, through the denial of access to it, made extraordinary and nascent.