A sweet smell permeated everything. What had been defined as a gallery on the invitation appeared to be a perfume shop: a hygenic, cool, and yet attractive atmosphere with rubber floor and mirrored ceiling, plastic cubes, and photographs of a model on the wall. Three pictures placed in a row: in two the head bends toward the side, pining, in sharp contrast to the objectivity of the electronic light meter that the model holds in one hand. In occasional flashes, the viewer realized that he or she was a part of this installation—and also a model, at least for the moment, confronted by the anonymity