Over the past year, we’ve become very familiar with the interiors of our own homes, but almost all other indoor spaces have become forbidden zones that suddenly exercise an unforeseen fascination. Confined to the city’s great outdoors, the mind reels with fantasies of what’s happening behind the closed doors of strangers’ homes. Walking down the street, the city’s walls feel even less porous, the buildings even more fortress-like. In the near-total absence of open public buildings, like libraries, the endless succession of private property appears even more callous and uncaring.

In the (hopefully) waning months of the pandemic, Cosmo Bjorkenheim will use this biweekly column to indulge my craving for the indoors by turning to that purveyor of vicarious experiences, the screen.