SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON

 

When we close our eyes our vision opens inwards and we can finally look into ourselves and see what is inside us, slipping into open spaces, narrow passageways and rooms, and onto paths we hardly imagined existed. Then when we enter the phase of sleep, the mind moves into the realm of mystery, so that even in the scientific, technological era we live in, very little is known about the oneiric world, about why we dream and what our dreams mean: shadows in the night or beacons to guide us through life. The people who appear in these works are people I've known for a while. Some are relatives or good friends that have been with me on many of the roads I've travelled. Despite this, it was not always easy to involve them and get them to tell me the story of a dream they'd had in their sleep. A dream they could still remember, one they had managed to retain although they had opened their eyes, wresting it from the oblivion of the dark. Their voices are recollections of dreams. And the photographs can, sometimes fortuitously, reach that fragile magic point where past and future meet, nod to one another, and mesh. They themselves can become the stuff of dreams, pure, free intuitive associations like the deepest part of ourselves.