Monday, 2 July 2012

It's 10 pm

and after a hot, tiring, but exciting an d fun day of photography you step into the gallery. It is empty, except for the owner and his wife. You throw them out, you let them escape into the slightly cooler main road of the main town of this forgotten country. You take out your camera. You walk around the single room (not quite a white cube, but close enough). You look at the mechanical bird, stretching its wings. Repetitively, in slow motion, hypnotically. You look at the white cube floating in midair. Most of the time it is still, but then it starts spinning, slowly at first, but then it suddenly spirals out of control. Just like a hit airplane in a world war two movie. Just like your life. You look at the house, bizarrely growing from the wall at a strange angle (like a fungus?). The floating chair has almost escaped reality, but the shadows are real. Real as the best of nightmares. You glance at the photos and watch the video for a while. You observe the old record player that can do anything from 16 to 78 revolutions per minute. The turntable is spinning at a leisurely 16 rpm. All of these objects trigger something in the back of your mind. They have always been there. They reach as far back as your memory and there is no way you can define the moment you first stumbled across them.
And this is what dreams are made of.

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