I have always remembered my dreams with vivid detail since I was a child. A sort of deja vu was persistent growing up and happened with such frequency that there were times that I would be in the middle of a menial task and a sudden wave of recognition would hit me nausea.
In the past, I had limited control over where I went and the sequence of events that followed. For example: I often dream of a giant chasing a 12 year old me through the older part of the city of Katy, through rice fields and then into a rice dryer, finally terminating in the bedroom of my pre-divorced parents. I would wake up just as the giant peered into the window, suddenly open, right as he was reaching for me with an enormous meaty fist. I have had this dream so many times that by the time I was in my twenties I would no longer feel anxiety about running from the giant. The issue is that I could not alter the events that were taking place, it was like being on a roller coaster, the path was preplanned and had to be followed through in order to wake up. Sometimes I could deviate slightly and hover instead of run, or jump or hop, but I was always going through the same locations. (This will eventually become a painting.. It’s time to face my nightmares.)
The night that I dreamed about the “haus” was an entirely different experience. I approached what looked to be a very normal looking house through a pane of glass (This has been made into a painting already and is owned by a collector.) Inside the house there was something moving in every room. Inanimate objects that took on the semblance of people, but not in a cursed ‘Beauty and the Beast’ sort of way. They weren’t enchanted, they were simply on a different plane of existence. There were animals reading books, quaffing down information, processing it and reciting it back in different languages. The languages were physical as well as auditory, the bear spoke in the library (or den, both were appropriate) and his words became solid objects. He was making objects through binary language, physical 1’s and 0’s emptied from his mouth and became a thing: like a frog, a lamp, a clock, a tinker-toy. “In the foyer,” (which has been painted and is owned by a collector,) a chandelier of blue ballerinas danced in a circle near the ceiling around a gigantic suspended teardrop. Nothing held these things up, they simply were. The paintings inside the house were of the house, echoes of what I had already seen or were variations of the house in other dimensions. Each room was different, had different lighting, different noises, different inhabitants, different laws of gravity.
Inside the bedroom, which is the painting I will be working on while I’m at the Proletariat on August 12th, has a ceiling made of water, floating fish-women-spirits, pearls containing beta and babies and a floor that undulates along with floating forms that act like magnifiers, mirrors or portals to somewhere else in the house.