In the vein of “I can only write stuff when I drink,” I apparently also now dream things more creative than I could ever come up with in the waking hours.
I had a dream…
I was a photographer, who commissioned a number of artists (about 8-10) to create beautiful, realistic papier mache neck-up heads of people – anyone, known or fiction or famous.
I brought them all together to an interesting spot, stark concrete ground with graffiti-ed brick walls circa East End London now, many artists blending into an overall portrait of colour on grit on poverty.
I sprayed their creations with dry-ice, and one by one had the artists throw their creations, beloved or not, into the air, to smash down upon the uneven, unforgiving pavement that haunts heels and drunks and haste, to shatter wildly and irreversibly.
For my part, I captured on film the crucial moment, when the creation turned from vital thing of imagined-reality, to pieces of basic material. But more than this, I captured the moment on the face of the creator… the grief, the relief, the horrid joy in spectacular destruction.
… dreams are weird…