“We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection. Something closed must retain our memories, while leaving them their original value as images. Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.” ― Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space


But nobody told you
What nobody told you

A Nightmare

A Nightmare (2018)

Acrylic & print on cotton & cellulose

11 x 14 Inches

I was standing in the midst of green hills (much like the iconic wallpaper of Windows XP). My closest friends and family surrounded me in a perfect circle - they seemed different, as if they were void of themselves. One by one they slapped me, the ground beneath me eventually began to crumble. I fell downwards into a dilapidated room - rusty metal, holes in walls, and two feet of blood that flooded the area. A man walks out of a doorway with a white towel, dragging it along the floor - soaking up the blood until it reached his palms. He didn’t notice me, for a while - when he did, he looked straight into my eyes and I woke up.