Library dream

It was warm in the library and I was dog-tired so I put my head down on one of the big books and closed my eyes. I fell asleep and had the following dream…

I’m in a large underground building – a bunker I suppose but not a concrete one, this place feels like an old house or antiques emporium made up out of many small, interconnected rooms. Some of these rooms contain racks of clothes and furniture and amazing objects but further in I find rooms full of books – the walls lined with cases and shelves. Books of all sorts – maybe every book I had ever wanted to read and so many I haven’t heard of but still need to have. I feel greedy for it all.

Bombs are falling outside. I hear shouting and sirens and buildings crashing down. It feels darker inside the rooms. I don’t know if it’s smoke or the lights failing. I’m groping around. The place is shaking and dust falling down into my hair. Books are all over the floor in great piles up against the bookcases and walls. I’m burrowing through trying to get to the door throwing books over my shoulder. Other objects are mixed in with the books and dust: gold coins, jewels and pieces of glass tile that have fallen from the mosaics on the walls. It’s all falling through the books as I push through, falling into a deep unknown place, like pennies dropping down a well. I can’t see it but I know it.

The ceiling has crashed in, dropping lumps of rubble on top of the books. I can no longer dig. The pieces of stone and concrete have melted over everything, binding it all together. The door is gone. I don’t want to go up into the light that is shining in through the blasted ceiling. I’m exposed and bereft of what it was I was seeking underground. The grotto is out of reach and I’m left in tears.

There are people peering down through the hole at me telling me to come out. I don’t know if they are helpful or hostile. They tell me the sewerage system has burst and is flooding all the bunkers. If I don’t get out I’ll drown. What about all the books and objects inside? It’s too late. They pull me out and start to seal up the hole. I’ve got a book in my hands, it is bound in cardboard – like a dvd sleeve but thicker, more like a pizza box. I have to get it back in the underground room but it’s too late.

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Red Death

I was in a gallery looking for some work I had group show. I must not have been particularly excited about what I’d put in there because I can’t  really remember what it was except that it was vague and black  and up on a wall. In the middle of the gallery placed around on the floor were about 3 or 4 red sculptures, they were red laminated geometric pieces like  furniture, nursery tables turned on their sides or very short office partitions. I spoke to the artist and part way through the conversation 3 or 4  girls aged around 10 years old came running through the gallery, they were wearing red dresses and had red ribbons in their hair. They ran around the sculptures, stopping, starting, positioning themselves in a fluctuating relation to the static forms. While watching the work play out the artist tells me the name of the piece, its  called The Red Death.

Hinged Painting

There is a piece of work in an old art school studio, propped against a pile of stuff, its a hinged painting, in the style of an alter piece. The tutor  said that the female undergraduate who made it lacked imagination but made up for it with precision but when I  looked closely I could see that the hinge wasn’t that good, when the picture closed there was a gap. Later I saw it hung up on the wall, quite high up. It had a gilt frame, it was displayed open, flat on the wall. I don’t recall the image, something like wallpaper, or no image at all, just bare board.