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by Julian Brangold

The dream always begins in the same way. 

A borderless theatre expands in front of me, surrounded by untamed nature, invaded by it. In the dream, the stage is taken by a machine and a platform, mechanical looking devices that seem to have no set purpose. The machine is holding a docile body, engaging in an electric dance of meticulous observation, a curious animal. The platform is occupied by a gloomy but glamorous altar made of rubble, plants and a car that seems to have been forgotten.  

I approach the stage walking slowly in between the seats, weary of my step, slowed down by the grass and rock on the ground. The lights coming from the stage are almost blinding. 

The hands that belong to the helpless body oscillate back and forth. They are clean and bright, inundated by uncanny colors. My attention is also captured by the platform’s intricate structure. I wonder what these mechanisms conceal, what they were made for, if not just to look complex.

There’s always a rectangle laying on the ground. I observe it as I notice a rumble inside of me, a turmoil that makes it seem like the dream is about to end.

Suddenly, another space. As it tends to happen in dreams. A room. The body is now resting on a table. It’s not clear whether it’s presence is spontaneous, or if it formed there, welded to the space like a tumor. The room, a classical french apartment, seems to have been invaded with the outside as well. Borders in this dream seem to have a predilection for confusion.

The rectangle is there again. I call it a rectangle because it feels flat, two dimensional, like a glitch in my visual matrix. I turn to look at it once again, this time accepting a potential for creation and destruction, the notion that I’m not in control of whether I’m asleep or awake.  

The rectangle becomes a place 

where love and horror intertwine 

until I can’t tell them apart.

Rectangle is now on SuperRare