Black on black

What it appears to me is that they come to me. They're conceived in a space out of here, in the dark nebula of the dream, in a cathartic hidden emotion. Are revelations that I uncover from unknown depths. I explore, smell, I deceive myself, remember, wander, and I bring out to light this weird spawn between my hands. Gestures between sad and ironic, with that melancholic tonal range, and a crazy laugh. Landscapes that on the melting pot of my spirit, in the mental lagoon of my soul, emerge those sinister architectures, of past stories. forgotten. Structural revision of that complex made of cuts-draws-assemblies, on what it proposes to me the different dimensions decomposed, fragmented like the gaze. A scene impossible to be fully covered at once, that doesn't throw one and only sense, direct, uniform, or clear. Scenes that are read step by step, without beginning neither bonds, as in the dreams-lost. If this psycho-social time, desire and desperate that everything must be immediate, that the reading has to say what it should to say, and overall, that would please the total expectation of a viewer avid of answers, these images deny all of that. Far from statements, outside of social agreements, strange to dialogs, these dreams aren't a determined scheme, claim the amorphous and out of control, irreverent, confuse and mysterious that the unconscious could become. I'm passionate by the unconscious in which there isn't a plan or a definitive form of being. Chaotic anarchy synapsis, not a revolution, a mixture that fades away.