VAINE MAGAZINE: ISSUE 05 DREAMS by vainemagazine

AMANDA ROTH / APRIL BRADFORD / CAITLAN DOCHERTY / ELSPETH WILSON / NICOLA DELLARD-LYLE / SUSANNE LANSMAN / ANDRA SMALENIC / BAUTI BOTTO / LAETITIA LESIEURE DESBRIÈRE BATISTA / ANDRA SMILEANSCHI / HANNA ROSE BERGMANN / HERLINDE DEMAEREL / FEDERICA COLLETTI / GEORGETTE SMITH / LUIS PATINO / LYDIA EVANS / FRENCH KATE / MOLLY HAYWARD / NORA GAZZAR / PATRYCJA FREY / PIA NICOTRA / THERESA KÜNIG / THI DOAN / VICTORIA SENDRA / KAT SHORE / SERGEY GUSEV / JUAN DEL’O / DESITUR / LAURA ROKLICER

Photography by Victoria Sendra

Dear readers, We’ve DONE IT (again)! And as always, it would not have been possible without our lovely contributors, whose work has once again been absolutely extraordinary! So THANK YOU so much for sticking with us and having the patience, despite all of the delays we’ve had in bringing this issue to life! At the beginning of January, when we first started to realise that we weren’t going to reach our initial deadline, I started having a recurring dream…

Both me and Dom were locked in an empty room, with only a laptop on a desk, and a bright light shining down on it. (Somehow I remember being both protagonist and observer, at the same time.) As I approached the desk, I lifted up the screen, an alarm suddenly started sounding, and a clock began counting down. That’s when I realised it was counting down the time we had left to finish the issue... Although we tried as hard as we could, typing manically at the keyboard, it was impossible to beat the clock. 30 minutes... 20 minutes... 10 minutes. Panic. We had no idea what was going to happen once the clock stopped counting down, so we waited in fear. Once it did reach zero, I found myself waking up in the corner of the room with a crowd of people pointing and laughing at me.

A while ago I started writing a dream diary, which is why I remember so perfectly what it felt like to have that recurring dream. The pressure, the stress, and the situations that affect us day after day, often build up, and end up getting hidden away in our subconscious. We all dream, although we may not always remember it when we wake up. Sometimes, the meanings are evident, but most of the time we dismiss our dreams as absurd - a world full of surrealism and nonsense, which has nothing to do with reality. But behind the fantastical universe, many of our deepest and most real fears are hidden. In this issue, we wanted to dive into the dreams of our contributors, to explore this ethereal universe, and challenge them to create from their subconscious. From lucid dreams, metaphysical explorations of being, to therapies which use dreams to analyse the psyche, we hope you find this issue as intriguing and thought-provoking as we have. And now I have shared my dream with you, it’s time for you to share yours with us, as we have dedicated a few pages of this issue for use as a dream diary, where you can submerge yourself in your own subconscious, try some analysis and be creative! Those of you brave enough are also welcome to post the ‘findings’ of your dream diary (whether it be diary entries, drawings or something else completely) online, using the hashtag #vainedreams and we’ll happily share them! As ever, we hope you enjoy this issue and… Dream on!

MEET T HE

CONT RIBUTORS JUAN DEL’O HANNA ROSE BERGMANN Artist / pg. 90 Hanna Rose is from Germany. Being creative, whether through art, fashion or music, is what she lives for. In addition to painting and drawing, she plays numerous instruments, sings, and writes her own songs. Hanna also loves to explore the world in a variety of ways. Be it with the help of long road trips, with a sailboat or with fantasy and dreams. “You should never underestimate the power of your own imagination, because it can make things happen that you never expected”. @hanna.rose.art

GEORGET T E SMIT H

Photographer / pg. 70-75 In his photographic practice, Juan Del’O engages in a dialogue with bodies in motion through performance, dance, sculpture and contortion. This bodily experiment allows a different relationship with reality, in a spirit of research and a yearning for sensation. He describes this as a “protean search conducted across various ﬁelds of expression, blurring the frontier between impulse, action, movement and language.” “Our physical experience is what connects us to the world, to the concrete, the abstract, to others and to sensations.” @juan_delo

T HERESA KUNIG Artist & Print-Maker / pg. 58

Georgette Smith is an illustrator and artist based in the UK. She uses wax pastels and oil pastels to create colourful scenes and settings as well as give a textured effect.

Theresa Künig was born and raised in South Tyrol, Italy and since 2008 has been living in Innsbruck, Austria, where she studied Psychology and currently works as a full-time artist. She makes mostly linoprints, combining ﬁgures and faces with decorative, symbolic, botanical or abstract elements. Besides printmaking, Theresa also does traditional and digital painting and drawing.

@georgettesmith

@theresakprints

Illustrator / pg. 10-11

NORA GAZZAR

Artist / pg. 9 Nora Gazzar was born in Cairo, Egypt, worked in London, moved to Dubai, and is currently hopping between London and Dubai. Despite having majored in political science at University, she doesn’t like identifying herself as a self-taught designer. She genuinely believes that art is accessible, free, and all around us. Her style is constantly developing; she enjoys observing her surroundings, injecting humour and playfulness in everyday situations, and above all, using bold colours along the way. @noragazzar

DESIT UR Artist / pg. 56-57 Desitur is a Spaniard exploring the exciting potential of collage to explain the world that is out of plain sight. @vanessa_pnart

APRIL BRADFORD

LUIS PAT INO FEDERICA COLLET T I

Poet / pg. 77 April Bradford (she/her) is a Meanjin-based Creative Writing graduate from the University of Queensland. She currently works as an intern editor at Hunter Publishing and aspires towards a career in publishing queer voices. Her writing has been featured in the Toronto zine Sapphic and Brisbane’s Blue Bottle Journal. April spends her spare time reading, writing poetry and showering her dog with kisses. @april_elisabet

LAURA ROKLICER Poet & Writer / pg. 60-67 Laura Roklicer is a UK based published poet, award-winning screenwriter, lyricist, and short story writer with bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Creative Film, Psychology, and Philosophy. Her writing has been described as “Waiting for Godot meets David Lynch” by editor Donna Scott, who included her short story ‘The Loophole’ in an upcoming sci-ﬁ anthology, while her academic work has been published on renowned philosopher, Lisa Bortolotti’s blog. She owns a start-up and draws inspiration from her time at the European Space Agency and recording for BBC, among others. @laura.roklicer

Artist / pg. 18-19

Digital Artist / pg. 86 Federica Colletti is a digital artist from Rome and graduate in Psychology. Her artworks are surreal collages created by free associations, born of a multitude of thoughts left free to circulate and poured into a unique representation. There are recurring themes (such as time, illusion, hope, subjectivity and change) but she likes the observer to be able to decide what they mean for themselves. She has participated in six exhibitions and won two contests, collaborated with a publishing house, art magazine and artists. Other projects are in the pipeline. “The road is long but hopefully bright.” @nonsuperareledosiconsigliate

CAIT LAN DOCHERT Y Poet / pg. 38 Caitlan lives in Illinois—she has a prairie view from her 4th ﬂoor apartment where she spends too much time binge-watching The Real Housewives franchise on Hulu. She’s got a knack for making great vodka or ginbased mixed drinks. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit, Sunday Mornings at the River Winter 2021 Anthology and Free Verse Revolution Issue IV. @cmnpoetry

Luis Patino is an artist based in Nampa, Idaho. One of the biggest inspirations behind his work is plants. His current art obsession is experimenting with colour and playing with space. His last project involved illustrating a book called Roqui’s Pandero Beat by his friend Delia G Ruiz. Outside of his artwork he enjoys travelling and hiking. @nino_planta

BAUT I BOT TO

Visual Artist / pg. 32-37 Bautista (He/Him) is a movingimage artist who dissects the intersectionality between his queerness, latinx transcultural migranthood, and online coming of age. Residing within this crowded junction, a signature over-saturation entangles each of his projects. He was born in Venezuela to Argentinian parents, but has since lived in Austria, Italy, the US, and now London. This collision of cultures and languages is what led him to the digital, exploring identity as something that can exist beyond a geography or “home base”. He credits digital culture for his ‘coming of age’, too, as gay online spaces are where he learnt of his queer identity. From feature ﬁlms to memes, his work bulldozes along the ﬁne line between a colorful playfulness and gruesome seriousness culminating into a fever dream of sorts. @boluuuuudo

MOLLY HAYWARD Illustrator / pg. 76 Molly Hayward is an illustrator and Geography student working and living in Manchester. She creates mainly surrealist, illustrative pieces with a few larger oil paintings thrown in. She loves making work based on texts, and to create little narratives implied in the art. Going forwards she would love to create some sort of prolonged illustrative piece, such as a story or magazine. She loves whimsical, joyful art, but also thinks art should be used to call attention to issues otherwise too hard to deal with face-to-face.

@mollyhayward.art

LAET IT IA LESIEURE DESBRIERE BAT ISTA Writer & Poet / pg. 42-55 Léti is a French and Dominican poet and writer currently based in London. After degrees in Human Rights and English, and experience in diplomacy and teaching, Léti is completing a Creative Writing course, while discovering as much as possible about the world of books. When not working, Léti cooks, sings, collages, embroiders and paints. @leti_poet

HERLINDE DEMAEREL

AMANDA ROT H

Poet / pg. 58-59 Illustrator & Designer / pg. 16 / pg. 41 / pg. 61 Herlinde is a Belgian illustrator and designer. She draws inspiration from her daily life, which consists of attempting vegetarian cooking, balconygardening, amateur craft beer tasting, sipping from espressos diluted with too much water according to Italian standards, ﬂip-ﬂop hiking and living on a Greek island. Her work balances between what may and what may not be. It pitches between subtle expressions and sometimes a little bit of fun. Herlinde uses a wide variety of techniques, often combining a manual and digital process. @herlinde.demaerel

ELSPET H WILSON Writer / pg. 89 Elspeth Wilson is a writer and poet who is interested in exploring the limitations and possibilities of the body through writing. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and commended in Young Poets’ Network challenges, and her prose has been shortlisted for Canongate’s Nan Shepherd prize and Penguin’s Write Now Editorial programme. Elspeth is currently working on her debut collection and also regularly facilitates accessible creative workshops. When she isn’t writing or reading, she can usually be found near the sea or spending time with her elderly dog. @elspethwrites

Amanda Roth (she/her) is an emerging poet whose work explores motherhood, ancestry, nature, and belonging. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Wild Roof Journal, Sunday Mornings at the River, and Rag Mag Revival. Her full-length poetry collection, A Mother’s Hunger, was released in 2021. After nearly two decades in the Paciﬁc Northwest, she now lives in Central Texas with her husband and two sons. @amandarothpoetry

ANDRA SMALENIC Illustrator / pg. 39 / pg. 68 Andra Smalenic is an illustrator based in Cornwall – her work is heavily inspired by the bizarre and surreal, the intersection between consciousness and unconsciousness. Her illustrations are often autobiographical and represent an extension of her psyche. She enjoys incorporating mythology, folklore, magic and the mundane in her creative process. Her other hobby is reading, which unintentionally fuels back into her visual work. @smalobster

ANDRA SMILEANSCHI

SUSANNE LANSMAN Poet / pg. 87

Artist & Poet / pg. 78 Andra Smileanschi is a 22-year-old Romanian artist currently residing in Oxford. Her art speaks about her own experiences as a person that never stays in the same space for too long. She paints, draws, does digital art and writes poems. In her visual art she enjoys making unexpected colour combinations and in poetry focuses on snippets of life seen through the lens of emotions and persistent nostalgia. @a.smileanshi.art

Susanne Lansman is a practice based PhD student at Royal Holloway researching how trauma is enacted in poetry and is a trained adult psychoanalyst working in private practice in London. Her poetry has appeared in The Rialto, The Interpreters House, The Bedford Square Review and is forthcoming in Poetry Salzburg Review. Her work was long-listed for the Juritz Prize in 2019 and her pamphlet was long-listed for the 2018/2019 Rialto Pamphlet Competition. She is currently working on a full length series of poetry exploring the experience and digestion of trans-generational trauma. Her writing process also involves creating mixed media paintings that grapple with loss, guilt and reparation. @susylansman

NICOLA DELLARDLYLE Poet / pg. 40 Nicola writes poetry and prose on the wilds of motherhood and conscious living. Her honest words shed light on her and her family’s experiences, reﬂect the challenges she faces and often open up to impactful realisations. Nicola lives in Bristol, UK where she and her family enjoy leaning into the nature and its cycles. @threadpressed

SERGEY GUSEV

Writer / pg. 22-31 Born in a provincial town in Russia in 1999, Sergey Gusev is currently studying at the Gorky Institute of World Literature in Moscow and trying to make it as a writer.

KAT SHORE Writer / pg. 79-85 Kat is a 35-year-old London based creative arts psychotherapist and aspiring writer. She has worked as a therapist since 2017, been in therapy since 2014, and been writing for therapy since the nineties. Kat’s interests include health and wellbeing, music, theatre, politics, and feminism. Kat has been sharing her writing since 2021.She has had several features published on websites and in print magazines and is working on a children’s novel. You can ﬁnd her sharing her writing and attempts at drumming on Instagram. @katshore22

FRENCH KAT E

Illustrator / pg. 82-83 Based in the suburbs of Paris, French Kate is a Franco-British illustrator. Constantly inspired by people, dance and music, she enjoys mixing traditional and digital tools to create ﬁgurative art pieces. She likes to think her more intricate projects will one day contribute to changing the world for the better and inspire others. That is why she aspires to be an editorial illustrator sometime in the future. However, because of her curious personality, she has also grown to enjoy photography, sculpture and stained glass.

@frenchkate.art @kafkaonwheelz

PAT RYCJA FREY

LYDIA EVANS

Illustrator / pg. 88

PIA NICOT RA

Artist / pg. 22-31 Born in 1986 in Argentina, Pia Nicotra lives and works in Florence, Italy. She studied fashion design at Universidad Empresarial Siglo21 (Argentina), graduating in 2011 with a ﬁnal project about wearable sculptures. She also worked in the fashion industry in Argentina and in Italy for 12 years. In 2018 she started her studies in visual arts at Accademia d’Arte Ad’A (Florence), completing her education with a Master’s course (2019/2020). Connecting with her inner consciousness is what drives her to create. Her artistic practice is an expression of a spiritual journey, and reﬂects her interests in Tarot, Kabbalah, meditation, metaphysics and cosmological theories. @pia.nicotra

Patrycja Frey is a freelance illustrator from Berlin, Germany. For her ﬁne art prints, she uses freehand sketches that she processes digitally. With her black and white illustrations she creates artprints that indicate major socio-political problems: the ruthless treatment of nature and the still unsatisfactory situation of women. Therefore, she depicts strong women who live out suppressed and unspoken feelings. They convey a healing message and encourage people to overcome their fears.

@rosafrey_art

Tarot Reader & Creative / pg. 92-93 Lydia Evans is a Welsh Witch, Tarot Reader and Creative. They view Tarot as a form of poetry that weaves personal narratives towards insight and clarity. Their holistic approach lifts the subconscious to the fore, peeling back the layers of the self. Their inspiration comes from dreams, astral visions and folklore. Art is an extension of Lydia’s magical practice, aiding them on their own healing journey. @thepinupnymph

VICTORIA SENDRA

T HI DOAN Illustrator / pg. 15

Photographer / pg. 2 / pg. 20-21 / pg. 81 Vicoria Sendra is a photographer born in Alicante. It was while studying Journalism that she ﬁrst discovered her passion for photography and visual art. On ﬁnishing her degree she took on a Masters in Photography at the UPV Valencia, which helped her solidify her technical and artistic knowledge. She currently works as a fashion and product photographer in Alicante. @victoriasendrafoto

Thi has long been inspired by travel and multiple encounters. Today, she conveys these positive emotions and enriching experiences through colorful, soft and naive drawings. She always makes it her main focus to captivate others by playing on subtle features belonging to the elements of her drawings. Her art is usually detailed, colourful and very lively. Beyond their fun and naïve looks, all of her works are intended to be organized around the main subject, for the public to see it with new eyes. @coeursingulier

“So near yet so far” by Nora Gazzar

“Peach Dreams” by Georgette Smith

‘Lucid’ by Sergey Gusev pg. 22-31 ‘Tally Marks’ by Laura Roklicer pg. 60-67 ‘Girl Next Door’ by Bauti Botto pg. 32-37 ‘Passing Through’ by Juan Del’O pg. 70-75

‘threshold unknown’ by Caitlan Docherty pg. 38 ‘Perspective’ by Nicola Dellard-Lyle pg. 40 ‘I woke with these words on my lips’ and ‘You asked how I made that impossible decision’ by Amanda Roth pg. 58-59 ‘Untitled’ by Andra Smileanschi pg. 69 ‘Water Bed’ by April Bradford p.77 ‘Dreaming about every man while asleep is different to dreaming about every man while awake’ by Susanne Lansman pg. 87 ‘I was watching my telescope when/Not only women get pregnant’ by Elspeth Wilson pg. 89

‘It’s Not Just a Bit of Tinsel and an Old Doll’ by Laetitia Lesieure Desbriere Batista pg. 42-55 ‘Symbols and Prophecies: The Search for Meaning in Dreams’ by Kat Shore pg.78-85

‘Peach Dreams’ by Georgette Smith pg. 10 ‘Dreaming’ by Thi Doan pg. 15 ‘Neon Fever Dream’ by Herlinde Demaerel pg. 16 ‘A Dream’ by Luis Patino pg. 18 ‘Dreams’ (photo series) by Victoria Sendra pg. 2, 20-21, 81 ‘Inner Journey II, III, V’ by Pia Nicotra pg. 22-31 ‘Wunderkammer’ by Andra Smalenic pg. 37 ‘Sketch for Summer’ by Herlinde Demaerel pg. 39-40 ‘Entering the realm of dream’ by Desitur pg. 56-57 ‘Dreams’ by Theresa Künig pg. 58 ‘Back to Black’ by Herlinde Demaerel pg. 61 ‘Fall’ by Andra Smalenic pg. 68 ‘Dreaming of Fish/Fish Night’ by Molly Hayward pg. 76 ‘Vis’ by Andra Smileanschi pg. 77 ‘Dream’ by French Kate pg. 82-83 ‘The dawn melts the dream’’ by Federica Colletti pg. 86 ‘Parallel Universe Party’ by Patrycja Frey pg. 88 ‘Daydream’ by Hanna Rose Bergmann pg. 90 ‘Epoch Laparoscopy’ by Lydia Evans pg. 92-93

Where and when did the dream take place? .................................. ............................................................................................................................ Who was present in your dream? ....................................................... ............................................................................................................................ What was your role in the dream? (choose 1 option) MAIN CHARACTER

SECONDARY

STORYTELLER

WhAT HAPPENED IN THE DREAM? .............................................................. .............................................................................................................................. .............................................................................................................................. HAVE YOU HAD THIS DREAM BEFORE? if so, was there anything different since last time you had this dream? ................................ .............................................................................................................................. .............................................................................................................................. .............................................................................................................................. is there anything happening in your life that may have influenced the dream? ............................................................................... .............................................................................................................................. What was the genre of your dream? nightmare surrealist

fantastic

symbolic

ordinary

erotic

other type of dream (lucid dream, healing dream, recurring dream, epic dream, signal dream...)

did the dream teach you anything? ............................................ ...................................................................................................................... ...................................................................................................................... ...................................................................................................................... ................................................................................................................... how would you describe the feeling when you woke up? how do you feel the day after the dream? .............................. ..................................................................................................................... ..................................................................................................................... ..................................................................................................................... ..................................................................................................................... ...............

how could the dream continue as a story? .. ........................................................................................... ........................................................................................... ........................................................................................... ........................................................................................... ........................................................................................... ........................................................................................... ........................................................................................... .........................................................................................

Dreams and creativity are connected. Throughout history, artists have tapped into the strange visions of dreams to inspire and create art.

“Dreaming” by Thi Doan

“Neon Fever Dream” by Herlinde Demaerel

“A Dream” by Luis Patino

Top 5 common dreams & their meaning

1. Teeth falling out Teeth falling out are usually taken to represent either loss or grief, anxiety about appearance, stress, loss of power or control, ageing, breakdown in communication or a lack of confidence

2. Being Chased This dream is often a sign of stress and avoidance of problems in waking life. Think about what you’re being chased by in the dream - what problem could this represent in your waking life?

3. Being naked in a dream Being naked at work or in public means that you are struggling to find yourself, feeling exposed or wrongly accused. This dream is apparently common among those who have recently accepted a promotion or started a new job.

4. Unprepared for an exam This dream is unsurprisingly common among young people, and also among perfectionists. It is often taken to indicate stress in school or a job, lack of confidence, or inability to advance to the next stage in life.

5. Being Late Being late is often taken to represent worry or anxiety about taking a different direction in life, or not feeling totally confident in making a change. This might be your unconscious telling you that it's not too late for you to do the things you want to do.

Photography by Victoria Sendra

LUCID SERGEY GUSEV

“It’s basically LSD for dreaming. Take one, do as I instructed, and your dream is lucid. But don’t get too deep into this. Once you get addicted, there’s no way back. Your psyche will slowly decompose until there’s nothing left of it. You’ll just close your eyes and never wake up. There’s enough pills for a year there. You sure you need it all?” he said.

“Inner Journey V” by Pia Nicotra Oil on canvas, 160x120 cm (2020)

“Yes.” I replied. “I need it all.” “Take the pill. Lie down in your bed. Close your eyes. Empty your mind of any thoughts. Focus on your breath – in, out. In. Out. Keep your mind clear as you breathe. Feel the edge of the dream approach you – out of nowhere you have random thoughts, places, people, words in your mind. There’s no relation between any of it, no association, no cause and effect – that’s how you know you’re about to dream. It feels a lot like surﬁng. You need to stay on the edge of sleep and awake. Tighten your body, feel the grip of muscles on your bones. Out of the emptiness of your mind discover your conscious self and get an unbreakable grip on it. Release your muscles and relax. You’re asleep, and yet you understand it. You’re dreaming, and your dream is lucid.”

“It’s an art no one else can ever experience. Just don’t let it kill you. I’ve seen people lose their jobs and families over this. No sleeping pills – they make your mind numb. No other drugs. Some alcohol may help, but not too much. And I can’t stress this enough: no more than twice a week. If you feel that you can’t wait for your next dream – drop the thing and don’t come back until you forget about it. Understood?” he said. “Yeah, I get it. Don’t worry.” I replied. Once I’m in a dream, I create pastures of grass, green as her eyes and ﬁelds of rye golden as her hair, and thick clouds move lazily along the crystal blue sky, like milk foam on an ocean. I see Lucy, her skin full of color and her hair still in place, like she used to be. Like she was before chemo. We walk and chat, and she tells me about movies she watched that never really existed. In the distance I see Caligula riding a dinosaur and erase him from the picture. I take Lucy to a restaurant and order her favorite shrimp salad. I notice the quietness of the place and see Steve Jobs at the next table. I come up with an orchestra and some music. I take Lucy for a dance and see that one of the musicians is my cousin. Lucy hugs me and I feel her perfume. I did not make it up, I actually felt it in my sleep. I jumped up in my bed and reached my hands out, but I was alone in my room. The perfume was gone. Lucy was gone. For months. There was no way to go back to that dream after an adrenaline rush, and no way to make another dream lucid. The alarm said “04:08”. Helplessness gripped me, and in my desperation I couldn’t hold back my tears. “Another thing. No bringing back the dead, okay? I mean, losing someone is tough, but it’s a gateway to addiction. Life is life, you gotta cope with things. You can’t use dreams as a safe haven for loss. I knew a guy who went insane after losing his son, the man got too lucid for his own sake. I heard his wife had to lock him up in a psych ward. I mean, I only teach this stuff. It’s up to you what you do with it, but I feel responsible anyway. I don’t want anybody else going insane because of me, so no resurrections, okay?” he said. “I got this. Don’t worry about me.” I said. “I’m just curious” I never told him I was lucid dreaming every night. He was right. Once you get into it, it’s impossible to stop. Dreams feel like a godlike power: out of an empty sleepy mind you create a whole world just for yourself and just for one night, just to collapse it when you wake up and just to create another world the next day. I wouldn’t be surprised if our whole universe turned out to be an elaborate fantasy of God daydreaming.

Every night me and Lucy chatted, walked on clouds, sat at cafes, visited scenes from our favorite movies, talked to dead poets, made love or went skydiving through galaxies. Every morning I would wake up in my filthy apartment alone and shattered. The more I dreamed, the more I needed to dream to feel something. Reality seemed too detached for me to care. I spent my days thinking of new dream ideas: we could dance on a falling snowflake or bathe in a volcano, or perhaps ask Van Gogh to make a portrait of Lucy. The next night I brought her to ‘20s Paris and we walked the streets in the night as the Eiffel Tower shone through the city. Lucy has never been to Paris and loved every part of the city as I recreated it in the dream. Then out of nowhere appeared the hospital. The one I basically lived in while she was there. The window on the second floor magnetized my gaze – it was her ward. I felt a surge of nervous shock stun my body. I gasped for air, fell through the asphalt and woke up in sweat.

“Inner Journey II” by Pia Nicotra Oil on canvas, 80x80 cm (2020)

I called him. “I can’t control the dream. Something happened, something has taken my power away from me.” “How many days have you dreamed this week? What did you dream?” “Ten days in a row. I dreamed of my wife.” “Man, I told you how it worked. You chose to do it the other way. It’s up to you now.” “Can’t you help me?” “The only way is to stop dreaming for a month or two. At least.” “I can’t.” “Then I can’t help you.” After a whole day of thinking I came up with an idea: a hospital can appear in a city, but it cannot appear where it’s impossible. I took Lucy on a trip among the stars. She said: “I wonder what the other side of the moon is like.” We went to the moon. Both sides looked perfectly alike. She said: “Look, a door.” I approached the door and slowly opened it. Before me was a long hall of the hospital’s second ﬂoor. Shrieks of pain and cries of agony tortured the air. Lucy’s chamber. The painkillers couldn’t help with that kind of pain. I remember that night moment by moment: she clenched her jaws so hard two of her teeth fractured.

I woke up just as shocked as I was the day before. Something had changed. There was no running away from it, and there was nowhere else to run to. I’d lost touch with reality long ago, and I was losing the only thing I had left. The lucidity of my dreams backﬁred against me. There was no way to hide from what I knew, no bringing her back, no hope for us to be together again. As beautiful as my dreams are, they were just a make-believe, and in dreams I would make what I wanted to believe the most. In my dreams Lucy gained consciousness and self-awareness. I noticed it then, because it had never happened before. She used to be just a passenger in the journeys I mapped out. When I spoke to her before, she would only say the words I expected her to say. We never really talked as two people talk. Every dream since then ended in a hospital, and each one made me spend more and more time in it, listening to her cries and looking at her pale thin body, just like I did in reality some months before. And yet I tried to dream for the last time, and for our last time together I wanted to be honest. I created the very hospital that fueled my nightmares. Every corner of it in great detail that would never escape my memory. I took the stairs to the second ﬂoor, as I used to do back then, and entered Lucy’s chamber. She was there, on the bed, with tubes over her body and screens above her. Lucy looked exactly like she did in her last days: her lovely golden hair was gone, her green eyes were blank, and her skin unnaturally pale. As I stepped in, Lucy half-rose from her bed and said:

29 “You’re ﬁnally here.” “I’m here with you. It’s alright.” “No, you’re not. I’m not here. Never have been.” “I know. I just want to stay with you. Just one more dream.” “I need you to give me a promise.” “Anything.” “Let this be our last dream together.” “I…Maybe I could…” “Promise me.” “I promise.” “Thank you.” She smiled. “I love you.” “I love you too. Always. Farewell.”

“Inner Journey III” by Pia Nicotra Oil on canvas, 70x50 cm (2020)

Waking up was quick but tranquil, as if I just lay with my eyes closed. Morning sun rayed the room golden. I stood up from my bed and looked outside. Life went on as if nothing had ever happened to anyone, and reality seemed dominant and steady as the sky above. No more skydiving through the galaxies. No more dancing on snowﬂakes. All this time I worshiped a delusion with a foolish blind eagerness, betraying reality. Betraying her memory. The cemetery was empty, save for a few lone grievers. Her grave used to make me shiver, but I felt no sickness, no pain and no desperation. Lucy was relieved of all her pain, and now it was my turn to relieve myself of mine. She would be disgusted at me if she knew I had forsaken my life for dreams of her. She would be proud to know that I managed to move on and do my best. I think I see it now. Each of us lives their own reality and dreams their own dreams, and the important thing is not to confuse one with the other. He knocked on the door, and I let him in. “Wow, you really cleaned the place up.” he said. “The last time I was here it was like a prison cell in a dungeon.” “Take them.” I gave him the remaining lucid pills. “Don’t need the stuff anymore?” “No.” “I don’t give refunds, you know.” “I didn’t ask for one. Just take it.” “New life, huh? New day, new me?” “We’re done here.” He left. It was a cool evening after a long day of housework, and I was tired. I noticed how comfortable my bed was. I closed my eyes and thought of all that had happened. Surprised at the realization, I smiled to myself. For the ﬁrst time in almost half a year I actually looked forward to waking up.

BAUTI BOTTO

Director of Photography Bautista Botto Barilli @boluuuuudo Styling Molly Wearn @mollywearn & Eden Barrell-Kane @ edenedeneeden Production & Direction assistant Cecilia Keith @ cherryykeith & Alisha @_lishaw_ Model Bambi Dyboski @bumbleino

threshold unknown CAITLAN DOCHERTY i was baring my thighs and this was unlike me. the moon hung low in the sky at a young hour. jealous dark had emptied its mouth of sterling asterisks. this skin is not an armor, but a thin mirror blemished by the strange milk haunting every odd numbered fridge. my certain sour calls the blind cat home. it was preliminary november and i bristled with the evidence of faithlessness, ingratitude. my tongue hot with questions, i stood nameless on the balcony. was everyone swallowing the same absence of starlight?

“Wunderkammer” by Andra Smalenic

Perspective NICOLA DELLARD-LYLE Through shattered light and twigs of lashes I see us laid bare here And I marvel at the landscapes. Of me Of him Of me before him The way each lined pathway and tilting mound Lie differently now Terrain once merged by a beating stream, No longer. Into daybreak I consider Where that time has gone? What do I do But steer my eyes towards tiny eyelids? I lay mesmerised by the moon Blinking at the dawn Making milk Making memories Attempting to be slow To notice each moment as its very own. I marvel at you, mothers of others The mothers of my past, my present, his future… Wandering upon wonderings Waiting upon waiting Until, eyelids draw back And I see all I truly do As his windows open.

“Sketch for Summer” by Herlinde Demaerel

Stephen Wright on his

Photography by Laetitia Lesieure Desbrière Batista

“IT’S NOT JUST A BIT OF TINSEL AND AN OLD DOLL” LAETITIA LESIEURE DESBRIÈRE BATISTA

Picture yourself outside of time, at the crossroads of humour and mourning, intimacy and society, memory and legacy, reason and madness, toil and freedom, where various planes of existence come together. In the dreamland of forgotten knick-knacks and twisted forms, a House for both the living and the dead. Now imagine it not misty and grey, but in bright technicolor. I had seen the photographs and the reports, but they could not prepare me for what I would find when entering the ‘House of Dreams’ for the first time, on a grey February afternoon in South East London.

Stephen, in a yellow hat and green scarf, welcomes me with a cup of tea while I take it all in - the walls covered in words; the maze of narrow corridors and mosaic arches, the very many dolls. Finally, we sit down in what used to be his studio and is now his shop, overlooking the garden, as he puts on some music. It’s an ambient score of sounds, sometimes odd, sometimes soothing, that composer Derek Collie made especially for the House after a visit. All around us the walls are white, but everywhere are mosaics, ceramics, paintings and “memory boards” (panels of varying sizes displaying fragments of diaries).

I wonder how Stephen, who studied fine art textiles at University, went from working in fashion to creating this unique environment: “I never thought all those years ago, when I was studying, that I would ever be doing anything like this,” he began. But it soon becomes clear that he has lived many lives. He explains to me how over decades, he made patterns for a knitting company, worked for a decoration magazine, then set up a stationery business in this very house. Then, after selling the business, the House of Dreams project was born, almost by accident.

***

It all started while watching television one evening in 1998. Along with his partner Donald, Stephen stumbled upon a TV programme presented by Jarvis Cocker on Outsider art - art by

self-taught, untrained artists. They found it fascinating. Soon, they travelled to France to meet some of these artists and see their extraordinary places, which include Facteur Cheval’s Palais Idéal, Alain Bourbonnais’s La Fabuloserie, and Danielle Jacqui’s Maison De Celle Qui Peint. They were so inspired by these ‘environments’ (often created in the artists’ own homes and gardens) that the pair started their first mosaic on the floor of the house when they came back. And that was that. They set about working on the House, which Stephen had bought out of the money from selling the business, as a joint project. Stephen had never done anything like it before. He was learning as he went.

However, after unexpectedly losing Donald in 2004, and then his parents closely after, he admits there was a point when he almost gave up on the House completely. He went away to Mexico for a while, wondering what he was going to do. After coming back to London, he met his current partner Michael, who now works as front of house on open days at the museum. Michael encouraged him. “He said to me: ‘You’re doing something really important here.’” More than that, it was time, Stephen felt. “I was ready to pick up the pieces, for me.”

***

Although he acknowledges, “I’m not an Outsider artist. I can’t be. I went to university for a long time,” Stephen still

feels very connected to France and to Outsider artists - “people who are untrained, who work instinctively.” Thinking about his academic and artistic path, he concludes: “I’ve probably been spending 30 years trying to forget everything I was taught.” He explains his work is still very much about “trying to go back to child” and “learning to let go.” Many of the artists who inspired him have become friends over the years. Together they form their own artistic community and support system, outside of the mainstream art world, something that Stephen does not have in England. He still travels regularly to France to see them and collect objects for his sculptures and walls.

“I need to go out and hunt for things,” he explains. In markets across Europe, each object speaks to him, “It says something to me that asks me to take it home.” He looks for objects that are old, often broken, maimed, blind or disabled in some way - always imperfect. He doesn’t try to hide those imperfections. He likes to keep them as they were when he found them. “I don’t want to sanitise them. I don’t want to clean them. I want them as they are.” It’s important for him to preserve “the history of the person who’s had them before on them, the DNA, the smells, the marks, the dust.”

I feel like I need to look after them. I need to be, you know, daddy and mommy, because nobody else wants them, but I do. This echoes something he said in another interview I’d read, when he told the journalist his work was like giving birth: “The creatures that emerge - I feel like I’m actually giving birth to them, with my legs open, and then the object comes out of me,” he confirms.

Yet Stephen also refers to the House itself as a “womb” or “somewhere to hide in”, from the outside world which is “not that nice sometimes, especially at the moment.” It is an intimate space and one where he can be honest - some of the large boards in the hallway were written just half an hour after Donald died in hospital. “I came back, and I needed to write the evening, how it had felt, what we’ve been through together. The experience of that. It just says it as it is, really.” It was a way of healing from this loss. Still, he lets people in. He’s been receiving visitors for years and enjoys observing their reactions. Many have an idea of what they’re walking into, but occasionally some don’t.

“THEY THINK IT’S JUST A BIT OF KITSCH OR SOMETHING. WELL, THAT’S A SMALL ELEMENT OF IT, BUT IT’S A LOT MORE THAN THAT. AND ONCE THEY START TO READ IT, IT SLAPS THEM ROUND THE FACE.”

The House is more than it appears, “It’s playful, as am I. It’s not just a bit of tinsel and an old doll.” And, like Stephen, it has evolved over time, “It still continues to reflect life, but it’s not about bereavement anymore.”

***

So what is it about? After decades of designing and making things destined for single use (“a piece of paper around a book or present”), this House is and has been from the start “about legacy,” about making “something that was going to last.” He feels it’s become more about

him as time has gone on, exploring himself as an artist. But more than that, he says, “it’s about educating people about how to deal with things in life really, I think. And to show people that you can have a life on your own terms. You don’t have to fit in a box. You can do things in your own way.” He adds, “In a time that’s very boring in lots of ways, very dull, very same-y…I think it’s important to offer something else.” Over two decades after he started the

project with Donald, work on the House still continues today. They called it the House of Dreams from the start (“with a bottle of wine sitting in front of the fire one evening”) because “it’s about, you know, the dreams of life, the dreams of aspiration.” All those years later, the House continues to be “a sort of a dreamlike journey.” “It feels like a dream. But then life is a dream, isn’t it? If I hadn’t seen the Jarvis Cocker programme in 1998, I wouldn’t be doing the House of Dreams at all. It just so happened that I had sold the

business and I had a gap.”

***

During the pandemic, he had to close for nine months and missed the energy of people walking around the House. But he kept working in the meantime. When it reopened in May 2021, he had adorned another hallway and painted messages on tiles. Most of them are about Covid itself (which he describes as a “nightmare”), about his own fears of the disease and of the unknown, “waking up in the night feeling horrified.”

Some of these tiles are in the new hallway and others will go up in the new building he has planned at the back of the garden. He also wants to mosaic the façade of the House and is considering bringing someone in to help him with that - although it’s hard “finding someone suitably sort of wacky, to be able to understand what I’m saying” since, he says, “I don’t want it watered down. I don’t want things diluted or made commercial.” Today he still wakes up at five and works twelvehour days. “In my studio, I don’t have a chair. I don’t sit down. I work on my feet all day.” He only sits down when working on the floors or painting his tiles. “I can’t make work sitting on my bum. I don’t want to. It’s not what I do.” It is an exhausting project and has affected him physically (“you know, my hip, my knee”), and we wonder out loud how Outsider artist Facteur Cheval managed to work on the Palais Idéal, and then on his tomb, until he was 86 years old: “He can’t have ever slept. I just can’t believe it. I mean, I work hard, but I couldn’t do that much. I just couldn’t.” But he is happy working, both on the House and other projects (which include paintings, ceramics, costumes and performances).

“I love being exhausted from hard work,” even when it doesn’t go well, he tells me. “Sometimes you have days when it’s just amazing. You know, you just keep on producing really interesting things. And then you have days when it’s not like that.” On those days, he does wonder to himself why he’s even doing this. But he keeps going, “People want to know the secret. Well, there isn’t. Just keep going. It’s too easy to give up.” After that, Stephen shows me around the garden - his pandemic sculptures, the place where a new building is going to be. He touches his work the way you would touch something that’s delicate because it’s alive. And I see someone who wouldn’t stay in his lane, who wanted to do everything, and did it too, connected to Mexico, India, France, in touch with spirits, and in love with the physicality of work and objects, most himself at the crossroads too. Photographs courtesy of Stephen Wright (except the first one) You can buy artwork and tickets to visit the House of Dreams on Stephen’s website: http://www.stephenwrightartist.com/

“Entering the realm of Dream” by Desitur

I Woke With These Words on My Lips AMANDA ROTH

When I scoop bees from the dark of my mouth, brush the swarm of them into the glass halls of your heart, remember that the world opened for me. See how the bell jars tremble? I only want to fill you with honey.

“Dreams” by Theresa Künig Linoprint, Oil based relief ink on Kitakata paper 43x26cm (2021)

You Asked How I Made That Impossible Decision AMANDA ROTH

What is there to say?

I stepped into an empty elevator, and by the time I sank two floors down, there was only one set of doors to walk through. It is like that dream I had of a woman crawling out of her grave - a catacomb of bones, damp with decay.

There was nothing there for her anymore.

She stretched forgotten fingers, found the rift in the stone wall, and opened a new door. She stumbled into Death’s antechamber and again opened her hands to the stones. In this way, she went on and on through doors and rooms that became warmer, darkness fading to gray, then blue. And even when she found a door that opened to worn marble floors and a comforting flame, she did not stop. Until, there: the doubled, heavy doors that only opened inward. When she touched them, two floors down, there was only one way forward.

Tally Marks LAURA ROKLICER

The white marbles – the creators of this boundless beach, which overlooked the world of isolation, wonder, and timeless thought, ever so gently touched his barefoot existence. Samuel had no age in his mind, no companion outside it, and no end to contemplate; all he had was the Sun that would restlessly rise each time to mark another breath he took in, and the stars that took his breath away, every time just before he’d shut the spark in his eyes to wander off into another world, a world so merciful on his repetitive being, a world so playful with his sanity. Yet, somehow, so mysteriously uniform, for the eyes that have never seen a colour cannot dream it either. But Samuel knew no other, so he thanked the Moon for bringing him out of the Sun, consistent in his prayers to continue this existence, knowing not what lies beyond it, if anything, yet still believing this one had to go on. Why? He was never too sure. Today, it was the childish touch of warmth on his skin. Yesterday, it was the sound of that same shell he’d press against his ear each afternoon, and tomorrow it would be the ticklish feeling of the sand against his dry lips. And so the reasons would – like good little soldiers with no purpose but the one that constitutes them – line up in order, from one day onto another, until his kind memory would forget them and allow them to start the loop again. Samuel marked another line in the sand under the palm tree where he rested his head, and he drifted off into yet another – surprisingly, though comfortably – uniform world. He prayed he’d wake up again, though he was still not too sure why, or who he would be in the morning. As he never does, in the morning. Letting the salty water drip out of his eyelids, as he does every night under the empty sky, he knew he had to empty his thoughts in order to harvest them again tomorrow.

“Back to Black” by Herlinde Demaerel

And so the Sun rose again, inviting him to yet another dance around the Earth’s axis, for another denial of suffering of the lack of ideas of this deserted ground, and for another smile – as he knew not why, but he knew even less so why not. Running from the beginning through to the end, catching his tail in the purified air that held the idea of nothingness – the idea of possibilities, Samuel once again tried to discover the centre of this island that knows no other. And again, his weary feet gave up before he’d found an answer, heavy on his knees, but light – so light – on the burden of his continuous existence. For what would he do with his time, swallowed by the white sand, if he had found an answer that lay beneath it? The fish bit today. He knew that they would, as it was that time of day; burning his reasons, intentions, and a forceful anticipation, the Sun positioned herself ninety degrees above the third palm tree from the left. That’s, at least, how he measured his needs, and how he justified his restless journey, always anew. Left from what, though, he never asked himself. In this circular becoming, the endless ending, Samuel’s island never possessed such a thing as a core, nor left, nor right. A directionless movement unfolded his island before the inexistence of the Other for as long as he would run through it; the path never seemed to end, yet he would always, somehow, seem to be in the same place. Perhaps it was the innate hope of novelty that kept him running, and the sentimental realization of all that is that kept him falling asleep. Yet he was happy – as happy as he knew how to be – every time the fish would bite, and every time the dry tasteless meat touched the ego on his tongue, making him believe that he must go on chewing, and chewing, until he swallowed it to the bone, and repeat again

with another rising Sun. He knew not why, but he knew he mustn’t spit it out. It was an obligation within him, toward him (although he liked to think it was toward something ‘out there’, something bigger than his little, infinite island) that kept him chewing, and chewing, and chewing… As another Sun pulled him from the ground, his teeth filled with marbles of sand, welcoming the breeze that blew another tally mark he had drawn under his feet. And even though every morning a tide would roll in, or the wind would blow one way or another, or he’d accidentally (or perhaps, sometimes, on purpose) step on it and the counting would start again, Samuel was still determined to draw it again while crying with the falling stars. Not too sure why he was doing it, he felt the obligation – to the fish perhaps – to keep drawing tally marks over and over again. As the days all blended into one in such an existence, he cared not for any result of counting – knowing well that there is nowhere else to go and nothing to move toward – but for the act itself. Just like washing his hungry skin, catching and eating fish, weeping in the morning and smiling in the evening, running as far as his legs would take him just to be back at the beginning. Just like all those thoughts he’d kill just so they could rise again with the morning, he felt an obligation to draw a line in the sand each time the Sun would leave his sight. Why? He was afraid if he’d ask this question one too many times, he might just find an answer. So he held his head down, following the actions his bounded mind bore him with. And he was happy. Right?

He had never been anywhere else. This island was all that he could be, as how could he be more than his thought – the thought that tried so endlessly to create a path, a bridge, a tunnel… And if he knew to what, he would have drawn it in the sand and hoped to live it in his dreams. But the ocean rolled back into the island, around the planet, and touched nothing but the island itself, and so there was nothing more to see. Nothing more to be. Yet every day, he was becoming, anew, the same thought he had always been. Though when it rained above, the rain that came out of nowhere – just like those stars at night – the rain that washed away the tally marks he’d draw in the white, burning sand, the merging of the sky and the ocean through the transparent liquid made him somewhat grounded on his little, infinite island. And he smiled, thinking that there was nowhere else he’d rather be. Though, of course, if the idea of ‘somewhere else’ wasn’t so unreachable… It was hard for Samuel to think of his ways. He spent most of every day trying to run away, though he was never sure what he was running toward, or away from. And sometimes, he’d wonder what this journey was for, so he’d build these castles in the sand and pretend to belong to any one of them, hoping that one of the stars would fall in them and tell him that’s why. As hard as he tried to imagine a world with something more in it, such as a different kind of fish, or another just like him – but perhaps with ideas beyond his – or a different kind of sand, or another island, somewhere there, beyond the horizon…

As much as he added to his little, infinite island, and those out of his sight, his journey never seemed to avoid the absurdity of waking as himself; of falling asleep as himself. Nothing he could add to the island could take away the sameness, no matter how much he would mask it under the illusion of change. He would still cry at night, and smile at the rising Sun. He would still feel obliged to keep on chewing. Yet what he found the strangest of all was that he felt… good. No, the strangest of all was that he felt. How was it possible that this sand from which he rose, from whence he could not recall, would make for this feeling of everything that was in thought? Samuel became determined to understand – it seemed that he had asked ‘why’ one too many times, and now he must never stop. Now, he was obliged to ask it again, and again, and every time he chewed, again, and again, he had to ask why. Why do I feel? Why am I running? Why am I?

If it was not the sand that made him a thinking, feeling thing, then it must be something else – something that this island hid from him. Perhaps it was in the castle that he had built, or something up above, beyond the horizon, or it was in the fish that he must eat. Thus, Samuel looked at each tree and willed it out of his sight. And one by one, he removed the fish, the rain, the wind… He removed all that surrounded his little, infinite island. Once he had removed the sand – all the marbles, each of his thoughts – he found himself standing on an island that was not made of anything but his feet – the mere idea of nothingness; the idea of possibilities. And finally, he removed the Sun, along with the stars, to see if he would still wake and fall asleep, and to see if he would still smile and cry, without these things outside of him. But there was no stick and no sand to draw tally marks in anymore, so Samuel could not tell whether he was already supposed to sleep or wake, smile or cry, eat or fish, run or stand. Yet still, he could not stop asking ‘why’, rapidly preoccupying his mind with an increasing need for a nonrepetitive reason, until he took away his arms, his feet, and finally his ears and nose, his mouth and, lastly, his eyes. He needed to know whether he would still smile without his mouth and cry without his eyes. All that was then left of his little, infinite island was the thought that needed nothing more to exist; the thought that, rid of all else, simply was. And as the thought of itself went on, rid of all else, it still could not escape the question it once asked. And the thought became the question.

Why?

“Fall” by Andra Smalenic

Untitled ANDRA SMILEANSCHI what about when the only place we'll meet will be our dreams? I'd reach out to touch your skin and reality would melt around the tip of my ﬁnger. the drips of time and space will collect in a puddle of caramel and ebony, a spark long gone – have you decided? or was it a momentary need to gallop followed by a steep stop in front of the deep crevice you yourself wished for? I want you to go now I've prepared to feel the cold at night and look for your touch only to ﬁnd [...]

PASS ING THRO UGH JUAN DEL’O

Photography Juan Del’O @juan_delo Models Ada @ada.ardente Suzanne-Marie Gabriel @suzannemariegabriel Pixie @witchy_pixie

Passing through // 2021-22 In the red room, we enter an abstract space cut off from the world, the antechamber of the poetic space. Initiated during the year 2021, the creation of this series bears the weight of a body and a mind scrambled by illness. The dancing body from the previous series, prevented, ﬁnds itself enclosed in an endless space whose limits remain absorbed by a blurred vision. Entering the imagination is an escape into an alternate reality between dream and nightmare. In the antechamber of the poetic space, stands a body that is between fall, imbalance, and ascent. The vision here is blurred through distortions that absorb light and shadow, in a space of liquid and polymorphic volumes. The bodies partly expand, collapse, or re-emerge, in a precarious balance near the precipice of color, one step away from disappearing into a deep red.

The principle of staging is composed of simple trapdoors, interstices, or shadows, which play at cutting or absorbing part of the body. Here the simply naked body, faceless, is given over to the power and depth of color. Like an obsessive vision, the monochromatic space develops only in red, then in gray in a second volume, defining this room as a virtual space of wandering. The images are direct captures of reality without post-production interventions, plates placed in front of the lens diffract the light to offer another vision of reality. The highlighting of the monochrome space in a very marked chiaroscuro accentuates the destructuring of the space to better disturb the perception.

“Dreaming of Fish / Fish Night” by Molly Hayward

Water Bed APRIL BRADFORD Childhood remembers sleepovers, Under blushing lavender skies. Afloat on a sea of dreams, Succumb to the depth. It welcomes you, Open-armed. Under the waves, fairy night light fades. Grip loosens. Sink with empty fingers. Coarse damp hair turned seaweed. In an infinite sea. There’s Only darkness and Pressing water. Inescapable. Cool blue lips kiss foreheads. “Wake up.” A rubber Carcass cries on Pink blankets. Punctured. Childhood packs its bags. You forget giggling Sleepovers. Memories

Float

Away

“Vis” by Andra Smileanschi

KAT SHORE

Dreamwork is a key component of many psychotherapeutic modalities. The metaphors and symbols of stories and imagery are commonly used tools in psychodynamic creative therapies, and in my own practice as a dramatherapist I have supported clients to dramatise the imagery from their dreams, embodying parts of their psyches that have been relegated to the unconscious. Dramatherapy is a psychodynamic psychological intervention that uses the symbolism found in art and drama to bring the unconscious into the conscious. I qualiﬁed as a dramatherapist in 2017. Training to be a professional therapist involves learning to sit with parts of yourself you are at best uncomfortable with and at worst, frightened of. It’s a fraught but essential part of the process. After all, how can we sit with others’ pain before we’re able to sit with our own? In his seminal work The Body Keeps the Score psychiatrist and researcher Bessel van der Kolk discusses the power of drama as a tool to process trauma: “Since time immemorial human beings have used communal rituals to cope with their most powerful and terrifying feelings. Greek drama may have served as a ritual reintegration for combat veterans. Confrontation of the painful realities of life and symbolic transformation through communal action. Love and hate, aggression and surrender, loyalty and betrayal are the stuff of theatre and the stuff of trauma”.

The dramas that play out in our sleep have similarly been the subject of intellectual exploration for thousands of years. The Ancient Sumerian poem, The Epic of Gilgamesh (2100 BCE -1200 BCE) reveals humankind’s innate interest in the search for symbolism and meaning in dreams, as the warrior Enkidu suffers prophetic nightmares foreshadowing his demise. A mainstream belief in Ancient Greece was that dreams served as messengers from the divine realm. In contrast, Aristotle argued vivid dreams were more likely to be caused by indigestion than a communion with a spiritual being (On Dreams, 350 BCE). Debates about the significance of our overnight experiences have raged for centuries. In the early 20th century, the friendship between Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung famously fell apart over their fundamentally different ideas about the significance of dreams in psychoanalysis. Freud theorised that the function of dreaming is to “completely satisfy wishes excited during the day which remain unrealized” (The Interpretation of Dreams, 1900), while Jung dismissed this as underestimating the scope of the insight that could be gained from dreams: “Dreams may contain ineluctable truths, philosophical pronouncements, illusions, wild fantasies, memories, plans, anticipations, irrational experiences, even telepathic visions, and heaven knows what besides.” (The Practical Use of Dream Analysis, 1934). While in training I had my own therapy sessions with a practitioner qualified in both psychotherapy and dramatherapy.

Photography by Victoria Sendra

The years I spent in therapy exploring my own dreams were highly illuminating. I’ve experienced vivid dreams for as long as I can remember, as soothing as frequently as they are disturbing, and I am able to remember them clearly when I wake up. Maybe this seems unremarkable, but I’m close to people who never remember their dreams. They also tell me they fall asleep easily and stay asleep until it’s time to wake up. Perhaps they represent the proportion of the population that doesn’t need therapy. (That’s a joke! Please get therapy.) I often took my dreams to therapy to help me explore and process the ways I was changing psychologically. From what I can tell, my unconscious mind seems to revert to speciﬁc imagery for different emotional states. People and technology usually go hand in hand with stress, chaos and fear. One of my recurring dreams involves having to drive somewhere, the destination never matters, but I’m always running late. Oh yeah, and I don’t know how to drive - in my waking life or unconscious. I’m having to ﬁgure it out as I go, surrounded by other cars, in a race against the clock. If I’ve been feeling anxious, I’ll often have dreams that I’ve fallen out with loved ones, perhaps an expression of the biggest fear for a people-pleaser. These dreams often serve as useful indicators that it’s time for a day off.

Perhaps strangely, gore and horror seem to be my brain’s way of expressing impending personal growth, (not sure what Freud would make of that). During the months I spent in therapy exploring my inner critic, and the ways it has stiﬂed and attempted to ‘kill off’ the spontaneous, assertive part of my psyche, I had a dream where I witnessed the murder of an actress I admire. Fun right? Thanks brain. Sometimes my dreams are photographic, to the extent that I’ve been certain I must be awake moments before my alarm has gone off. Other times they’re like existing in a watercolour painting, or psychedelically bright. I know it’s unoriginal, but nature

dreams are always a source of peace and inspiration. I’ve been alone on a rooftop in a watercolour dream, gazing at the ocean on the horizon, and made my way through a secret trail to a hidden garden full of giant, technicolour ﬂowers. One of my favourite dreams brought the themes of nature and people colliding together. I was sitting on a packed beach, watching strangers frolic noisily in the sea, too anxious about the unpredictability of the situation to join in. Then a tidal wave hit. I stared up from the sand at a city of skyscrapers engulfed by the ocean. I panicked, realised I would never make it to the surface in time to take a breath, accepted my fate, felt completely at peace, and woke up feeling incredible. Life is chaos, acceptance is peace.

“I often took my dreams to therapy to help me explore and process the ways I was changing psychologically” “Dream” by French Kate

Modern psychoanalysis uses dreamwork to uncover latent, unconscious material by analysing the symbolism contained within dreams. Psychoanalysts believe the reason dreamwork is such a powerful tool in therapy is because when we’re asleep our superego defences are lowered, leaving space for the primal, instinctive id to make its fears and desires known. Practitioners are still developing new ways to incorporate dreamwork into a variety of therapeutic modalities. The cognitive-experiential model of dream interpretation uses the three stages of ‘exploration, insight, and action.’ Experiencing the feelings and images of the dream again in therapy, discussing potential meanings, exploring how the client might change the dream, then planning how to translate these changes to their waking life (Hill 1996). Dreamwork helped me to understand the ways I was suppressing my conﬁdent, outgoing side in order to keep myself safe from rejection, and offered me space to explore how I might address this in my conscious hours. In Why We Sleep: The New Science of Sleep and Dreams, Matthew Walker introduces us to the modern theory of overnight therapy, “REM-sleep dreaming accomplishes two critical goals. One, sleeping to remember the details of those valuable, salient experiences, integrating them with existing knowledge and putting them into autobiographical perspective. Two, sleeping to forget, or dissolve, the visceral, painful emotional charge that had previously been wrapped around those memories”. The impact of dreamwork on my overall experience of therapy was huge. The work helped me to accept myself, and let go of fear. My therapeutic exploration of one particular dream involving a rottweiler demonstrated the power of bringing the exiled, unconscious parts of myself into the light. In the dream I

received a letter letting me know that I had been chosen to adopt a rottweiler. I’m not really a dog person. Most breeds put me on edge. My blood ran cold at the prospect of bringing home a rottweiler. Why me? I discussed the symbolism of this particular animal with my therapist. It was suggested that it represented the powerful, frightening parts of myself and my history that I’d been avoiding looking at, suppressing through shame and fear. Back in the dream, I went to the meeting place to collect the rottweiler I was to adopt, my muscles tense, sweating, bracing myself to be overpowered by the force and aggression of an uncontrollable beast. I arrived, and was handed a rucksack by a stressed and overworked woman. She told me to look inside. A tiny, sweet faced, soft furred, rottweiler puppy. Embracing the most vulnerable parts of our psyche can be terrifying. What if we are scared of what we find? The longer we avoid confronting these parts of ourselves, the greater the fear becomes. The job of protecting my vulnerability had been left up to my harsh, overworked inner critic for years. Now it was my turn. And I wasn’t scared by what I saw. Exploring my overnight therapy experiences in my waking hours has been a rich and enlightening experience. Dismissing dreams as ‘just weird’ means you miss out on getting comfortable with the uncomfortable, confronting parts of yourself that have been exiled to the realms of the unconscious. The keys to your recovery might be hiding right there in your dreams, and with a little conscious investigation who knows what you might discover.

“The dawn melts the dream” by Federica Colletti

Dreaming about every man while asleep is different to dreaming about every man while awake SUSANNE LANSMAN I am young single again and with a man who looks like all the men I have ever known including my brother. This man is not an everyman benign protagonist with broad appeal although he is trying to decide if I will go all the way and I am trying to decide if he is a bastard or a one night stand of backwards intimate strokes played like a funk rock guitar intro that halts my conversation when it comes on the radio in spite of a recent rule made to broaden my musical taste. I can’t help inhabiting my arched back until my gasp for air half-wakes me up and I tell the man that lies asleep next to me it wasn’t me but back in the dream I know the sound of my struggle to breathe might put off the composite man that I created or turn him on to the excitement of a fuchsia bud that must be pushed open between ﬁnger and thumb after a spring where soft growing tips were pinched out. I didn’t see my fear to disappoint or wake up when he got off me and left lost in my idea of what he shouldn’t do until he pulls my hair like last time or I touch his face knowing he doesn’t like it how young love is trying to get your attention with a shove into a fence.

“Parallel Universe Party” by Patrycja Frey

I was watching my telescope when / Not only women get pregnant ELSPETH WILSON You’re sired by Pollination Technician 135, your pea soup skin a reminder of Good Vibes Only. Man in the sky beamed me up into that milky way smile all lime muscles and constellation eyes, Here For a Good Time Not For A Long Time tattooed on your plunging – O! And it opened new vortexes, galaxies I did not know existed, temperatures yet to be discovered, your flag posted in my belly button. You showed me the possibilities of my body and then plonked me down to earth

“Daydream” by Hanna Rose Bergmann

“Epoch - Laparoscopy” by Lydia Evans Watercolour, gouache and caligraphers ink on cotton rag sketch paper

“Epoch - Laparoscopy” reﬂects visions I experienced during my recovery from Laparoscopic surgery; which treated and diagnosed Endometriosis. Painted slowly over a period of two months, it mirrors the process of experiencing ‘The Tower’ card in traditional Tarot. ‘The Tower’ represents destructive and sudden change, where illusions collapse and the self falls. During this period of retreat, as the dust settled, the seeds within my inner garden bloomed - synchronised with the coming of spring. Worlds die back, and yet, they rise anew.

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5th Edition, 2022 vainemagazine.com vainemag@gmail.com Instagram: @vainemagazine Twitter: @vainemagazine Facebook: @VAINEmagazine

Editor: Dominic Thomas Co-Editor: Siria Ferrer Sainz-Pardo Editorial Assistant: Laetitia Lesieure Desbrière Batista Fonts courtesy of Khurasanstudio Cover artwork by Siria Ferrer Sainz-Pardo Printed by Mixam UK Ltd