Dreams have enchanted me since I was a little boy. As I grow older they become even more compelling. What still fascinates me is that they are real, as real as night, as clouds above the trees and taxicabs on the street. The trouble is that they make little sense to me, and no sense at all to anyone else.
When Alejandro Jodorowsky says he is able to guide his dreams, I don’t doubt him for a moment. I envy him; I wish I could do the same. But I can only manage to watch and listen to strange figures in strange spaces and try to draw and paint their strange actions with care and humility.
This image is the last of the triptych of Witnesses. The dream itself deserves the last words: “Do you know what it’s like to live in a purgatory of silence where everything dreams with us, even walls and the stumps of trees? We’re not like Janus, we’re looking in the same direction, into the past. Except that no one, least of all us, remembers what became of the gramophone and the family portraits, framed in black ribbons, or the house, or the fragrance of the forests, or the riders with their silly pointed hats, or the flowering vines that used to grow over everything, or the boy and girl who loved to play with guns. What is left of our souls can still feel what is left of the trees and their hearts beating under the sands, but not much else.”
