16 Nicholson St. Glasgow
28th April - 14th May 2017
I’ve been struggling, lately, to lay my head in the valley and slip sweetly into dreams of.
Of waste, of building, of re-arranging, of liberating, of owning, of subsidising, what’s outside, inside, upside, down and out.
Early records show that prior to industrialisation the people of the town and country slept differently. They would wake in the night to read for three to four hours. They would wake in the night and remember their dreams of skin, of realism, of spirits, of witches, of.
Then they would sleep again. Until when? Until then?
I’ve been finding, lately, the weight of the tog to tug at my sides, causing aches in my legs, overheating on my back. One thing hurdles over another and over again I’m on my other side. I hear a noise, a disturbance. I see the detritus of earlier efforts at what? that? sprawled on ledges, planes of purpose left to ruin. I see the cables, the clicking, the squeaking, the sandstone and the steel. <Mostly dreams about work, actually.> It all comes out in the perspiration, seeping, collecting in the cornices.
Some cultures take naps, but this might be more to do with the heat of the sun. Some vocations require a very early rise. Some commitments require a very late rest. Some callings call for something in the middle.