The Wild Freedom of Dreams: An Artist’s Reflection
Those Phenomena of Dreams…
Dreams are strange, untamed landscapes: free falls and seas made of grass, silent screams, accompanied by the chirping of creatures with too many legs. These are the worlds my mind explores while taking brief reprieves from reality, and I love it. I use them. I listen carefully. I write them down. I get a bit obsessed with them. As an artist, I’ve learned that dreams are more than entertainment; they are the raw material of artistic creativity, often inspiring my art.
That’s why I pay attention.
Dreams stretch and unravel like imagination itself, elongating like the face of a child mid-tantrum. In these nocturnal adventures, glasses shatter, temples split, eardrums rupture, and the universe spills over its juicy, intoxicating chaos…and I get drunk on it. There is incredible value in noticing this: the dreamer who explores new rhythms, unspoken languages, unimaginable colours, and fresh ways to breathe, move, and express themselves through art uncovers insights about life, perception, and emotion that waking hours rarely allow. I find reality really black and white, very simplistic, tiring, incredibly boring, that’s why a cheeky lucid dream can do wonders for my psyche.
Blessed is the one who dares to abandon convention, for in creation, nothing is scarce, everything is abundant, waiting to be transformed into art. Creativity becomes the bridge between thought and expression, a release that allows us to process, reflect, and communicate the inexpressible. It is not just an act, but a practice, a ritual, a continuous dialogue between mind, body, and canvas. Each brushstroke carries intention and emotion, turning the intangible into something visible and alive.
In dreaming, the soul feels weightless. There is no alpha, no omega, no good, no evil. Dreaming simply is. It exists self-contained and infinite, like a fragrance sneaking into memory, lingering forever in the echoes of pain and beauty, whether from yesterday or a past life. The freedom is intoxicating: no control, no thoughts, no shape, no reason. In dreams, I am the cat’s yarn ball, the chameleon’s favourite fly.
And yet, waking is inevitable. A part of me always remains “there,” adrift in that dimension of absurdities and contradictions. Soy realmente libre. Every night, I celebrate the ritual of sleep, honouring the singularity, richness, and boundless strangeness of the worlds I’m about to encounter. My skull becomes an antenna, tuned to melodies encouraged by swans getting naked in my pillows. Then the show begins: electric contractions twitch my lips, I’m pursued by unknown creatures, sometimes evading them, sometimes longing to be caught. Earthquakes rumble through my belly, shaking buildings that spit me from their rooftops. I fall, disassembling into Rubik’s cubes of bone, each piece cracking…crack, crack! as I enjoy solving the puzzle of myself.
And yet, the louder I scream, the deeper I dream. The last time I let out a cry, I died… only to remember, with sudden clarity, that I was still dreaming. Often, these nocturnal journeys guide me back to the canvas, where acrylics, brushes, and mess await the next adventure. Every painting, every brushstroke, is a continuation of this dialogue between dreaming and creation, a reminder that art is a beautiful way to navigate life itself.
¡Qué bonito!
