‘Anatomy of a Dream, page 07’
Anatomy of a Dream, Page 07 is a portrait of the subconscious rather than the body. The composition feels fragmented, as if memories, instincts, humor, sexuality, exhaustion, and emotional residue all landed in the same room without needing to explain themselves. Dreams are rarely linear, and neither is this painting.
The legs, the hand, the animal, the scribbles, the marks — none of them are ornamental. They behave like symbols that surfaced without permission, each holding emotional weight even if logic can’t decode them. This is how dreams speak: through intuition, distortion, exaggeration, repetition, and incomplete sentences.
The drips and ink stains are part of the atmosphere, like late-night mental weather that refuses to stay still. Some gestures feel angry, some humorous, some erotic, some anxious. The subconscious is allowed to be contradictory, messy, spontaneous — a collage of emotional data that moves without sequence or clarity.
I’ve always felt that dreams are archives of information the conscious mind isn’t ready to translate. Anatomy of a Dream, Page 07 is a visual diary of that space — a reminder that imagination, memory, and identity never operate in straight lines. We carry stories that don’t belong to narrative, we feel things before we can name them, and the subconscious keeps writing even when the body sleeps.