Reading at hARTslane Gallery: ‘I placed my eyes, inside my palms’ Exhibition

So grateful to have read my piece ‘What do you do when you see too much?’ at hARTSlane Gallery hosted by the artist collective Jane Foole.

My automatic writing piece was written in response to the phrase ‘I placed my eyes, inside my palms’, the title of the exhibition/evening. In it, I describe a chilling dream I had recently that made me feel like I’ve seen too much into (and perhaps had come face-to-face with) my subconscious.

Behind me, on the wall, are two small A5 pieces ‘Haggard Realisation (Dream)’ and ‘Feather (Container)’ which were also automatic pieces done around the same time period.

It was such a memorable evening, really enjoyed the diverse mix of paintings, drawings, sculptures, video works, and performances!

What do you do when you see too much?

I placed my eyes, inside my palms

I dug up my wrists, to feel my touch 

in this monsoon of a season 

I thought I had lost you 

my body, the way I move,

and don’t move 

fear, and once feared 

the exact premise of this 

exact story, told 

1,000 times. 

that’s not a real number. 

I once wrote about a speculative world where I fantasised about people handing each other smiles like flowers that never wilt

that never ease, 

or ever sees 

the light touch of (a) lonesome (something) that envelops your right brow. 

it would know. 

it would know to raise, and be raised 

in the right fuss, in the right dusk, 

only to mistake my eyes, your companion, 

for the rest of the world. 

what will you do with all that power? 

what will you do?

if my eyes are in my palms, should my heart be on my sleeves?

what will you do with all that power? 

what will you do with all that grace? 

we spend our days digging, coming up with sweet-somethings and nothing-sweets, new-tomorrows and tomorrow-anews, 

triaging for a concept that is truly out of this world.

nothing is certain, but I can tell you this:

I saw the truth the other day

because my eyes were not where they were supposed to be, I saw something I was not supposed to see, and it was in my dream,

and I had woken up in the same bed I fell asleep in, only this room had a sultana brown-orange hue. I was utterly convinced this was my reality, and maybe it really was. 

Three figures look down at me. 

my mother, my sister, and another I will not name. 

my mother looked so incredibly young and beautiful in her soft red sweater, I felt relief that she had so much life in her. I wore one of her soft red sweaters once, when I was shivering so bad from a fever – one of those ones that made you go hot and cold and hot and cold. she put that soft red sweater over me and it became my second skin in the car on the way to the hospital, wrapping my body whole and telling me it’s all going to be okay. red was my safe colour. 

my young and beautiful mother, with her long and luscious black hair, looked at me, and I looked at her and I wonder if my eyes have ever looked so vulnerable. 

The Unnamed figure said something Unimportant, urging me to check, re-check some mundane information, about a mundane transaction, and my sister, who is getting ready for the day, even though it was nighttime, said something Unimportant back, hurrying in and out of the room. And then something turned, clicked. hold on, I say in my dream-voice, which may or may not be out loud, she would never say that, in that specific way. My sister had said something not only unimportant but more importantly, uncharacteristic. And that was when I really woke up in the dream, and I raise it, and I raise my hand, and almost comically raise my finger to point at these three figures, now strangers, and say, ‘oh, my, god… this isn’t real… this is a dream,’ In an instant, their faces drop. All the emotion and vulnerability I had read into earlier slid back in their faces, stripping away from their whole bodies. It was as if what I said had deactivated this twisted attempt at manipulating me into seeing what I was supposed to see. Like an illusion unveiled, their faces fall and their bodies crouch, and they slink away, out of the room without a sound. As I was left alone in this now foreign room, I wonder to myself, was I just stood face to face with my own subconscious? Has it just gone to lengths to put on a stage, a show just for me? Why does this feel like the closest thing I’ve felt to true horror? What is it trying to show me, deter and protect me from, manipulate me into? and, for the 1,000th time, (not a real number) was that my real life and this, this story is the dream? the one I’m telling right now? Do dreams not even exist? Have we just made the concept up? What is the jarring, meaty, difference between a dream and a subconscious? Could realities simply just exist in parallel? Am I one with my subconscious, or are we completely separate entities? Did I just see my subconscious become conscious? Did I just witness a sold out, disaster of a show? Are they going backstage to rehearse again? Are they beating themselves up, wishing they were just that much more convincing? Do they wish they knew me just that much more? Are they more like shells or sultanas? marrow, or bones? What do you do when you see too much?

you place your eyes, inside your palms, 

and you go to sleep.