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This painting was inspired by a black and white dream that has awoken into colors, in memory it is still a fog as was the sky this afternoon. I recall figures, family turning to ghosts, me playing a game of chess and one exploding all the pieces with his supernatural psyche powers. I sometimes play with the possibility of dreams functioning as prophets or gurus, teaching us the truths of the conscious unattainable depths of being. I think this particular dream arose from me pondering of Marcel Duchamp’s quote “All this twaddle, the existence of God, atheism, determinism, liberation, societies, death, etc., are pieces of a chess game called language, and they are amusing only if one does not preoccupy oneself with ‘winning or losing this game of chess.” I consider myself a free thinker and this is one of my most valued gifts of existence. I’ve grown too fond of the inevitable chaos found in the mysteries of being and of time. I see the beauty in death as I do in a newborn’s eyes, I prefer to remain in a state of delicacy and respect for the Universe that transverses out and inverts in. I am a grateful swimmer in the twirling oceans of reasoning and the metaphysical levels of the skies, yearning to attain any portion I can get from my inner being in disguise. The exposition is not the aim for me, winning the pun game is not my drive. The inquisition itself is sharpening the eye’s interpretation. The chess game becomes an ataxia intertwined with lucid sparks embodied in synchronized circles. I will paint circles always until the end.

This is an acrylic painting I did on canvas sheet. It is from a dream that I had of me & my brother looking over a surreal city. In my dream the clouds were changing colors from red, to blue to deep shades of purples. We looked over a colorful bright city, what I recall most of the dream is the feeling because after I awoke it lingered for about five minutes after. I felt complete, overwhelmingly joyful it was one of the most stunning images I've ever seen. This painting does no justice but it is a reflection of my subconscious. I have a love-hate relationship with my dreams because I dream so vividly, it feels so true and then I realize they're not real in this dimension and I want to attain those feelings, but I'm tied to my reality. I hate it most when I dream of love, and then waking up all alone. But I love them because they bring with them bits of hopes, drops drops on my lodging to pour them onto my waking coffee cup.

In his room stands Gregor Samsa the monstrous vermin from Kafka's metamorphosis, isolated, horrified and hidden from a world that could never gratify his state. His skinny little legs get him nowhere far, an apple thrown at him by his father in significance of his repudiation rots on his back. In his window pane he observes a beautiful scenery that he cannot attain as if looking unto another foreign and distant planet, where not even dreams can direct him to bliss all he can do is wait, wait for the clock to signal the end of his deformed, depleated & wretched existence - Tania