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You are being interviewed by a panel in front of an entrance that leads to your "Utopia." It's a place that meets all your expectations, satisfying each and every one of your desires, where a prolonged state of blissful intoxication waits for you every. Single. Day. Maybe it's a whirlwind of neon lights and casinos. Maybe it's the perfect blend of nature and urbanity with commuters riding on air-trams and 0% unemployment or homelessness to be seen. Have scientists cured cancer? Have they found a way to make fatty or rich foods nutritious? Maybe your Utopia waits for you behind a door in a forest, a dream you imagined when you were younger that you always knew was there. What will you do to prove you're worthy? Or... are you?
There are “dream words” in the English language. While words like “are” and “is” presents facts, we also have words called “modals” that comment on how reality should, could, or might be. Maybe we concern ourselves too much with what “is” because our immediate truths are our way of reconciling and surviving in what’s always so coldly presented as the “real world.” Our culture, American culture, is so competitive that to look at anything else other than the other rat racing right ahead of you seems nonsensical, if not deadly. The shoulds, mights, and coulds of life get lost. Daydreaming becomes useless. They have no use because they just don’t “get you anywhere.”
Collaging is one of the most subjective forms of art, a deeply psychological process, that is at once a conversation with the broader “objective” world, a world of objects and symbolic meanings. It’s our way of talking back to our physical reality, allowing us to make an imprint upon it just as its made an imprint on us.
A collage may be analyzed and broken down by critics like any piece of art. But notice, the artist doesn’t lose their integrity. Nothing feels “missed” or “lost.” The interaction of the components in a collage are a psychic play that is deeply personal to the artist, even if they’re unaware of it. It’s the equivalent of children playing with toys and dolls: they look at the individual parts, customize it to the story they want to tell or aesthetic they want to show, and play. They don’t make the dolls. They don’t make the toys. Most of everything is made for them, but yet, a deeply personal journey unfolds.
Dear Dreamy Darling,
I hired new fire throwers
New golden-show lions
No audience member respects, I bet,
When they turn silver
The morning is so odd
With it’s lack of light or promise
It frees my memory
Of your gloss, jumps, and curls
Into the dense fog
Dreamy Darling it’s now so Dreary
We appeared wild but in domestication
Remember those rallied cries?
Now I’m left sorting, deporting
Wretched hows, whos, and whys