The New Artwork

My most recent work is a performance where I create a fruit cocktail.
Halfway through, it dawns on me that I haven't thought up a punchline or developed a comedy persona so I am not able to be funny.  Still worse, I now see that everything about it is meaningless.

Uncovering Forgotten Powers

I am in a huge builders merchants' yard. Workmen are milling around, busy on an important task - something has to be found out, uncovered.
I pick up a plastic bag with plumbing connections in it.
"Leave them alone," I am told, "don't want you meddling with that."
I just seem to be in the way.

Then I find a stack of old papers, all in handwriting that is not easy to decipher. It goes back years. I am convinced this has the answer to everything the men are searching for and I say to one of them,
"Let me look through these, I am sure I will find the truth here."  The men are a bit dismissive, they don't share my conviction but they are happy for me to take this dusty heap away.
As I start to look through it my heart sinks, there is so much there and it's really hard to read, I'll never get anywhere.

Slowly I begin to sift through the paperwork, writing down each tiny detail. A woman (about 30-35 with long straight hair) sits with me.
"Let's work out what this is all about. Someone's life is at stake- its about someone's life, a record." (I see an image of Beachy Head cliffs.) The documents seem to be about this woman.

Now I find pictures and objects within this pile of papers- there are three knitting needles, maybe 2'6"long,  and they are covered in knitted wool in soft,"feminine" pastel shades of flame. The needles remind me of bullfighting spikes or spears or something to do with electricity like lightning rods.

"This was the beginning - one of many projects that never led anywhere." The woman laughs and admits it was another fruitless project. (Am I slightly contemptuous of her? Do I think she doesn't have it in her to create anything deep, anything meaningful?)

There are receipts in this collection. She must have been working, she must have earnt this - sums like £320 and another for a bit less. Modest sums.
"Is there a date?" I ask the woman. We look and I arrange them in order.

The pictures I find are black and white newspaper cuttings collaged together and now a heap of old sepia family photos that I drop on the stone floor. I try to pick them up in order but muddle them a bit - never mind, I should be able to sort them out.

I am annoyed that I wake up before the puzzle is solved. There are pages of this novel, for that is what it is, that are maybe in german or russian.  (So many times I start a book only to give up because the language is too hard.) This will be difficult language to decode but I know I can and must do it.


This dream has been interpreted by three eminent Jungian analysists -  a very exciting process - the results of which can be viewed on Carla Young's excellent blogsite here.

Back To Basics

A statue of Lenin high in the mountains is illuminated by artificial flames. I am finishing a week's drawing course here and I am the only student to have achieved nothing.  As dusk falls I set out with inadequate materials.  I wear a necklace I have found hoping this will give me inspiration but I am not optimistic. I decide all I can do is to make a series of small noctural landscapes- anything to get me going again.

I Lose My Notes (Again)

I am expected to deliver a speech on An End To Nuclear Weapons to the audience in a club. The speakers before me were scarcely able to put two words together. The old chairman is doing his best but the night is a shambles. I tell him I will speak next, "Give me five minutes to sort out my notes." Of course I don't have my notes, so I panic. Although I have given this talk before I can't remember anything. I have pictures but what do they represent? I decide I can't give the talk so I hide under the floorboards. I tell one of my old schoolfriends I am going to sneak out.

The Fourth Presenter

I am one of four presenters at the artists' Trade conference in Boyle. I am very nervous about it.
The first artist is a young confident man. His notes are organised and complex but he seems remote.
The second is a woman who is anxiously stacking piles of cards up on her desk.
I am the third. Totally unprepared. Doing something about a drawing massage exercise. I am asked by the facilitator what would your massage fantasy be? I'm a bit thrown and say something awkward back.
As I drew this dream I became conscious of the presence of an invisible fourth person next to me. There is real strength there and he is the core of this dream.

Tuning My Banjo

I have just joined an all male jazz band, playing the banjo. We rehearse a set. I am ok-ish although the others keep asking me to tune my instrument. I pretend to fiddle with the tuning pegs but don't have a clue what I am doing. After the session I confess that tuning the banjo will take me a long time and that I might need a little help to begin with from the others when we go live.

Rejected By Famous Artist

The comedy actress Jessica Stevenson is a visual artist in this dream. She has made a small black lacquered folding box with I think gold or brass hinges. There is something painted inside. It's a bit like a Chinese puzzle box only not quite so complex. I really want her to like me, but I don't quite get what her work is about and she sees that and so has little time for me.

Refugees

Military planes fly in formation above a field just outside the town. As part of a "friendly fire " exercise they begin to drop bombs - the idea being to see how much damage will be wrought by such a bomb attack. In a built-up area the damage would be devastating. Now a plane load of refugees from Poland arrive, about 60 or 70 of them, led by a grandmother and her grandchild. I am moved to tears by these proud stoical people as they are reunited with relatives. There are so many more we have left behind.

Lame Attempt To Run Music Workshop

I am running a music workshop for teenagers alongside another teacher. They are quite a rowdy and sullen bunch but I realise the main reason for this is because the other teacher is getting them to sing naff songs. I work with one boy to set up the stage for him to use as he wants - I have no idea what I am doing but arrange a record player surrounded by piles of boxes. He is not that happy with it but settles for it as a kind of compromise. I have no time to do anything for the other kids.

Unsure Of My Role

I am working with a group of artists - not sure what my role is. The director and I are listening through speakers to 3 men rehearsing in another room. The sound is muffled. After a while the group go off in a car - they wave at me to join them but I prefer to walk - it's only round the corner. I return to Aunty Kath's house, number 77, and wait for them there. They don't come.

Dark Text

A learned friend is reading from a play by Andre Gide. It is an amusing text - just a little bit complicated. "So this is the DARK text according to Mr Whitmore. I have avoided reading this for seven years because you said it was too dark." He reads on , ridiculing me that I should call this light hearted text dark.
Did I really say that? Why did I? Was I just trying to be clever? I feel so humiliated I can hardly speak.
I do eventually get over myself .

I Let Three Women Drown

Walking back from a trip to a country museum, the rain starts to pour down, and my shoes are not waterproof. I see a group of people crowding round the edge of a waterfall. In the clear water below at least three old women are drowning. There is no struggle - they sink slowly and I am too scared to save them.

Lifelike Puppet With No Arms

A reporter who works for an art magazine called Process has come to look at our life size puppet, and is unsure whether it is real or not. As we step upstairs its eyes light up and seem to follow us, but when I lift it up it is clear it is made of plaster. I glimpse at some of the slides of meticulous paintings this reporter has with him and feel slightly out of depth. This feeling dissipates when he tells me that for a number of years he played the part of the grandmother in the musical "Annie".

Beyond Me

I am attending a highly intellectual conference. I have been asked to take minutes and am relieved when handwritten notes appear independently on the page. At the end of the morning session the professor asks each of us to sum up. Everyone offers a short pithy statement. I don't know what to say. I remain silent just waiting for the moment to pass. I privately admit to the professor that I didn't understand a word.
I suspect I am not alone. A woman offers her apologies on leaving, "Goodbye everyone, I just want you all to know how much I love you."