In my dreams, I was walking around and stumbled into a painting.
In another I thought I were a werewolf.
May even have been same dream, or painting; not as if I could quite tell
blue skies from paint.
Seems I were in a gallery of sorts — there certainly were walls. So might have well been seeing through layers of oil. Not as if we can ever see outside frames: those that surround us, keep us in check, within the pale even; and whilst doing so, might well also be framing us. Where each time we say something, we might well be accused of something we might not have even done. And, since it is coming from oneself, each utterance might well already bring with it a je m’accuse.
Jeremy Fernando reads and writes; and works in the confluences of literature, philosophy, the visual arts, and the media. He is the Jean Baudrillard Fellow at The European Graduate School, and a Lecturer & Fellow of Tembusu College at The National University of Singapore. He is also the general editor of Delere Press and the thematic magazine One Imperative.