I have a headache.
I am restless.
My brain refuses to shut down. It's telling me I haven't done enough lately. The problem with living in London is that there is so much to do, that people who like to weigh options and see what happens, end up doing nothing.
Though, in my defence, I did go to a fantastic exhibit at the Barbican earlier tonight. I went to a show called, 'The Surreal House' and it was easily one of my favourite exhibits I've been to in a long time. The lack of large-scale paintings by big name artists was a bit of a disappointment, but the obscure installations and pieces really helped create the juxtaposition of familiarity meets the unknown.
Which, as this was a surreal exhibition, was likely the goal.
The show really captured a sense of my own personal childhood. It was the perfect balance between safety and discomfort due to the unknown. A mixture of melancholies and mysticism that drew on deep memories.
I can say that surrealism brings out a sense of serenity for me, while some people find it disconcerting, I sought it out as a youngster - mostly to make my conservative-straight-as-an-arrow-Dali-is-the-devil mother, uncomfortable.
Then again, I guess children probably have a healthy sense of the surreal, this may stem from the fact that everything is not designed for them, or with them in mind. The world itself is new and untrustworthy, normal has yet to be established. This exhibit really brought that feeling to the fore again for me. And I enjoyed it.
I believed that there was a leprechaun in my parent's basement again, the jabberwocky roamed the park near the house, my shoes spoke to each other and conspired to hide in the morning (They might still do that actually...), and something sinister lurked beyond the door in the dark, therefore it must be kept shut at all costs until morning light.
Tonight I lived in 1989 again, the colours were autumn, film was antique black and white or colour tinted a la Victorian photographs, life existed in stop motion animation and the scary shadows cast by objects large and ominous.
I liked shirking away again.
I will happily stand in front of Corbet's The Origin of the World at the Musee d'Orsay and not even blush, but put me in a darkened room with a massive black cast of a bath tub by Rachel Whiteread and I'll cower.
This is what art is about - reaction.
Now, the given this admission, you'd think I'd love horror films, no. I like the feeling of surreality, not reality turned upside down by ghosts, spirits, and the like.
I'm a gullible soul. I believe all sorts of things that I see/hear. This is why I feel like a wiser individual for avoiding newsfeeds - I believe what I was being told and deep down, everyone knows it's not true.
I digress, tonight's exhibit was like being in a dream and stumbling around through the corridors of my childhood, and not in a sweet sense.
Maybe that's why I can't sleep now, I've already dreamed and now I must pay by feeding on my food for thought.
Then again, this is why having friends Stateside is so good. Someone to call when you can't shut your eyes. Nothing like soothing reminders of your adult life to help you drift off...ironically, when faced with the absurdity of being a kid and how strange it feels to not understand the world, all you want are reminders that you do get it now.
And that no, the jabberwocky is not outside your window.
(Though, in fairness, London, England is a far more likely habitat for the jabberwocky than Omaha, Nebraska.)
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