What Dreams Are Made Of (68)

In this painting, the dream seems to be born in the depths. Blue occupies almost the entire space, ranging from luminous turquoise to the darkest, almost nocturnal tones. It gives the painting the depth of a submerged world, but also that of an inner realm: a place where ordinary landmarks disappear and where we can no longer quite tell whether we are contemplating a landscape, deep water, an inverted sky… or the secret territories of the soul. And yet, at the centre, something resists this vast expanse of blue. A light appears. It is neither vast nor triumphant. It emerges in fragments: an almost incandescent white, flashes of luminous yellow, delicate pinks, then lines crossing the composition like so many possible trajectories. Everything seems to converge towards this central space before escaping from it again. Perhaps this is where the painting finds its greatest strength: light is not given here; it is sought. The lower part carries more matter, more density, more traces. Colours accumulate there like layers of memory. Yellows, earthy tones, pinks and deep blues seem to preserve something of our tangible world: experiences, wounds, attachments — everything that constitutes the weight of a human existence. Then the eye begins to rise. Matter stretches and becomes movement, vibration. Pink and turquoise lines seem determined to cross the space, while a strange luminous verticality forms at the heart of the composition. It does not resemble a perfectly mapped-out path. It hesitates, trembles and bends. And that is what makes it profoundly human. For inner elevation may never be the peaceful ascent we would like to imagine. It is shaped through detours, resistance and contradiction. We move forward carrying what we are, with our shadows as much as our light. The ripples running through the blue intensify this sensation. They suggest that reality itself is being crossed by an invisible vibration, as though another dimension were trying to rise beneath the surface of the visible. And suddenly, this painting can almost be read in both directions. Is the light descending towards matter? Or is matter rising towards the light? Perhaps both. For this painting seems to dissolve that very boundary. Sky and depth meet. The invisible descends towards us while something within us attempts to answer its call. The dream is therefore no longer an escape from the world. It becomes a place of encounter. Between what we are and what we intuit. Between our gravity and our longing for infinity. Between the silent voice that calls to us… and the equally silent voice within us that answers. Deep within us lives a light that does not ask to conquer the night. It asks only for a passage. And when the soul consents to hear it, even the abyss can become a pathway to the sky.