Dreams unify the visceral and the emotional. They are a visible representation of an invisible, internal world. A dream is a constant feedback loop: what I feel is what I see is what I feel is what I see…
In my dreams, I see my late grandmother — and in equal measure, I feel her. She embraces me, a familiar warmth, and welcomes me into her home. She guides me to a golden room, late afternoon seeping in through the windows. She feeds me five candies from a red glass jar, a jar that never seems to empty, perennially full. And when she turns her back, I snatch another handful. She would never deny a request for more, but by some odd fear I decide to hide the second helping.
Of course, these dreams are about my grandmother, but in another way they are about grief.
These dreams are grief.
My work in music mirrors my understanding of dreams. I am searching for surreal sonic phenomena; for sounds I can trust to translate large amounts of visceral and emotional information, a sensation with enough depth to convey a whole world.
My search is informed by academic musical training, but I am not interested in proving my musical pedigree through sound. And although dreams may suggest a story, I do not aim to relate a precise narrative per se.
I want to create a dream, a music that fearfully borders lived experience, a music with mysterious skin so warm I am convinced it is alive, a music perennially full of something strange and vital.
And when I wake up from it, I hope I can snatch another handful of the feeling before it fades.
Whatever comes to mind.