Henry Peach Robinson, Sleep, 1867
Sleep, a deep well of inspiration for countless artists; like the moon that pulls on poets. Something so elusive yet so pertinent to our beings, an enigma that once we surrender to, consumes us whole. As the night-sky blinks its black dusty wings above our faces, we enter into a state where the unimaginable can reveal itself... winding into the labyrinth of our unconscious minds "chance becomes direction that we cannot see; discord, harmony not understood". A fragile thread streaming inside of us, wanting to connect us to the next piece of the patterned patchwork puzzle. |
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