The pictures in Taylor Galloway’s I Can Feel You Dreaming are glimpses of things, sometimes slippery, peripheral, brief, furtive shadows in the margins; they’re slowly unraveling threads that you can’t quite follow back to anything, but that nonetheless feel like clues, pieces of a forensic puzzle; they’re trance visions, or something you briefly noticed while looking for something else. Perhaps they remind you of channel surfing through the foothills of sleep as you toss and turn in a motel bed, slowly emerging from a fever dream or hangover. They’re a sort of Rorschach test, fragments in one of the millions of landfills in the universal subconsciousness. They’re a note you find next to your bed in the morning, mysterious, undecipherable words in vaguely familiar handwriting. They’re a garden of forking paths, the start of a journey that has no clear beginning or end, beyond sleep.
Galloway has taken his lived coincidences and offered them up in what feels like a strange, yet familiar dream from which we awaken with wonder.
7” x 9”