Daniel Radcliffe

A few years ago, while I was asleep, my brain arranged this dream for me:

In a room with my brother. The wall in front of us has a window in it; outside there’s rolling grassy hills that remind me of learning to draw in elementary school. We witness a blinding flash on the horizon. It is unclear if it’s an asteroid or nuclear bomb but all I know— am filled with a profound sense of understanding of— is that we will not survive it, and I have x amount of time left with him.

Dream time is malleable to your needs. Some seconds pass over the course of five minutes, others are skipped in big blocks.

We watch as the blast wave crests hill after hill. I know that I have thirty seconds until it hits, fifteen seconds to say everything I need to say to him, twelve to ask him every question, four to resolve our relationship… two seconds, half a second, a quarter of a second… one eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth of a second… one thousandth; it’s blowing the glass out of the window… one millionth; it’s burning my lips off as they move—

I use my practice in an analogous way, to diagram spaces or relationships of exponential scale or complexity and suspend them in an extended study. Found images and forms are rendered with earthly materials that speak to the frenzied ache of living in, as they say, interesting times.