Date: 8/30/2019
By Aler
At the art gallery. In one room, a projector and set of lenses and mirrors projected a series of changing numbers near the ceiling. These were very hard to see by eye, but a black and white video monitor showed a live feed. Another wing was about warfare in the broadest sense. Metal objects hanging from the ceiling. The floor of the gallery was excavated, and there was a large pile of dirt and debris. To keep the gallery structurally sound, the floor was reinforced with overlapping metal scales, shaped like flounder. It was explained that these could by pressed by a machine in bulk. It wasn’t safe to slime down the debris pile, but there was a side wing with access. This wing had the artists mingling. One artist was a tall man with a shaved head, wearing a dark blue shirt and a long white skirt. He had a red scar in the back of his head. On the wall was a perfectly painted (or sculpted?) copy of the back of his head. There was a lot more, now forgotten. I like art gallery dreams, since every work of art was actually created by my own brain.