A painter who paints dreams asked me, a novelist, to write about dreams instead of painting them.
One night, I had a dream about a beautiful wooden house, some people, a small bright room, and my mother, although I don’t recall seeing her clearly. Around the beautiful wooden house were many people admiring it, but for some reason, the house seemed eerie to me, so I hurried back to my small room. My small room was very bright and warm, the only space that seemed to protect me from the world. I think I encountered my mother, or at least her voice, in front of that room. A friend I knew well was walking toward me, but we passed each other by without a word. However, suddenly the friend changed their mind, turned around, and patted me on the back warmly, asking how I was.
Dreams are often illogical, and that night’s dream was no different. The beautiful wooden house, my mother, and the friend who suddenly appeared were all part of my short dream, but they were unrelated. When I woke up from the dream, the first thing that came to mind was a door. Along with a feeling of emptiness and an inexplicable sadness, the image of a certain door was vividly imprinted in my mind.
The door in this painting is one of the images from that night’s dream, one that doesn’t connect well in a narrative but remains clear in my memory. Perhaps it’s the window of the wooden house I saw in my dream.