Jan Christian Pohl

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dream//er//s of last night, unite!

Dreams, like fairy tales, are true; they illustrate truth.
Yet they do so according the their own rules and logic, the laws of dreams and dreaming.
Dreams make sense, somehow, sooner or later, sooner and later.
We dream symbols, speak metaphors and live stories.

Mr. J.C. P.'s paintings are true in that they are dreams; they are dream depiction.
They operate according to the same dream-logic, and in so doing ring real and substantial.
They succeed in that one has the feeling thepaintings have something important
and precious to give, a gift or present of sorts. Accordingly,
one must make neither demands nor stake claims. No need of interpretation.
Best to simply watch and wait and accept whatever one is given. It will, no doubt, be of value.

These painted dreams are in part the income//output of long night hours,
watching others in pursuit of entertainment, having or wanting to have fun;
good and bad fun, wholesome and broken//breaking fun,
long late nights at the door fun, drunken, freezing and frenzied, and yes, snowy fun.
When a man has seen too many late nights, awake when he wants to sleep and asleep
when wanting to be awake, he begins to dream uneasily, in fragments, darkly, drugged.

Dreams work on you, and vice versa. Dreams are work, hard work for some.
Mr. P. works hard, dreams hard and paints hard. He does his soul-work.
Mr. P.  is a sleep-talking, dream-walking poet painter painting with pieces of pieces of pieces of things.
All materials of this, our physical world are summoned to serve his purposes.
He is a master of artful association, of sly symbolic show, of curious collage.
His paintings are purposeful selections of images, each embodying a valid unity of chaotic,
random elements – dreams poured into a frame, given shape, given meaning.

Let me tell you a telling tale.
When first I met Mr. P., he was alone, that night, with 2000 people watching.
I walked up, past the line, to him, proud both to know him and to be seen knowing him.
Shaking hands, he let me in, through the door, into the world of the night, a world of night and bright light.
Later, in the late//early//late hours of the night//morning he handed me a piece of paper,
a poem on paper, a pencilled piece of dream-work. I will read it to you:

'ffm-west manifesto'

   colours of the world, unite!
brushes and paint, unite!
    comics and cans, unite!
frames and pictures, unite!
    snow and white, unite!
images, tired and torn, unite!
    blue and berry, unite!
minutes and hours, unite!
    Cupid and Bacchus, unite!
force and night, unite!
    roses and ponds, unite!
doors, open and closed, unite!
    fighter planes fly & fight!
bullets and targets, unite!
    horror and delight, unite!
demons, struggle, lose, take flight!
    cowboys and indians, unite!
 creators and critics, unite!
    tales, fairy and myth, unite!
thoughts, bold and tight, unite!
    marriage and love, unite!
rabbits and hats, unite!
    winter and Christmas, unite!

    news and paper, unite!
writers of the world, write,
    of Mr. J.C. P's style and insight,
    again, I say, delight and write!