Chasing a Dream

Years and years ago, I had a reoccurring dream.

I don’t remember how many times I had it, only that it was always basically the same place and left me with the same feeling.

It was at night, perhaps midnight or so. A summer night and I think it had rained, as the brick (or was it cobblestone) streets were wet and reflected the glow of streetlights. The air was cool yet humid. Above me, the stars were much brighter than what you’d expect.

I was walking through an old town square. At least, I think it was a town square. There were storefronts to one side and ahead of me, their windows dimly lit. The architecture felt old, perhaps from the 40s or 50s, yet somehow modern at the same time. Perhaps timeless, existing outside any particular year.

The square was on top of a large hill or small mountain. Past the town, the lights of a vast city stretched out below in front of me and to my right. I could see them twinkling in the valley, far beneath me.

There were no people. Yet the town wasn’t abandoned. The lights were on. Folks clearly used and took care of this place. But I was alone.

And somewhere, music was playing. Softly. I never knew where it came from. Maybe from a storefront, the open window of a car.   I don’t even remember the song. What I remember is the feeling of it. It drifted through the night air and became a part of the scene itself.

Every time, just as I reached the square, I would wake up

For years, I thought it was simply an interesting dream. Strange and sort of magical though, for sure. Lately, though, I’ve begun to wonder if it was something more. Not necessarily a prediction or a message (but who knows?)  Just a feeling that stayed with me. And the older I get, the more I discover things connected to that dream.

When I look at the photographs I’m most proud of, I notice the same atmosphere. Empty beaches. Quiet roads. Lone trees. Foggy paths. Old storefronts. Neon signs at night. Places suspended between one thing and another. Not lonely places but solitary places. Places where time seems to slow down or pause for a moment.

I see it in the paintings that move me as well. Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks has always felt strangely familiar. Not because it resembles the dream exactly, but because it evokes the same feeling.  A place frozen in time. A scene that invites questions but never answers them.

I hear it in music too. Songs like “Sleepwalk” by Santo and Johnny,  “Under the Milky Way”  by the Church, and “Wishing You Were Here” by Chicago, to name a few, create the same emotional landscape.  They evoke the same sense of wonder and atmosphere.

What strikes me now is all these things share a common thread.

They live in the space between what I see and what I feel.

Between night and morning. Between presence and absence. Between nostalgia and hope. Between knowing and wondering.

As a photographer, I’ve often said that I’m less interested in documenting a place than in capturing how it feels. Mood, atmosphere, and emotion matter more to me. I want a photograph to invite the viewer into a moment, not simply show them what was there.

Perhaps that desire began long before I ever picked up a camera. Perhaps, without realizing it, I’ve spent much of my life trying to recreate the feeling of that dream. Not the town square. Not the storefronts. Not even the music. But the feeling.

The feeling of standing in a quiet and mysterious place, under a star-filled sky, with the lights of the world spread out below and a song drifting through the nighttime from somewhere just out of sight. And maybe that’s what art is.

Maybe we spend our lives creating our way back to the moments that first taught us how to wonder.

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