Titania Seidl

Most of my dreams are set in my studio. It’s never my real, current studio. Instead, I am in one I have had to vacate, or almost moved into, a friend’s studio, or a hypothetical one altogether. I don’t make any work in the dreams. They are about the site itself. The studio mutates into labyrinthian corridors where I can never find the right door, or my space suddenly is a performance stage, or there is a swimming pool in the space. Sometimes the studio has no roof, and I have to catch the rain in plastic bags.

My body panics as the swiping of my thumb on the display gets interrupted, a sinking feeling in my gut, all my hairs standing up. I frantically swipe to reopen whatever app. The little screen in my hand tells me it’s out of memory. I can relate.

A video of my friend’s baby from two years ago? Delete.

A two week old news podcast I saved for a better day? Delete.

A screenshot of a book cover that I’m unlikely to ever read? Delete.

A voice memo from my friend, telling me about her day in Vienna? Delete.

A long chain of squirrel videos sent back and forth between continents? Delete.

A pdf of a text that seemed important at the time that I forgot all about? Delete.

A series of screenshots from medieval paintings presented by the algorithm? Delete.

An old news report I filmed straight from the TV screen I never ended up sharing? Delete.

This gives me about three hours of time with a working phone, when I can swipe and wipe and consume all I want before the precious, recovered 1GB has filled up again with a cloud of unknowable data.

Photos by Kunning Huang.