Dreams in Motion, Part 2: BLACK MIRROR

Echoes Through the Frame

While writing about my recurring dream, those moving photographs that lived on sheets of paper, stirring with the quiet breath of memory, a strange synchronicity unfolded. As if pulled from some invisible thread, a new episode of Black Mirror titled Eulogy appeared in my queue. I watched it last night, feeling the curious weight of recognition pressing closer with every scene.

Eulogy centers around the idea of diving into photographs to reconstruct memories, to relive moments that once were. It blurs the line between past and present, between artifact and experience, allowing characters to step inside static images as if they were living dreams. It was a vision almost eerily close to the world I had been describing, not just in my dreams, but in the intentions behind my Fragmented series.

Fragmented was born from a similar impulse, though shaped by different tools. It is a photographic series crafted with an intricate computer algorithm, designed to mirror the way the brain processes and reassembles memory. By blending personal photographs spanning decades, the series invites viewers into a surreal space where recognition and abstraction coexist, constantly shifting into new, unexpected perspectives. What seems familiar at first glance dissolves and reforms, just as memories do over time, fragmented, recombined, sometimes vivid, sometimes blurred at the edges.

In Eulogy, photographs are no longer relics to be admired at a distance. They become portals, places where emotional landscapes can be revisited and even manipulated. The technology allows grief to be softened, or intensified, by re-entering old memories as if they were still alive. It is a powerful, unsettling idea, one that resonates deeply with my original dream and with the Fragmented project itself. In both, there is an aching attempt to bridge the distance between what was and what remains. Both ask whether technology can recreate something as elusive as human memory, and what might be lost or distorted in the process.

Watching Eulogy made me realize that my recurring dream, my series, and this imagined future in the show are not separate threads, but part of a larger conversation. They each grapple with the same longing: to make memory tangible, to animate what time tries to steal, to hold onto the ephemeral pulse of life as it slips into the past.

But there is also caution there. In both my work and in Eulogy, there is a quiet question. When we try to recreate memory, are we preserving it, or are we rewriting it? And if the boundaries between real and reconstructed blur too deeply, do we risk losing the original altogether?

These are the echoes I am sitting with today, echoes of dreams, of art, of imagined futures where memory no longer fades quietly but lingers, moving and breathing just beyond the surface.