Dreamlands - AW22–23 booklet digital PDF

introduction

This is the second edition of the seasonal Dreamlands
publication, featuring collaborative ceramic works and
a soundpiece made through community workshops in
Glasgow’s Southside over Autumn and Winter 2022-23.
This edition includes an essay reflecting on a year of
community dream sharing, linking the recurring images
of water voiced by the dreamers to the notion of ‘oceanic
feeling’ and its political implications. This body of work
considers expressions of dreams as communicative
gestures that can operate as a form of social and political
action.
Dreamlands is a on-going research project by artist Mina
Heydari-Waite, weaving together ideas arising in
collaboration and conversation with the dreamlands
pottery (a group of women* from global majority
backgrounds**) and in walking together we make the path
(a social dreaming workshop open to people of
marginalised genders***). The project asks: can the act of
sharing our dreams create possibilities for new thought
about how we occupy space in our shared waking world?
Dreamlands is a Govanhill Baths Culture Collective project,
interpreting the theme of OCCUPY! through socially
engaged artistic practice.
* our use of the word women is inclusive of trans and intersex women, and
non-binary people who are comfortable in a space that centres the experience
of women.
**global majority is a collective term that refers to people who are Black, Asian,
Brown, mixed-heritage and/or indigenous to the global south.
***my use of the phrase marginalised genders includes transgender women,
cisgender women, transgender men, non-binary people, and other gender
identities that have been systematically oppressed by those in power, both
historically and in the present.

in walking
together we
make the path

A collective of voices weave together a sensorial
soundscape, using fragments drawn from a series of social
dreaming* workshops open to people of marginalised
genders in the Southside of Glasgow. We gathered together
on cold Tuesday nights in a dimly lit community space, our
voices blending to create a shared, constellated dream.
How might our individual dreams manifest if we treat them
as contributions to a shared imagining of the world?
The Autumn Winter 2022-23 dreamers include Charlotte
Bickley, Lisa Bradley, Fibi Cowley, Fi Halliday, Kirstin
Halliday, Mina Heydari-Waite, Ane Lopez, Molly Mae
Whawell, Sarah Martin, Erica Monde, Mindy Ptolomey,
Johanna Saunderson, Catherine Somerville, Muna Sultan,
Lucy Watkins and Sam Wood. The sound piece was created
by Mina Heydari-Waite, alongside producer Ane Lopez and
sound designer William Aikman.
Does anyone have a dream that they would like to share?
*social dreaming is a reflective practice in which people share their dreams and
associated thoughts, layering a collaborative collage of images, ideas, cultural
references and feelings.

Mmmm
close up - and then he suddenly looks like
someone else.
It was this tiny tunnel that went under this, like maybe,
six metre by nine metre boulder and it involved
crawling through this puddle. And you could only just
fit through it. So you had to… kind of trust
that someone else had done this before you and there
was a pathway through.
I was inside a toilet cubicle at work and as I was about
to go back outside I couldn’t remember where I was or
what I was doing there.
I’m on the platform of a subway station, and the
platform starts tilting and becoming very, very
slippery.
And I start sliding very slowly
towards the train tracks. No-one around me notices,
not even when I reach the very edge of the platform.
There were these two people that were across on the
other side of the space that we were in, and they were
submerged in water. The water was quite choppy and
there were a few of us trying to get towards them…
or then we were trying to use a piece of string, to try
and pull them towards us.
Wait!
They weren’t there, but you know, that way you can
just tell that they had been there recently. And there
was a note on a door in the bedroom saying, do
not open. And in my head I’m like, it’s probably just
cleaning supplies. But, I had to open the door. And
there was a whole other flat beyond the door.
I just couldn’t settle her. She started making this funny
shape with her mouth, but no noise was coming out.
Everybody is talking, speaking. I don’t know who’s
sitting behind and who’s coming or going.
Something’s going wrong and I can’t remember what.
I would always wake up to them and think that they were
laughing.
I knew something was off, it didn’t seem like my cat.
But they all kept telling me it was.
Like when I’m looking at this person’s face very
The elevator stops at a floor, but it’s only half the size.
A half floor.
The lift simulated what it would be like in an
earthquake, with the floor shaking. I remember
being completely appalled that no adult had
told me that this is something that could
happen.

And I do feel guilty. I’m like physically hurting him. Not on
purpose, but like I’ll make a mistake and then something
will happen to him.
We’d never told each other that we’d had these
strange dreams about the middle landing before.
And as soon as we spoke about it, the feeling
disappeared.
We had these caterpillars delivered in the post and
raised them, which was actually very useful for
tracking time. The butterflies emerged and we thought
it would be romantic to let one out of the window…
this butterfly floated down from the second floor,
and it landed on the grass below for a split second,
until this crow came down and ate it.
It wasn’t uncomfortable to start with. It was a
little mound, a kind of a rocky crag I suppose.
I was trying to work out what the best way to
go around it was. And I ended up climbing over
the top because it looked the most fun. There
was all this moss and these rocks, and then
these crows, which were kind of taxidermied
into the rocks. I was wriggling over it and my
bare belly was feeling the crows beaks.
Um, my bottom tooth is loose, and I can feel… I don’t know
if you remember the jelly bit that you would get. I am trying
to push the tooth back into the hole. I can’t figure out why
I can’t put it back in. And I pull it out to look and where the
base of the tooth should be, there is a tiny little skull.
I yawned and my jaw
dislocated. It was pitch black
in my room.
He asks this young woman to teach him and his wife how
to swim, but they don’t have any access to a pool. So they
do the front crawl on the carpet and breath training in a
bowl of water and swim their way around their apartment.
I’m in this swimming pool. There’s been a murder, and
the evidence is this smashed figurine stuck
in the pool filter. This wheeler dealer lawyer is kind of
representing me - but he is also Owen Wilson,
the actor.
Every time I look at him, his hair changes, a floppy
mop, a tight perm - oh look! half his moustache has
disappeared. I notice my sandals are rimmed with
blood. Maybe I am the murderer.
I deflect the blame, and then this pool attendant tells
me to stop pointing the finger. I just loose my rag at
him. I’m screaming, and while I don’t push him, the
force of the conflict drives him back.
Did someone put this in my bag?
Somebody has given me this, this child, this
young boy - he is darting all over the place, so
fast that I just can’t contain him.
I have a tiny, tiny, tiny bird living on my palm, so small that

it gets lost in the folds of my hand. It has chicks so small
they are just black specks. I am trying to feed them using
the end of a pin. Eventually they all die, apart from the
father bird who I keep in a tea strainer.
Now everything shifts, and I manage to catch
him in this brown paper bag.
What is it that you lost?
My arm just felt like a foreign object.
She told me that a bear had shredded her whole
house, she described her house as being like, made of
paper.
The light was everywhere. I was scared that he was gonna
die in Pakistan. And when 40 years later, I got the phone
call, I was stuck in the traffic on a dark night and yet again,
there was light everywhere.
The waters rapidly rose from the river, right up into
the windows of the house and then completely
submerged the living room.
Um, and one time I was speaking to my ex-girlfriend on
the phone, I was 19, so it was all very torturous. I walked
into my bedroom on the phone and without thinking
pulled back the curtain. And there was a man standing
there looking at me. I opened the door and he just ran.
There were these two whales, like blue whales, but
the size of orcas. They swam into the living room. The
water is very dark, and I’m looking for my little cousin.
And then these two little dismembered legs pop up.
It almost didn’t sound like a train anymore, it
just sounded like some sort of animal.
We can hear the rumblings every time it goes past. And
sometimes I lie awake thinking about the hole caving in.
A hole appeared in the ceiling and there was
water coming in and mushrooms growing
from the wallpaper.
It’s kind of made me feel differently about what might
be possible. I was part of some sort of ceremony. I
wasn’t really there as a person. I was there as a kind of
container. And I had to kind of like… hug is not really
the right word, but kind of enfold this person.
It’s like the sensation of someone
coming from behind me and
embracing me.
Hmmm
I don’t remember what the game was, but the prize
was like… they were, um, they were a pearl that
was inside a big shell. It was really beautiful… kind
of glistening. And then they unzipped themselves
out of the pearl and unfurled.

Ermmmm…
There was a performance happening in a wooden cubicle.
They got us all to come in and locked the doors. Then
they said, “Now get naked”. And I was like, “No, I’m not
getting naked”. And they were like, “Well, you can’t leave”.
And then I said, ‘I’m having a panic attack”. So I crawled
out underneath the door of the cubicle. I was so angry.
But then, when the door opened… I saw the performance
kind of dissipating; it was all dark, there were all these
butterflies and beautiful naked bodies. And I thought,
“Oh no, I think I kind of missed out now”. But I was still
kind of enraged.
It felt like my bed had slowly tipped and I was sliding
out of it.
I never really landed.
I arrive at the ferry port and I’ve missed the
ferry.
And the water is churning
and the ferry is moving further and further
away.
And the teacher, I remember her particularly hating me
for some reason, asked, “How do you not know that
you’re not dreaming now?”
pottery
the dreamlands

A group of eight women from global majority backgrounds
met fortnightly over 2022 to use clay as a means to think
about dreams and talismans. We came together in different
combinations - as work, school holidays, illness and life’s
various chores and crises allowed - and slowly over the
months we coiled, carved, extruded, poured, buffed and
glazed a body of collaborative work. We talked about
letting the clay lead and about intuitive, sensory, collective
making. We reflected on the ways in which vessels can
carry stories. We thought about special symbols and
charmed objects. We shared the occasional dream. The
transformative processes of working with ceramics
together yielded unexpected results: some objects came
out from their final firings shimmering; others cracked or
warped, their glazes running to fuse pot shard to kiln shelf.
The outcomes of our year of pottering remind us that clay,
like life, often overtakes the plans we impose on it. The
following images document the series of totemic objects
that emerged from the dreamlands pottery.
The Dreamlands potters are Syeda Sadaf Anwar, Hanaa
Ahmad, Lottie Brand, Nina Candido, Lydia Gitamvu, Mina
Heydari-Waite, Shanaz Miah and Yas Rahemtulla. The
art direction for the documentation of the group’s work
was by Mina Heydari-Waite, with photography by Jess
Holdengarde and floral design by Molly Mae Whawell.
Photograph of the workshop by Erika Stevenson

we dive, we float,
we drift, we are
swept away and
under…

we dive, we float, we drift, we are swept away and under…
social dreams in Glasgow’s Southside
Mina Heydari-Waite
An essay reflecting on a year of social dreaming
workshops in Glasgow’s Southside, linking the recurring
images of water voiced by the dreamers to the notion of
‘oceanic feeling’ and its political implications.
Thanks to the dreamers who contributed to in
walking together we make the path over 2022 and to
psychotherapist, social dreaming practitioner and
dramatist Laurie Slade for his mentorship during the
development of my ideas around social dreaming.
I sink down on the black plumes of sleep; its thick wings
are pressed to my eyes […] Oh, to awake from dreaming!
Look, there is the chest of drawers. Let me pull myself
out of these waters. But they heap themselves on me;
they sweep me between their great shoulders; I am
turned; I am tumbled; I am stretched, among these long
lights, these long waves, these endless paths, with
people pursuing, pursuing.
Virginia Woolf, The Waves (2000: 14)
On the last Tuesday of the month, I meet with a group of
people in the Southside of Glasgow to share dreams in a
workshop called in walking together we make the path.
The workshop, which has been running since March 2022,
is inspired by social dreaming, a reflective practice in
which people share their dreams and associated thoughts,
weaving together a collaborative collage of images, ideas,
memories and feelings. It’s a free associative process that
seeks to put our ‘rationally’ defined reality in conversation
with our dreaming minds, offering potential for new
perspectives to arise. I am an artist and I host these
workshops as part of an ongoing line of practice-based
research, developing seasonal, episodic soundscapes in
which members of the workshop voice fragments of one
another’s dreams.
The reciprocal relationships between our dreams, our
waking socialities and the representation of dreams
are complex and porous. Dreaming is not exclusively a
private affair, as social dreaming practitioner Laurie Slade
describes: ‘[...] dreams speak of the social realities we are
embedded in - as families, as groups, as communities,
as cultures – as much as they speak of the inner life of
a dreamer’ (2021: 3). With this in mind, the aim of social
dreaming is not to interpret a dream for an individual
dreamer; instead, as with many indigenous traditions, but

to consider a dream as part of a collective matrix. At the
heart of social dreaming is the idea that, through sharing
our dreams, we can create possibilities for new thought
about our shared social context and issues concerning us
collectively.
When it works, when it flows, the workshop operates like
a shared, constellated dream in its own right. Waves of
shared feeling, reverie, mood and tone wash through the
group. Our voices blend, it becomes hard to distinguish
who says what; the dreams become a torrent, tumbling
over one another. In later discussions, dreams from
the group are often misattributed: I was particularly struck
by one participant who was surprised to learn that a
dream they believed they had shared, had actually been
voiced by someone else.
As I prepared for the last workshops of 2022, I had
been researching the notion of ‘oceanic feeling’, and
reading Virginia Woolf’s 1931 The Waves, a novel that she
described as a ‘play-poem’, in which she reflects the fluid
boundaries of selfhood in the water-rhythms of her prose.
Submerged beneath the voices of Woolf’s characters,
there is continuity that resists the atomising orders of
wakefulness, a sense that she later outlined in an essay,
A Sketch of the Past: ‘the whole world is a work of art;
that we are parts of the work of art; we are the music; we
are the thing itself’ (1990: 81). In The Waves, we see one
character, Bernard, ask: ‘“Who am I?” I have been talking
of Bernard, Neville, Jinny, Susan, Rhoda and Louis. Am
I all of them? Am I one and distinct? I do not know’ (2000:
162-3).
‘Oceanic feeling’ is a term conceived by Romain Rolland
in a 1927 letter to Sigmund Freud, in which Rolland draws
upon his experience of mystic traditions to describe a
‘sensation of eternity; of being one with the external world
as a whole’ (Masson, 2012: 33). For Rolland, oceanic feeling
is the affect that ebbs beneath spiritual experiences,
characterised by a sense of boundless porosity that
dissolves the hard boundaries between the self and the
rest of the world. My understanding of the oceanic has
been influenced by poet and scholar Jackie Wang’s essay
Oceanic Feeling and Communist Affect (2016), in which
she explores the social implications of oceanic states,
asking whether they have the potential to aid collectivised
social modes. In my practice, I have found that the idea
of oceanic feeling parallels the affective properties and
generative possibilities of dream states. Both speak to a
primary interconnectedness, the fluidity of networks, and,
in opposition to their cognate binaries of dry land and the
waking world, a sense of vast possibility that challenges
the boundaries of individual subjectivity, linking us to more
collective modes of thought.
Oceanic feeling was dismissed by Freud as an echo of the
lesser consciousnesses of the infant, who is incapable
of distinguishing between themselves, other people and
the rest of the material world. As Wang traces in her essay,
Freud’s conceptualisation of oceanic feeling as infantile
regression was expanded by analyst Julia Kristeva in Black
Sun, as ‘a hallucinated completeness’ linked with female
melancholia; a ‘lethal ocean’ in which the disintegration
of the discrete self is linked to madness and obliteration
(2016). Some of these more compromising affects of
the oceanic are also evoked by the dream from The Waves
that opens this piece: ‘[…] these waves, these endless
paths, with people pursuing […]’. Wang identifies other
schools of thought that reveal Kristeva and Freud’s views
as reductive; however, in step with Kristeva’s identification
of the negative connotations of the oceanic, I recognise
that during the in walking together workshops, feelings
of danger, particularly in relation to dissolution of the
self, have often been expressed through images of water:
‘And you know, I was seeing water every second day.
I’m drowning. I see so much water’ (in walking together

dreamer, 2022). This dreamer echoed Woolf’s description
of a desire to pull themselves ‘out of these waters’: ‘[…]
even though I usually don’t go to the mosque or anything,
I phoned and said, my dreams were okay, but now I’m
drowning’ (in walking together dreamer, 2022). The fear of
being washed away feels all the more potent in a city like
Glasgow, a city shaped by water, carved by the river Clyde
and flattened by a notorious amount of rain. In the 19th
century, the ‘second city’ of the British Empire built
a fifth of that empire’s ships on the banks of Clyde, and its
complex colonial history feeds into its rapid decline as a
major industrial centre and its subsequent shifting urban
identity. I remember the first week I moved to the Southside
of Glasgow, after navigating a flooded drainage gully on
my way home from work, I checked flood maps to gauge
when my first floor tenement flat might be submerged. Is it
any wonder the city’s fluctuating water levels are reflected
in the rising waters of our dreams?
I spoke to Laurie Slade about the more threatening aspects
of the oceanic, and he drew my attention to how these
anxieties feed into a repeated rhythm. This pattern is
often reflected in the rhythm of social dreaming sessions
themselves; we can be anxious to enter the waters, we
enter the collective flow and then, at the end of a session,
we get back onto dry land,tingling. This sense of a
generative, cyclical water-rhythm is reminiscent of Wang’s
description of the work of psychoanalyst Marion Milner.
Milner saw dipping into oceanic states as an essential part
of the creative process, if one can use the subsequent
tingling animation to ‘make something’:
In order to transform the oceanic state into an aesthetic
object the artist must oscillate between different modes
of perception and awareness because the oceanic
state, like dream states, resists signification. In other
words, the writer or artist must “submerge” and then
come to the surface for air.
Wang on Milner, Oceanic Feeling and Communist
Affect (2016)
Throughout the in walking together workshops, water was
omnipresent. In our dreams, we dived, floated, drifted, were
swept away and under seas, viscous liquids and pools
that ‘went metres and metres and metres down’ (in walking
together dreamer, 2022). While, at times, the ocean did
indeed feel lethal, it was also often sensual, joyful, sublime.
Often, the affect induced by what I categorise as ‘the
watery dreams’ was fluid and changing:
We were trying to walk along this beach together in this
howling, howling wind and rain that was just getting
stronger and stronger… and we all had umbrellas,
walking together like Roman soldiers with their shields,
like a tortoise. We came to this huge bridge – like the
golden gate bridge but bigger – and we were struggling
to get across. I didn’t know where we were going or
where we were coming from. The water from the sky
kept coming down and the water underneath the bridge
began to rise. And it became quite clear that we were all
really in peril and that we might not make it across. All of
a sudden this huge wave came, swept us off the bridge
and woke us up. And then we were all in a community
centre together, asking, “Do you think we made it? Do
you think we made it across the bridge?
in walking together we make the path dreamer, 2022
Anticipatory longings and communal desires overflow
themselves in the act of reaching towards their supposed
destination. Heraclitis’ notion that ‘a man never steps in

the same river twice, for the river is not the same river
and the man is not the same man’ comes to mind (Barnes,
2982: 49). Heraclitis’ use of water as a metaphor for life
flow, for a continuous, fluid process of becoming, is
conjured up by this dream: ‘[...] the water from the sky kept
coming down and the water beneath the bridge began to
rise [...]’ (in walking together dreamer 2022). While states
that threaten the boundaries of the discrete self can feel
perilous, they also have a powerful generative potential. As
Rolland framed it, the oceanic is not simply a regressive
return, but ‘part of a mature process of becoming; an
experience of ego loss that enables one to commune with
the “substance” of existence in a way that radically alters
one’s orientation to the world’ (Wang, 2016). In the dream
above, the undefined ‘we’ emerges from the wave that
‘swept us off the bridge and woke us up’ to ask: ‘do you
think we made it?’ ‘We’ are enveloped in the flow, and there
is always a danger (for all of us) that we might not make it.
The waters rapidly rose from the river, right up into the
windows of the house and then completely submerged
the living room. There were these two whales, like blue
whales, but the size of orcas. They swam into the room.
The water is very dark and very deep, and I’m looking for
my wee cousin. And then these two little dismembered
legs pop up.
in walking together we make the path dreamer, 2022
dream is shared it takes on ‘a collective value and social
significance’ (Schmitt, 1999: 274-275). I’ve been reflecting
on how the experience of being socially marginalised, of
having needs that go unmet and voices that are ignored
at systemic levels, might influence how we remember and
share our dreams. Are those marginalised in the waking
world more disposed to dream of new emancipatory
socialities? In The Waves, it is the figure of Rhoda
who operates as an oceanic dreamer, struggling to
distinguish between herself and the rest of the world, her
boundlessness is othered (as mysticism or madness) and
her dreaming is silenced, first through social alienation and
then through death by drowning. If one effect of dreaming
is the ability to conceptualise alternative representations
of things we have trouble picturing or articulating (both
to ourselves and others) – to start thinking through some
of the ‘unthinkably’ difficult struggles of our social lives
(Sliwinski, 2017) – what gushes out when we unblock a
dam?
There were these two people that were across on the
other side of the space that we were in, and they were
like submerged in water, and there was like a few of us
trying to go towards them or, um, get a piece of material
or string to try to pull them towards us. And the water
was quite choppy. Moving, filling this space.
in walking together we make the path dreamer, 2022
The in walking together workshops are open to people of
marginalised genders (women and intersex, transgender
and non-binary people); people whose gender identities
have been oppressed by patriarchal systems, both
historically and in the present. I wonder how this shapes
our shared dream culture (the beliefs, values and
practices of a group of dreamers). From the moment a
Rolland emphasised ‘the energising effect of the oceanic
orientation on social and political action’ (Wang, 2016).
What if, like Wang, we asked what it might mean to
socialise oceanic feeling, starting in our own communities?
One way to do this may be through practices like social
dreaming, where the expression of dreams can be a means
of challenging our hegemonic rationalities. Frantz Fanon

offered us a compelling characterisation of the dream
as a zone in which to develop emancipatory, decolonial
thought (Fanon, 2001: 15). There are many historical
precedents where dreams have been used to radical ends,
as in the testimony of Plenty Coups of the Indigenous
American Crow Nation, who shared a dream-vision with
his community in order to imagine a way to continue in
the face of cultural genocide – and, later, to begin a crosscultural
dialogue with colonisers (Lear, 2006). In this
light, dream sharing is a particular kind of communicative
gesture that ‘can serve as a potent form of political
intervention’, a means of resisting sovereign power
(Sliwinski, 2017: xiii).
We are driving down Kenmure Street. Then we turn into
this big black warehouse with a plain door. We open the
door and walk down these steps leading to this almost
Roman bath like thing, with big stone columns… and
then water was coming up to my calves. I was wearing
these wellies, and I could feel the cold water seeping in.
I knew it couldn’t be real, and I knew I was really feeling
the water.
incredible act of radical imagination. If we want to nurture
modes of political thought capable of ‘creating openings
where there were previously none,’ the aesthetics of
dreams are vital (Wang, 2021). Woolf knew this, and used
the evocation of dreaming and oceanic affect to undermine
the ‘Western valorisation of individual selfhood’ she saw as
fuelling the British imperialist project (Marcus 1997: 155).
The social implications of oceanic and dream states have
the potential to draw us towards an acceptance that we
are all tumbled together in Rolland’s ocean, Heraclitis’
flow, Woolf’s waves, and the choppy waters of our shared,
social dreams. The radical potential of these states to tap
into the porous consciousness of a community is redolent
in the recurring image of water, which points to a sense of
the oceanic as a goal or an aim. In these understandings,
perhaps we can imagine new ways to resist the structures
and states that atomise us, and flow together in the world
we share? If not in a great flow, then perhaps in many
trickles. The dream above was shared ten months after the
Kenmure Street protest, and now, another ten months later,
I can still feel the water seeping in, calling its dreamers
towards acts of radical imagination.
in walking together we make the path dreamer, 2022
In our dreams we know that the ‘not real’ can also be(come)
real. Kenmure Street, in the Southside of Glasgow, is a site
of recent collective action that marked a historic victory for
our community. Early on the morning of the 13th May 2021,
during Eid al-Fitr, a dawn immigration raid resulted in two
of our long-term neighbours being taken from their homes
and detained in an Home Office van. The community, of
which the in walking together dreamers are part, responded
with a spontaneous sit-in protest, surrounding the van for
eight hours until –in an unprecedented turn of events – the
men were released. Our neighbours came together in an

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