Department of Art
The skin of our sleep is a flimsy thing. Within seconds, the world as we have deemed it to be real is strewn across an enormous expanse, left to mingle with something stronger and stranger. Internal and external swirl together. Color and motion begin to take shape and their fluidity is boundless.
“Hypnagogia” refers to that nebulous, albeit brief, state of consciousness between asleep and awake. The mere minutes spent toeing this threshold are among the most remarkably elusive and least understood tier of the human mind despite the fact that we all share in this experience every day. During this fragmentation of thought, our minds release from the mechanism that inherently demands rationalization. Free of this demand, our dreams, whether narrative or formless, are simply illustrations of our inner truths and vulnerability. Our thoughts are displayed as visual poetry, beautiful and relatable in their openness and a beacon of introspection to those who care to delve deeper into interpretation. What is left is honesty, unfiltered.
I began shooting Hypnagogia in 2017 amidst the descent into a crisis that forever changed my life. My hold on sleep, already tenuous, was the first thing to go. At night I found myself in a constant state of push and pull as I inched towards the tipping point of consciousness. I lost the distinction of imagination and reality in the space between the two. During the day, I struggled to put words to a problem I didn’t understand and couldn’t identify. I became consumed with the idea of visually portraying the language of the conscious as I had felt it at night, convinced that if I could see what was going on, I could understand it—and therefore fix it. The impressions of my movements left during these un-choreographed long exposure self-portraits appeared as “ink blots” reflecting the free flow of the hypnagogic state; simultaneously open to interpretation while offering small anchors of familiarity. Hypnagogia became my visual diary while lost in the maze of my own states of consciousness and, later, my map back out.
Throughout this book I have included excerpts from notes I kept during my six-week stay as well as from past dream journals, scribbles in book margins and mere passing thoughts. Sketches done during the beginning of my recovery are also included; drawing the very familiar provided grounding and balance and promoted mindfulness during struggles with the fleeting ability to remain present. These elements—sleep, mental health, and expression—are so inextricably wound together that to omit any one of them would fail to provide the full context of the series.
“Ink blots” rely on our individual perspectives and are given shape by our unique experiences and states of mind. Your reactions will inevitably be different than mine. I invite you to reflect on these photos and excerpts in the context of your own life, but remember: despite our interpretations being vast and varied, you do not experience them in a void. It is all too easy to find validation of the loneliness you can feel when coping with your mental health but you are not alone. If you are going through a difficult time, I encourage you to reach out for help.
Kathryn Reichert is best known for her genre-bending work in photography with images blending digital and analog media with alternative photographic processes, painting, and intaglio printing. Her work circles the idea of the psychological landscape carved by experiences, thoughts, and memories, and its impact on our varying interpretations of reality. Since her start in 2015, her work has been shown in galleries across the United States and Europe. She draws inspiration across mediums, from early painters to contemporary experimental artists, as well as her own life experiences.
Kathryn holds both a BFA in photography and a BBA in accounting from the University of Ӱ Fairbanks. She currently lives in New Jersey with her husband, two children, and a closet full of cameras.
