FIELD OF DREAMS

Colour, liberated from matter.

Field of Dreams dissolved the final boundary between artwork and observer. These were not paintings. They were experiences.

Each piece was a towering two-metre field of pure, radiant light — monumental illuminated forms where pigment had vanished, replaced by colour born directly from energy itself. The work did not sit inert on a surface. It erupted into the room, saturating the air, the walls, the viewer.

Standing before them, you were no longer looking at an artwork. You were inside it.

The colour did not reflect from a canvas — it was emitted, washing over your skin, tinting the air around your body, blurring the line between object and atmosphere. The distinction between figure and ground collapsed: you became part of the field, vibrating with the same charged light that once flooded the space.

Rooted in the emotional force of Rothko, the existential brinkmanship of Newman, and the vast silent fractures of Still, Field of Dreams reimagined abstraction not as static picture, but as living presence. An environment you didn’t just see — you felt.

There was no painting.
There was no wall.
There was only the field: infinite, pulsing, alive.

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