Night Shift:
Institutional Dreams
by Yasya Minenkova, Yanis Proshkinas
“In the depths of dreams I am born anew.”1
— Alain Bosquet
— Alain Bosquet
The body rests, but work continues. What happens when sleep itself becomes an artistic practice?
This question unfolds through a dialogical essay structured by the internal rhythms of sleep — from the threshold of falling asleep to awakening. In the exchange between curator and artist, dialogue weaves fragmented dream memories, associations, and cultural references, moving fluidly between lived experience, theory, and speculation.
Through this movement, the notion of oneiric curating takes shape as a provisional mode of curatorial thinking unfolding within sleep: a process in which accumulated, unprocessed experiences of art and institutional labour are reorganised beyond the demands of feasibility, visibility, and productivity. Rather than replacing curatorial practice, it reframes it, attending to how unrealised ideas persist before they enter form.
Sleep is understood here as a double process: the body’s withdrawal from activity, and the dreaming that unfolds within it. We approach it through three overlapping registers: as undercommons (a fugitive space of non-work and unmediated creativity), as work that does not sleep (invisible labour continuing within supposed rest), and as simulator (a space where institutional roles and environments become fluid and reconfigurable). Through this lens, oneiric curating emerges as a methodological reorientation of curatorial thinking that suspends institutional regimes of productivity and visibility, while reconfiguring artistic imagination and exhibition space as sites of pre-instrumental, non-optimisable thought.
This text is written from within practice. Yasya Minenkova works as an independent curator, focusing on how contemporary art engages with institutional regimes of visibility and forms of alienation. Yanis Proshkinas is an artist whose work engages organisational structures, labour, and the bodily effects of accelerated economies. Their shared attention to sleep emerged from necessity: institutional exhaustion and the difficulty of separating work work from rest — and more specifically, from sleep.
Dialogue serves as methodology, refusing monological authority. Between two voices emerges what neither could articulate alone: the recognition that sleep and dreaming — whilst radically private and seemingly utopian — are also institutional, political, and profoundly social.
[phase 0: falling asleep. from the outside to the inside]
Yasya: Fatigue is a mode of operation. Byung-Chul Han writes2 about the society of fatigue, in which the subject exploits itself while believing this to be freedom. In independent curatorial practice, this is particularly evident: exhibitions happen not because there is a budget or institutional support, but because the idea needs to be realised. Self-organisation demands full commitment with minimal resources.
Yanis, do you remember in May, we were working on a self-organised exhibition in Paris, in which you also participated. Two days of exhibition, then departure. I remained in a state of activation: the body exhausted, the mind still active, replaying how the dialogues between works might have been structured differently, which conceptual threads had not fully surfaced. Self-organisation is its own form of freedom: a seizure of space where institutional demands temporarily recede. But even here, not every configuration you conceive can be materialised. Some projects persist as potential: existing in what I think of as unrealised curating — curatorial thinking that accumulates in the spaces between realised projects, in conversations, in dreams, in the perpetual reworking of adjacencies that never entered form.
When I returned to Vilnius, my curatorial practice did not stop. It simply changed register: for an entire week, I dreamt of exhibitions.
> 4 June 2025, 04:42 — dream no. 1.
I dreamt that we installed a new artwork by Yanis at a new group exhibition. It was made of large sheets of very thin cardboard. The work appeared as a series of large diagrams or maps, something like a visual account of corporate labour, rendered on a weightless white surface. By association, it reminded me of Klee’s Angelus Novus — Benjamin’s “angel of history,”3 looking back at the past while being blown into the future. Only in Yanis’s case it was not an angel, but geometry, abstraction, continuing his path of research in a new visual form. The installation was approximately 5 × 2 metres in size. And I think that, by the end, part of it had torn.
The details kept slipping away, because I could not show the work and could not photograph it. In an era of the archival turn4 — a ubiquitous impulse towards fixation and reproduction — this radical non-documentability opens another temporality. What cannot be captured cannot be exchanged: it resists conversion into the kind of documented experience. Following Adorno5, what resists subsumption under categories of exchange retains something of its non-identity. The dream, in this sense, is a refusal of documentation: a rupture that compels new efforts of remembering and reconstruction, provoking active creative work rather than passive consumption of the archived image.
Curatorial work often involves translating the visual into language; but how does one describe something never seen, yet inhabited? In a dream, the image cannot be grasped, only remembered upon waking. From this gap emerge traces that unsettle conventional understandings of the image and its capture.
What interested me most, though, was the spatial dimension: sensing adjacency, scale, and orientation without a fixed viewpoint. In dreams, entire unimaginable architectures emerge: an exhibition in a cave where curatorial decisions felt both unexpected and precise, vast installations unfolding at an impossible scale. Dream-space operates according to a different structural logic: no stable frontal position, the viewer simultaneously inside and outside the scene, scale that does not obey bodily proportion. Space folds, expands, and contracts. For curatorial practice, this is not just an aesthetic curiosity: space can operate as a temporal device, slowing perception, redistributing attention, and suspending the demand for immediate legibility. The unexpected organisation of space in dreams suggests alternative modes of arranging artworks, unsettling frontal viewing and transforming adjacency into immersion.
Yanis: I would take a step back here and place your experience within a broader practice: that of dream sharing. It is a specific form of social interaction in which people tell one another their dreams, shaped by whom you share them with and which dreams you choose to tell. In the morning, my wife and I tell each other our dreams — often unpleasant ones, involving betrayal or death — so that the other person can help dispel their lingering effects, as if undoing a spell from another world.
I see your situation as a form of micro-subversion, unfolding as a parallel performative line between dreaming and exhibition-making. When you talk about dreaming about a work by a fellow artist, you are already producing a kind of performative act. Narrating a dream operates as a direct intervention. Once articulated, it enters a shared symbolic space and begins to act within it, shaping attention, association, and expectation.
When a dreamed work is told to an artist, the narration participates in their practice: it introduces images and directions that may later be taken up, transformed, or displaced. This, in itself, has value. I would call it oneiric subversion — a register in which ideas appear prior to stabilisation, suspended between emergence and realisation. Dreaming allows unrealised exhibitions, latent trajectories, and unfinished thoughts to re-enter experience as presences that continue to work without demanding resolution. Its subversive force lies precisely in this loosened relation to productivity: it introduces forms of action that resist being optimised, measured, or resolved.
Have you ever counted how many works by your fellow artists have appeared in your dreams since you first became aware of this pattern?
Yasya: I have, actually. I even started keeping a small diary of curatorial dreams. In a surprisingly short time, I dreamt of: (1) your new artwork; (2) a new project by Christoph Büchel; (3) a show by my friend and fellow curator Kate in a cave; (4) a porcelain tea set by some avant-garde artist from the 1960s, with lines of poetry written on each cup that together formed a single poem; (5) an outdoor public art exhibition in a courtyard, where a street artist presented a painted oval canvas and staged a performance with a rubbish bin (complete with proper exhibition design, walls and all, can you imagine?); (6) how another curator friend of mine did a retrospective of all her research topics in her life. I find this both absurd and genuinely exciting... I am writing them down! And also sketching them.
Fig. 1: Sketched dreams in Yasya's diary. Dream no. 1 and Dream no. 2.
This, I began to understand, is what oneiric curating is — a mode of curatorial thinking that unfolds in sleep, where accumulated experience of art and artistic labour reorganises itself beyond the conditions imposed by social consensus and the demand for measurable outcomes.
But why did Angelus Novus appear in my very first dream?
Walter Benjamin wrote of Klee's angel that it resembles all from which he had to part, and that in the things he no longer has, it dwells.6 I would add: "In the things we do not yet have, he dwells." This is how we understood that the dream is not what has been lost, but what will be found again.
Why again? Because the dream operates through a logic of return. The dream doesn't invent; it retrieves. It is not an archive of what has been lost, but a site where what has not yet found form continues to live.
Julia Kristeva describes melancholia as a state in which the lost object persists within the psyche as a mute, unresolved presence — structuring affect as pressure exerted by what cannot be symbolically integrated.7 Dreaming operates differently: rather than holding the unresolved in stasis, it mobilises it. What waking consciousness could not process is not discarded but handed over — retrieved and reworked in forms entirely unfamiliar. It is hardly surprising that after their intensity inParis, these exhibitions returned in dreams.
Here, a distinction becomes necessary. Sleep is physiological and temporal: a suspension of external demands and conscious regulation. Dreaming is apsychic activity within this suspension: unconscious labour that reorganises experience through non-linear association. Freud called it the "royal road to the unconscious,"8 where repressed material returns through condensation and displacement. Yet what matters here is not the return of the repressed, but the emergence of what was never articulated.
It is precisely this logic that connects dreaming to abstraction. Klee understood it: form thinks before the artist does. Abstraction is not a withdrawal from representation but a language of emergence — unmediated, pre-social, oriented towards what has not yet taken shape. The dream, like abstraction, is a mode of thinking that precedes decision and authorship.
Yanis: For me, the most critical question about abstraction is always the logic through which we think abstraction itself. Numbers obey formal logic — and it is precisely this that lies at the core of acceleration: the moment we assign a value and begin to track it, an intense desire emerges to improve that metric. The dream undoes this. It is the one space where formal logic ceases to function — where our interlocutor can be simultaneously friend and enemy, where 1 > 2 becomes genuinely possible. The dream is a practice of another logic. And someone is deliberately depriving us of sleep.
Fig. 2: Screenshot from Yanis’ work chat, 2025.
[phase 1: slow sleep. fixation of images]
Yasya: Do you remember Sophie Calle's project “The Sleepers” (1979)?9 She invited strangers to sleep in her bed whilst she photographed and observed them and asked about their dreams. What interests me is not the sleeping body as subject, but the structure of the situation itself: sleep as a shared condition, a framework within which something can be witnessed, exchanged, narrated. Dreams extracted and observed from outside. But what if it were entered from within? Shared and superimposed as unmediated creative thought, before representation fixes it in place, reconfiguring how we understand the very conditions under which art is displayed and contextualised. What happens when we treat dreaming as a method of artistic research?
Yanis: I've been part of a practice that takes this idea of exchange quite literally. "Sleep is destiny”. That is the name of a small community of twelve, organised around dream sharing, of which I have been a part since 2019. One of its key features is anonymity: we write down our dreams, but we do not know who has written which one.
A strange effect emerges after a few years, when you return to the archive of past entries. You suddenly realise that you no longer remember which dreams were yours and which belonged to other participants. Each dream becomes both your own and someone else’s. Through this practice of reading, you become slightly altered: quite literally allowing other people’s dreams to inhabit your mind, while distancing yourself from your own.
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Fig. 3: Screenshot from “Sleep is Destiny” community, 2025.
Yasya: It resembles potential space10: that intermediate area between self and other where creativity occurs without fixed authorship. Or like a community in which the question "whose dream?" ceases to matter. When I tell you about dreaming of the artwork, whose dream is it? Mine, because I experienced it? Yours, because it's your work? Or does it belong to neither of us, existing in this third space where individual authorship dissolves?
Jean-Luc Nancy writes in “The Fall of Sleep” that sleep itself knows only equality — the measure common to all, which allows no differences or disparities. “All sleepers fall into the same, identical and uniform sleep.”11 I always thought about this strange equalising quality of sleep. A person, closing their eyes, becomes entirely different. Everything that lived during the day — joy, rage, activity — hides behind closed eyelids. The face becomes calm, clean, stripped of emotion. In sleep, a person erases themselves. They become a blank page. A tyrant sleeps like everyone else. A hero sleeps like everyone else. Sleep knows only equality; it is the state in which difference collapses.
Yanis: And yet this equalising quality makes dream sharing all the more unstable. On the one hand, a dream is a strange, uncanny story that one strongly wants to tell — it feels like a revelation, a breakthrough into another reality. On the other hand, there is a widespread sense that such stories induce boredom, precisely because it is impossible to transmit the experience each person encounters in sleep: it often bears little resemblance to reality and therefore resists description.
Here, the instability of this kind of social practice becomes apparent. Dream sharing oscillates between the private and the public, never fully realising itself in either domain. It is an elusive practice.
Yet your dream was different, it seemed to demand materialisation. It is curious that later, when I posted my new work on social media, you wrote to me saying that it closely resembled the one from your dream, something I had already forgotten about.
Fig. 4: Yanis Proshkinas, composition AB2, 2025.
[phase 2: deep sleep. no dreaming, or non-mentated sleep]
Deep sleep is the stage in which images disintegrate and narrative falls silent, where the observing "I" vanishes and the boundary between subject and world blurs. In sleep physiology, this is phase N3 — a state of minimal mental activity, devoid of dreams and representation. It is perhaps closer to the Buddhist śūnyatā: not the absence of things, but a form of their undifferentiated plenitude. In Heidegger's sense, it is Lichtung: not an utterance, but an openness in which meaning is not yet articulated but already possible. Like a desert that appears silent yet is saturated with presence.
I asked Yanis to draw emptiness. But he decided not to draw anything.
[phase 3: paradoxical sleep. intensity and awareness]
Yanis: One of the recurring themes in my work is organisational structures; specifically, what happens when you place them in realities where economic relations are turned up to maximum intensity. Under these conditions, new forms of pressure emerge, and they manifest through strange somatic side effects. In one project, a person forgets how to swallow. The body refuses its most basic function because external structures of oppression demand too much.
Sleep has become important to me now because I'm living through its deprivation. For the past few months, my sleep has been disrupted, and I've been experiencing this physically — I can feel the effects in my body. I'm writing a fiction text called "Night Shift" about a new gallery administrator who exists in a permanent state between sleep and waking. The gallery itself becomes a body that malfunctions: attention deteriorates, someone vomits into the box marked "finances", intrusive images appear, and there are visions (or maybe actual recordings) of an art collective called "Cloud Commune". It's unclear whether these are hallucinations or documentation. The boundary between the two collapses when the institution stops sleeping.
Excerpt from “Night Shift”
“…The director and the curator move back and forth. They have too many things to deal with today. They keep talking to each other. After a while, it starts to feel as if the conversation somehow revolves around me. I don’t hear my name, but I feel their looks hitting in my direction. First one, then the other, then both at once. Too synchronised.
I open my laptop. I try to work. After a while, I realise I’m just sitting there, clicking through tabs without reading any of them. I open the calendar. Close it. Email. Close it. Google Doc. Close it. Open it again. I don’t understand what I’m looking for. At some point I decide to go up to them and say everything I think. But what? And why? I don’t know. I keep clicking through tabs.
Guests start to arrive. People stand too close, talk too loudly, laugh, spill champagne. The air grows thinner, harder to breathe. It smells of perfume, wet clothes, sweat. I accidentally look at a man standing by the wall. He’s drinking champagne. He lifts the glass to his mouth, takes a sip, looks around, holds it there, and then slowly releases everything back into the glass. The liquid turns cloudy, thick. He does this twice. I start to feel nauseous.
There’s a line for the toilet. I turn around and hurry toward the storage room. I open it. The smell of dust. The first box within reach is labelled “Finances.” I open it and immediately throw up inside. The liquid hits the papers; dust bursts into my face. I close the box and put it back in its place. I wipe my mouth with some old sheets lying nearby. I leave the storage room and try to find the man with my eyes. He’s nowhere to be seen. Not by the wall, not in the line for the toilet, not by the entrance. I look around — the director and the curator are gone too. I realise I’ll have to wait until everyone leaves and close the gallery myself. …”
Yasya: Your gallery administrator captures something essential: the moment when curating becomes curatorial — when practice must justify itself through other means.
For me, curating remains fundamentally an artistic practice, a co-creation with artists that responds to contemporaneity: seizing spaces to produce knowledge in situ, finding questions and answers together, theorising what the exhibition itself generated. To work with the comet's tail it leaves behind. Maria Lind calls this "a form of applied art history in the present tense."12
The curatorial transforms this practice into a profession: career structures, performance indicators, measurable outcomes. Curatorial work becomes legitimation — what gets included is what's already recognised within dominant frameworks. Endless labour devoted to the production of specialised content: exhausting and unprotected.
The usual response is self-organisation. But when independent projects demand similar exhaustion as the institutions they oppose, where can alternative practice occur? Precarity structures the field regardless of position. The independent curator works without sick leave and pension; the institutionally employed curator under endless performance review and accountability frameworks. Cultural workers are exhausted, just differently administered.
Perhaps that's what your “Cloud Commune” represents: something that appears precisely when the system is too exhausted to suppress it: a glitch when institutional control falters. The dream operates similarly: what remains of thinking before it becomes instrumentalised. The institution never rests, so neither do we. Yet in that exhaustion, a gap opens — and something unplanned might slip through.
> 5 June 2025, 07:38 — dream no. 2.
I dreamed about an exhibition by my friend Kate, who is a curator. It was a group photography exhibition, for some reason set in a cave — or in a house built directly into the rock, somewhere in the mountains. Kate was the curator. There were many photographers, all very different. There were no wall texts at all. Instead, above the entrance there was a clay tablet — with her surname, or perhaps the title of the exhibition, I’m not sure. The exhibition design was thoughtful and unusual, but for some reason the walls were plum-coloured. Kate even gave us a curator’s tour. And then, towards the end of the dream, I think I dropped my phone — it fell into a gorge. When I told her about the dream, she said: “The tablet is a great idea — we should keep that in mind.”
Why, I wonder, did I throw my phone away in that dream? Perhaps, even there, I did not want to document it.
Yanis: I find myself returning to the thought that we are all increasingly captured by what could be called work that does not sleep. Both lucid dreaming (the state in which the dreamer becomes aware they are dreaming and can partially direct its course) and our so-called “artistic” or “curatorial” dreams appear as extensions of labour itself. The boundary between rest and work erodes: sleep no longer functions as interruption, but as continuation.
We are surrounded by practices of sleep accounting: advertising that infiltrates dreams, beds designed for figures like Musk or Zuckerberg to optimise rest for productivity, Amazon’s relaxation booths that suspend the worker in a threshold state between sleep and labour. Wearable technologies promise care, yet operate through constant measurement and control. Sleep is never simply allowed, it is regulated: from how children are guided into sleep, to how adults are sold its optimisation. As if only a fragile sheet of foil separates external productivity from inner life. A kind of inverted cosmos.
Franco Berardi writes in “The Soul at Work”13 that cognitive capitalism does not merely occupy working hours but colonises leisure, sleep, and dreaming. The soul itself becomes labour power.
A radical anticipation of this logic can be found in Tehching Hsieh’s “Time Clock Piece” (1980–81).14 For one year, the artist punched a time clock every hour and photographed himself each time. The work renders time as a disciplinary regime and the body as a carrier of uninterrupted obligation. Seen today, it prefigures contemporary regimes in which life routines — including sleep — are fully integrated into systems of optimisation.
Yasya: On the other hand, this "night work" may also take a different form.
Dreaming resists the logic of sleep accounting, at least for now. There are experiments like Targeted Dream Reactivation that can influence dream content through sensory cues, but dreams still can't be fully scripted or controlled. And perhaps that matters.
Giorgio Agamben introduces the concept of inoperativity — not as idleness or rest, but as a specific mode of activity not directed towards the production of anything external: an activity that exists for its own sake, unbound by function.15 Dreaming, in this sense, is not freedom from work, but a different relation to it. A reassemblage of the day's labour, and an improvisation beyond it.
And I find something genuinely pleasing in this: I am resting and doing what I love at the same time.
> 6 June 2025, 05:17 — dream no. 3
I dreamed of a large-scale installation by Christoph Büchel in Vilnius. It unfolded inside a casino designed like an opera house. Everything was rendered in deep burgundy and violet tones: velvet curtains, an overloaded, almost royal interior. For some reason, in the dream Büchel seemed to be rethinking opera through post-internet aesthetics, the web, and anime. The dream left a strong sense of scale and excess, but without clear, stable details — very much in the logic of a total installation itself, almost as a continuation of “Monte di Pietà” at the 2024 Venice Biennale.16
[phase 4: awakening. the materiality of sleep]
Yanis: Now you described another dream, and I thought that today the non-documentability that we discussed earlier is already being actively “hacked.” There are now projects that invite users to narrate their dreams to an AI, which then generates an image from the description. Looks like an attempt to fix what by nature resists fixation. But the generated image is never quite the dream, only its translation into the language of the system. It turns out that the dream escapes again.
Perhaps it is time to wake up. In lucid dreaming, there is a technique for this: you look at yourself in a mirror, the reflected image destabilises, and you recognise that you are dreaming. The mirror becomes an exit.
Yasya: And the dream itself a mirror of reality, a very distorted one. We have discussed so much and yet I find myself wanting to think about what we have called oneiric curating in a more precise light. A somewhat utopian term, perhaps, but not such a utopian state of affairs, is it?
Sleep and dreaming cannot be approached either as an escape from reality or as an opposition to it. Nor should oneiric curating be viewed as a counter-institution: for the moment it defines itself in opposition, it begins to operate within the very institutional logic it seeks to resist.
Rather, it functions as something nested within existing structures: not outside them, not against them, but alongside and within them. Dreaming becomes a reassemblage of the day’s labour and an improvisation beyond it. Not a negation of daytime work, but its continuation in another register — one of inoperativity, where thinking is temporarily relieved of the obligation to produce outcomes and can instead linger on the event itself. Oneiric curating exists precisely within this tension: as a minor yet consequential shift in how curatorial thinking persists when it is no longer immediately accountable to visibility, feasibility, or measurable outcomes.
In dreams we also learn something about space and about the instability of the image. The image dissolves the moment we wake up; it cannot be fixed without transformation. This impossibility may itself become a method.
How does one provoke what might lead to oneiric activity? I have no answer to that. One can only hope that the unconscious knows better than we do when to offer its configurations — pleasant and otherwise.
> 16 December 2025, 04:42 — dream no. 4.
The last dream I had at the time of writing this essay unfolded as follows: my friend, a cultural researcher and curator, invited me to her exhibition (in a space that felt strangely familiar). The exhibition was devoted to all the research themes she had engaged with throughout her life. “An interesting idea,” I thought. “Not quite a conventional retrospective.” I paused in front of a section devoted to Georges Bataille and lingered there for some time. The display consisted of a large blue leather cushion, on which the name BATAILLE had been spray-painted in dark blue letters. “Are you really working on Bataille?” I asked her. “Of course,” she replied. “Didn’t you know?”
After waking, I told her about the dream and asked, “Was the Bataille part actually true?” She answered: “Well, in a way, we are all working on him.”
Yasya Minenkova is a cultural researcher, art critic, and independent curator based in Vilnius, Lithuania. Her work explores contemporary art as a way to engage with difficult heritage, care ethics, alienation in modern society, and institutional critique. She moves between writing, research, and curating, creating spaces for reflection, collaboration, and new forms of cultural and social engagement. She has curated more than twenty exhibitions, most recently a group show at Galerie Floréal Belleville in Paris (2025), and participated in the post-media festival ūmėdė in Vilnius, Lithuania (2025) as an artist. Yasya also contributes critical texts on contemporary art to independent media including Struer Tracks Almanac (Denmark), Artnews (Lithuania), Artfocus Now, Sygma, Spectate, /odra, among others. Part of the AIRE Collective, an artists’ group whose name (Artist Independency, Retire Early) echoes the FIRE movement, reflects their aim of supporting each other in achieving early retirement.
Yanis Proshkinas is an interdisciplinary artist, researcher, and producer working across various media, including video, installations, performances, and game formats. His work explores themes of productivity, work culture, and self-exploitation. By integrating fragments of digital environments, efficiency tools, and communication tools, he creates experiences that provoke discussions about alienation, loneliness, and fatigue within hyper-efficient systems that encroach on personal space. Participated in the main program of The Wrong Biennale (San José, Costa Rica, 2024). Exhibited at SODAS 2123 (Vilnius, Lithuania), Filmkoop (Vienna, Austria), Vent Space (Tallinn, Estonia), Floréal Belleville (Paris, France). In 2025, earned a Master of Arts degree from the Vilnius Academy of Arts with a thesis titled “Ai – Ai – Ai! Invisible Labour in Art and AI.” Based in Vilnius, Lithuania. https://www.yanisproshkinasartist.com
1. Alain Bosquet, Selected Poems (London: Anvil Press Poetry, 1995).
2. Byung-Chul Han, The Burnout Society, trans. Erik Butler (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2015).
3. Walter Benjamin, "Theses on the Philosophy of History," in: Illuminations, edited by Hannah Arendt, translated by Harry Zohn, London: Pimlico, 1999 (1st ed. 1968).
4. Gershom Scholem, “Walter Benjamin and His Angel,” in On Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, ed. Gary Smith (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1988).
5. Hal Foster, “An Archival Impulse,” October 110 (Fall 2004): 3–22.
6. Theodor W. Adorno, Negative Dialectics, trans. E. B. Ashton (New York: Continuum, 1973).
7. Julia Kristeva, Black Sun: Depression and Melancholia, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989).
8. Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams, trans. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1953).
9. Sophie Calle, The Sleepers (Paris: Éditions du Centre Pompidou, 1979).
10. Donald Woods Winnicott, Playing and Reality (London: Tavistock Publications Ltd, 1971).
11. Jean-Luc Nancy, The Fall of Sleep, trans. Charlotte Mandell (New York: Fordham University Press, 2009).
12. Giorgio Agamben, The Use of Bodies, trans. Adam Kotsko (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2016).
13. Maria Lind, “The Curatorial,” in Selected Maria Lind Writing (Berlin: Sternberg Press, 2010).
14. Franco “Bifo” Berardi, The Soul at Work, trans. Francesca Cadel and Giuseppina Mecchia (Los Angeles: Semiotext(e), 2009).
15. Tehching Hsieh, One Year Performance 1980–1981 (Time Clock Piece), performance documentation, 1980–1981.
16. Christoph Büchel, Monte di Pietà, installation, Venice Biennale, 2024.