Where The Wild Things Are

My dreams, of late, have been haunted by feral children. Half-mad orphans scratching out an existence alongside the bestial populace of moonlit forests far enough from the encroachment of urban development to afford them some small measure of savagery.

And here in lies the crux of my subconscious cogitation on the nightmarish lives of unwanted babes raised to regress to their natural instincts. What happens when our urban sprawl bumps up against the borders of their as yet unspoiled night-places? When wild-eyed tikes climb concrete barriers and collectively pad their away across vast expanses of asphalt in search of something to eat and somewhere to nest like so many beasts forced into the street before them.

Artist Sam Weber’s renderings of psychosis stricken youth seem to indicate a vague precognition of the tumultuous time to come, and I find myself to be appropriately terrified.

Sam Weber [Artist's Site : Why Me?]