Federico Fellini is considered to be one of the most important and influential European directors of the 20th century. Although not a diarist, he did, for many years, keep a record of his dreams, with descriptions and richly-coloured illustrations. These were given a lavish publication a few years after his death, and, more recently, have been made available in digital form.
These photographs all come from an exhibition held in Brussels, entitled “Clarity in the Mist”.
In The Book of Dreams, Fellini strives to crystallise dreams in snapshots — a proof of what did exist...
‘Get out. Don’t go. ’‘Which?’ Stern, stone-faced, he rolls the gauntness of his naked chest over me...
There might be something inherently paradoxical about the presence of music in films...
It’s probably August, given my short-sleeve shirt and buzz cut, and my big sister’s breezy blue outfit.
My mother, our first night in New York, / pointed to a pillowcase on my hotel bed.
If we can now freeze genes, / why not write a book of snow / on a field lain fallow / and read it / to pumpkin seeds
It’s night-time. What an awful night. I am driving a black car that’s racing dizzyingly down a path that spirals...
It's the woman's decision in the end, he thought, but it's not fair. She had told him she wanted children.
It is the year my sister is born. / A figure teeters on stilts far / above the town.
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