If you’re lucky, your social media scroll has been interrupted by Aubree Barber’s mesmerizing dreamscapes. The heart behind Analog Projections, Barber creates stills and videos using projected light, silhouettes, and her personal collection of precious objects. The ephemeral images, swirling in color and constructed with elaborate sets, are emotionally evocative and often weighted with a sense of nostalgia. Her personal story reveals how she’s created her own sources of light through a difficult journey.
What led you to this art form?
I’ve always loved being creative. The first time I remember creating anything was when I lived in a campground after Hurricane Katrina. One day, while mindlessly scraping mud around like my own personal Zen garden, I found clay. I tossed it into my minnow-catching net and squeezed it. It revealed a snake-like pattern that remained. I was enamored. We ate food on a campfire grill, and afterwards I put my creation in the charcoal. Just like that, I’d created my first sculpture!
I got into creating my dreamscapes because I became an oil painter following a house fire (that’s a long story). Once I’d moved into a 400-square-foot apartment in Seattle, I couldn’t paint my still lifes anymore; there was no room. I couldn’t escape into myself, so I attempted another iteration of a still life using my beautiful objects. Thus, Analog Projections was born!
Your work explores memory and carries an almost eerie nostalgia. What do memory and nostalgia mean to you?
After the storm, the streets were flooded with people’s memories. I remember my dad stopping the car on a long stretch and there were thousands of personal items washed up on the road, as far as the eye could see. We didn’t speak, we just got out and stared. They were so covered by swamp water and mud that they were unrecognizable. All except one little doll. I felt bad for her and the child who loved her. What are the dreams they shared together? Who will they shed their tears with now?
A decade after the hurricane, I started exploring abandoned homes. They were filled to the brim with previous owners’ photographs, furniture, rosaries, old newspapers, crucifixes. I fell in love with the feeling of being surrounded by these forgotten memories. The feeling of a memory you’ve forgotten is equally sad. You’re at the mercy of your own brain, whose job it is to protect you from these images. You create a new memory out of the broken pieces. Ironically, this is now my lived life. I got to create a beautiful life out of the objects left behind.
“I thought if I could make their lives brighter for just one day, maybe they would feel strong enough to get through this horrific time in their life.”
How did Hurricane Katrina—and leaving home at a young age—influence your work?
After fleeing my home and watching thousands of people lose their most special memories and objects, my own objects became very precious to me. After being abused for many years, and seeing how difficult it was to get outside help from adults, I was feeling trapped. I had to point my attention outside of my own circumstances.
I focused my efforts on helping other children at the New Orleans Children’s Hospital. I took shells that the local seafood shops were tossing out and hand-painted them to make Christmas ornaments, which I then sold to raise funds to buy toys for the children. I ended up making around $400 and grabbing all the toys I could at the Dollar Store. When I dropped the presents off, I wasn’t allowed to see the children, which I understand, but I desperately wanted to connect with them. The children at the hospital and I had a lot in common, as we were both prisoners, trapped in purgatory. I thought, if I could make their lives brighter for just one day, maybe they would feel strong enough to get through this horrific time. We all just needed to hold on a little longer and we could leave this prison and find joy. When I walked out of that hospital, I was absolutely beaming. Something I created made a difference. I found my purpose. I think that’s why people are confused when they see a vibrant person who is always looking for their little Christmas presents in everyday moments. The world calls that naive, but it’s a strength, a lust for life. Every day is another chance to turn your oil lamp flame a little brighter.
My grandmother was also imprisoned in her own home with her abusive husband. The only time I really saw her beaming was when she was decorating for the holidays. I thrifted my first object with her at a Habitat for Humanity. We found this gold jewelry box with an image of a couple in a garden on the face. “I want to live there,” I said. She said, “We already do, together.” She was building her own dream world. My grandmother was the one who taught me to dream. I learned that if I could find joy in my imagination, even just for one second, I can be free. After she passed away, I had no support system, and I left my childhood home. It’s a sad feeling knowing you have to leave everything you’ve ever loved behind, with only a single bag around your arm. Another Katrina. It gave me a deep appreciation for objects and how we use them to tell stories. My work is a lot about escapism.
What do you hope to communicate to those who have lived through similar experiences?
You have to find the joy in life and focus on that. To feel trapped and alone is the most difficult place in the world. Focusing on the beauty we get to experience in this life is a lovely distraction. Protect your flame, keep your shining light. Cut people off and try not to feel guilty, get as far away as you can. The world is so much brighter and kinder than you could imagine.
