At the height of the day, when the world slows and the sun casts its sharpest shadows, the mind drifts into a threshold state—a realm between wakefulness and sleep, where thoughts untether from logic and slip into something deeper, more instinctual. This fleeting moment, known as hypnagogia, has long been a space of revelation.
 
It was said that Aristotle, in pursuit of understanding, would sit with a small object in hand, letting himself drift into slumber. As his grip loosened and the object fell, the sound would awaken him—pulling him back from the edges of sleep just in time to capture the elusive flickers of insight that arose in that liminal space. Centuries later, inventors, artists, and visionaries—Edison, Dalí—would adopt this ritual, chasing the surreal, untamed fragments of thought that emerge in the fragile bridge between the conscious and the subconscious.
 
Midday Slumber embodies this suspended moment, where form and thought dissolve into a dreamlike state. It is an artifact of transition—a totem of pause and revelation, inviting the viewer into their own quiet threshold, where clarity arrives not through force, but through surrender to the drift.