Oedipal Schmedipal, a father and son swordfence and joust with vigour and great manly zest. But is this innocent, playful nurturing or dark prophecy? A snapshot of the future snatched from that eternal wheel of procreation. The child seems athletic and both are warm and enthusiastic, even flushed with enjoyment but we note that the father is rooted to the ground he stands on by a curious linkage running down his right leg. Is this a positive metaphor for stability and tradition? Or something more cold and constricting – like a calliper in concrete or a Denver Boot for humankind. Both appear to dance on air or rather on a yellow brick road that goes nowhere and itself floats on air. A yellow brick road? And all this is happening above a pristine, primordial alpine landscape - washed in the brightly coloured fragments of dreams, too interesting to be Switzerland, too vivid to be real. This is not just the stuff that dreams are made of but the very dreams that life is made of. And just as insubstantial and unreal.They might be giants, for all I know. Something monumental but strange.