Archive | art RSS feed for this section

“I was just thinking: Frankenstein!”

10 Feb

Last week I attended a wonderful talk/ book discussion, “Reading like a Writer: Frankenstein,” which conjured Mary Shelley et al telling spooky stories around a fireplace on a rainy night in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1816. It must be the most famous party in literary history. (Conveniently, during our discussion, it was raining heavily, and we met at a haunted Victorian mansion.)

I just watched the latest episode of Doctor Who, at the end of which the Doctor said, “I was just thinking: Frankenstein!” My first thought: “Are they going to Geneva in 1816?!” After the credits, there was a brief preview, and it indeed looks like the Doctor and her friends are going to visit Lord Byron’s villa in Geneva on the night that Mary Shelley first started writing Frankenstein! If I had a TARDIS, that would be high on my list of times/places to visit.

Also, next month I’m going to see Manuel Cinema’s mixed media production of Frankenstein; it involves puppets and video and whatnot. It’s going to be amazing.

Maybe this year I’ll read some more books by and about Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft. I’m feeling so inclined….

A Vivid Dream at the Beginning of the Year

3 Jan

I had a dream in which I was inside a large art studio in a seemingly deserted school, maybe high school.

The room was long and had large tables in the center, low door-less cupboards on the sides, and lots of paint-stained wood–I think mainly wooden boards used for placing pieces of paper and drawing on. I was the only one there.

Soon at least two young women entered the room–or I had left the studio and met them in a hallway before leading them into the studio. Yes, that’s it.

They were worried. A crisis was going on, maybe a zombie apocalypse or school shooting or something like that. We were possibly the only people in the building, though I sensed someone else was inside it, somewhere.

I went with them back into the studio, and on our left, near the door, was a cabinet surface coming from the side wall. I noticed a cluster of sculptures–cartoonish musicians and one green, frog-like blob creature, and I said, “Oh, how cute!” And reached toward them but didn’t touch them. At least one person agreed aloud.

We kept walking and went through a doorway into a side room on our left, a bit part those little sculptures.

The side room was much smaller than the main studio, but still spacious. As you entered, there was a large, square table to the right, and a long, rectangular table with chairs to the left. We all sat at the latter.

One of us closed the door behind us; I think there was a glass window at the top of the door.

We got into discussion, commenting on how eerie and abandoned the building seemed. It seemed weird and sinister, not normal.

At the table, we started talking about what to do, I think, but I don’t remember what anyone said on that score. Maybe we were just chatting before getting to the nitty-gritty.

At some point, I looked at the other table, got up, and approached it. I was astonished because right in the middle of the table were three of those sculptures I’d seen earlier, 2 musicians and the green creature. We got into discussion about them, and now there were at least four of us, and we were standing around, even picking up the sculptures. I picked up the green one and was disappointed because it had a hole in it; it was a major flaw, and it would have been so cute without that.

Someone started talking about me in an amused fashion, I’m not sure… something about how I’ll die. Someone suggested in a scary way, I forget how. I said I want to die of old age. Amused, one of them said I’ll die while writing a novel, just collapse in mid paragraph. I pictured this, and because I compose on a computer, I worried about whether any of my manuscripts would be printed and whether someone would know what my computer password was, just in case I died. But I don’t think I spoke of these concerns. I put my hair up in a bun, and it was as thick and long as it was in my twenties. We were laughing about something.

(This was actually January 3, 2019, but strangely WordPress won’t let me backdate it that far.)

A Triple Goddess Dream

18 Dec

I dreamed that a mortal woman in her fifties, maybe 60s, visited three goddesses (probably Celtic) and at night traveled with one of them, the goddess who had bright red wings. They had probably three such trips. This goddess also owned a book that was red and gold, and the mortal wanted to read the book.

After the first two nocturnal journeys, the goddess with the red wings was sleeping on the wings with the mortal. They slept on a circular gold platform. But the mortal wasn’t asleep; she had the book in front of her and opened it.

Next, they were at the place, in the woods, where they went on these nighttime journeys. They took a path, and the goddess was sleeping beside the mortal, but the mortal was awake and stood facing an upright image on a pole.

They’d seen the image—series of images—on the previous journeys. They were pictures of goddesses, and though they were up on a pole, they were like a big picture book, with pages that you turned to see the various images. The images were maybe two feet tall, and they included what looked like a woman with a cape made of peacock feathers.

The mortal glanced over at the sleeping goddess and started flipping pages and knew what she was doing was forbidden. She flipped to a page and started to trace it, I think, and accidentally tore the delicate paper.

The other two goddesses suddenly appeared, and the first one woke up, and the mortal felt guilty and embarrassed and knew they’d punish her, so she was very nervous.

One of the goddesses was loud and boisterous, joking, all, “Well, what have we here!” She put her arm around the shoulders of another goddess and indicated the book with the torn pages. The mortal began to think that maybe they weren’t angry at her for touching the book and tearing the page.

Art, Buddhism, and a Kitten

31 May

I dreamed I was a tourist in San Francisco. A busy street had a building with a façade on which paintings by various artists were hung on nails. I had a picture I painted, but I couldn’t find the gallery owner responsible for this wall of paintings, so I ended up just putting my picture on an empty nail and walking away. The gallery wasn’t right there.

Strangely, San Francisco turned into Phoenix, and I eventually learned (perhaps from a business card) that the address was on Cave Creek Road. I went to a shop that was somehow connected to the gallery… and it turned out that one of the people who worked at the shop was the son of the couple who owned the gallery. (He was at least the second person with whom I spoke in the shop.) He was in his 30s and 40s, looked part Native American, had dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wore glasses. The shop was vast, and the counter was in the center of the room. He told me about the gallery, and I think he was the one who gave me a manila folder that contained info on it. His parents owned that gallery for forty years, and he talked about them. They sounded wonderful—and my trip was almost over.

Meanwhile, a few more (bohemian) people came into the shop, and I sat down at a table where people gathered regularly for classes, and a bohemian woman with dark hair (I think she wore a purple dress) handed something to me and explained, saying something about the Buddha’s love, I think. The items were a small Buddhist booklet and a homemade maroon batik cloth (patch?) with an image of a Buddha centered on it. I was impressed and said, “Thanks!” That’s how the dream ended.

This may have been an early part of the same dream:

I was staying with my brother and sister-in-law—though at some point it may have been my mother’s house, and I was feeling aversion because I found out that a certain relative was going to be there. I was in a back bedroom and was hastily taking down and hiding artwork I didn’t want her to see. I started making the bed in a strange way, cutting away at a mattress cover. At least one wall was covered with pictures/paintings. The bed had a section down below with shelving, and art hung from that, including one of the pictures I hid.

Later, I was in a very white interior house in Phoenix, there was a really large room that had doors to other, smaller rooms on the left, and my brother and sister-in-law lived there. The walls and floors were all white, and it looked somewhat like their real house.

Inside the house, there was a hallway that looked like it belonged in a museum or something. Much like the wall in San Francisco, one wall was covered in pictures hung up and painted by various artists. But there was a sheet covering part of the wall. I did something—perhaps bumped into the wall—and as a result, the pictures became crooked. My brother noticed and came over and straightened the pictures, while I felt very guilty and embarrassed.

Soon I was in the big room, and I think I was folding laundry or at last that sheet, with a laundry basket in front of me. Out of the sheet, I unwrapped a tiny black and white kitten with bright blue eyes. It was love at first sight.

The kitten got away from me and ran really fast. It somehow fit under a door that was closed. I knew someone was in that room, so I knocked before opening the door. It was a small bedroom, and my sister-in-law was lounging on the bed in a far corner. The kitten ran under the bed, but I managed to catch it.

Art—Buddhism—a kitten. These are all things that matter a lot to me.