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home_and_awayI was walking into an art gallery. This was the second time I'd ever been here; the first was years and years ago, when it was an experimental hangout, an odd second home for artistic misfits. There'd been a show or a party going at the time; I remembered it being full of intent and nerves and joy.
But now. Now it looked like a showroom for furniture, all staged into little sitting areas no-one was welcomed to sit in. The things hanging on the walls were things that would match the sofa, or things that would make you think but never about anything uncomfortable and not for very long. Amorphous landscapes in the Pantone Colour Of The Year. Flowers. No tension.
The woman curating/supervising the place was someone I've met in waking life--superficial, from what I can see of her, full of brittle smiles and sharp words. Worried about something. In the dream, I remember smoothing my hair back and stuffing my hands into the pockets of my leather coat, suddenly concerned I'd knock something over with my elbows. I nodded an apologetic hello.
She beamed at me and immediately began the guided tour--with an air of "if we hurry and shuffle this one out before actual paying customers get here, she might not scare them off." Hustled me through every little setting, riding on a wave of chatter. I felt sorry I'd bothered her.
Then, in one little cove, I thought I saw a painting with life to it. Seven feet tall. Heavy frame. A man standing, looking up. Rain implied by the brushstrokes, or else the old nervous energy from years ago. The man in the painting was wearing the same colours as the person featured in the show back then, or at least, they had the same vibe. I turned my head to study it. But as the painting progressed from Something Seen In Unfocused Periphery to Something Looked At Headon, somehow it became an armoire. French Provincial, or whatever the right name is for the style that looks too spindly to support its own weight, let alone yours. But still somehow massive. And there was a plate on the door, brass and smaller than a business card, that read "Within lie the ashes of Christopher Sebermann, beloved son and artist."
And I remembered the story. A week or so after the show, a horrible death involving rain, a motorcycle, and people being cruel to someone they were afraid of. His blood-kin fought tooth and nail to put the people who'd killed him in boxes, themselves, but I always had the feeling they were doing it to save face. They didn't grok the man any more than his killers had. He had a will (oddly enough for someone his age) and just enough personal clout--when it was learned that he wanted to be cremated and held in this artspace, that was what happened, and his bloodkin be damned.
His passing was the hole through which this place started leaking spirit; now look at it.
My guide noticed I was stopped, staring at the armoire. She came fluttering back for me. "What's this?" I asked her, mostly to hear her response.
"An artist we used to show, friend of the owner, very sad."
"Do you still have anything of his on display?"
"... Somewhere." And off she scurries to find it.
Turns out, it's in a bowl on the desk at reception. Several small, irregular stones--jasper? It's dark red with white and black striations, opaque, an oily sheen like lapis. I pick one up and look at it. It looks like a pendulum weight, but hollow inside with a ridge around the open edge, like there's another piece to fit it. My guide, softer now, says, "He called it, 'No Stragglers'. There's an even number of them in here, and they all have a mate. But none of them look like they should fit, you've got to try them all together to find the other half."
As I watch, she sifts through the collection and finds one piece that looks like a cloud and another that looks like a small branch of coral with an odd ridge; when she puts them together, they're a wing that flaps.
And we're both crying.
But now. Now it looked like a showroom for furniture, all staged into little sitting areas no-one was welcomed to sit in. The things hanging on the walls were things that would match the sofa, or things that would make you think but never about anything uncomfortable and not for very long. Amorphous landscapes in the Pantone Colour Of The Year. Flowers. No tension.
The woman curating/supervising the place was someone I've met in waking life--superficial, from what I can see of her, full of brittle smiles and sharp words. Worried about something. In the dream, I remember smoothing my hair back and stuffing my hands into the pockets of my leather coat, suddenly concerned I'd knock something over with my elbows. I nodded an apologetic hello.
She beamed at me and immediately began the guided tour--with an air of "if we hurry and shuffle this one out before actual paying customers get here, she might not scare them off." Hustled me through every little setting, riding on a wave of chatter. I felt sorry I'd bothered her.
Then, in one little cove, I thought I saw a painting with life to it. Seven feet tall. Heavy frame. A man standing, looking up. Rain implied by the brushstrokes, or else the old nervous energy from years ago. The man in the painting was wearing the same colours as the person featured in the show back then, or at least, they had the same vibe. I turned my head to study it. But as the painting progressed from Something Seen In Unfocused Periphery to Something Looked At Headon, somehow it became an armoire. French Provincial, or whatever the right name is for the style that looks too spindly to support its own weight, let alone yours. But still somehow massive. And there was a plate on the door, brass and smaller than a business card, that read "Within lie the ashes of Christopher Sebermann, beloved son and artist."
And I remembered the story. A week or so after the show, a horrible death involving rain, a motorcycle, and people being cruel to someone they were afraid of. His blood-kin fought tooth and nail to put the people who'd killed him in boxes, themselves, but I always had the feeling they were doing it to save face. They didn't grok the man any more than his killers had. He had a will (oddly enough for someone his age) and just enough personal clout--when it was learned that he wanted to be cremated and held in this artspace, that was what happened, and his bloodkin be damned.
His passing was the hole through which this place started leaking spirit; now look at it.
My guide noticed I was stopped, staring at the armoire. She came fluttering back for me. "What's this?" I asked her, mostly to hear her response.
"An artist we used to show, friend of the owner, very sad."
"Do you still have anything of his on display?"
"... Somewhere." And off she scurries to find it.
Turns out, it's in a bowl on the desk at reception. Several small, irregular stones--jasper? It's dark red with white and black striations, opaque, an oily sheen like lapis. I pick one up and look at it. It looks like a pendulum weight, but hollow inside with a ridge around the open edge, like there's another piece to fit it. My guide, softer now, says, "He called it, 'No Stragglers'. There's an even number of them in here, and they all have a mate. But none of them look like they should fit, you've got to try them all together to find the other half."
As I watch, she sifts through the collection and finds one piece that looks like a cloud and another that looks like a small branch of coral with an odd ridge; when she puts them together, they're a wing that flaps.
And we're both crying.
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no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 09:19 pm (UTC)What killed me was that all the bland decorator-art had its own little plate with artist, title, and medium. This was the most beautiful thing in the place, and it was on a desk like a bowl of candy.
Sometimes my subconscious is a place I desperately want to visit, too. ~wry grin~
no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 01:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 01:55 pm (UTC)lately i've been having very heavy dreams, long and detailed where i need to do very important but sad things. dreams within dreams that make me sob awake back to the first dream. it's all very dense and exhausting.
dunno...there's stuff going on.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 03:42 pm (UTC)~and a mug of tea~