Feet in a blue bed; early painting by Kate Nichols
Martian Vigilante
Dreamed 2006/3/25 by Wayan
THAT MORNING
Our co-op house has a vacancy, so we interview several potential housemates. I like painter Kate Nichols best, and not only because she was the only one who really liked my wacko dream art. She's also good-natured, cute, enthusiastic, and SMART--shows us a card of one piece of feet in a blue bed, turning them into flowing dreamy abstract shapes. Impressive.
But she's SUCH a strong candidate she'll have lots of houses to choose from, sigh!
After her, a barrage of bozos. Sigh again! Exhausting.
Lilli, the German doll inspiring Barbie |
THAT AFTERNOON
My housemate Alder wants my advice. She's studying the movie Barbie Nation looking for a clip to show her film class. Barbie's origin story surprises me. She's not the invention of a sexist, archaic industry, but a lone woman fighting that industry! Ruth Handler BUILT Mattel based on Barbie (her daughter's name).
Her agenda was personal and progressive: "Girls had only two kinds of dolls: babies and playmates. All kids! Trauma when they grew breasts. I wanted an active, adult doll flaunting that adolescent transformation--to ease puberty, make girls imagine a grown-up future, AND to say there are other roles than mommy and baby."
She based Barbie on a German sex doll, Lilli. Early Barbies have sidelong, sultry eyes much like Lilli--very sexy, and unlike Barbie's later blank smile. Even this milder American doll was a hard sell to the manufacturing firm--"A sexy doll? American parents will hate it!" True! So she and her husband pitched TV ads at the kids, not parents. Kids won, and Barbie triumphed.
Then Ruth Handler got cancer. Mastectomy. The Champion of Breasts had hers removed. Devastated her. Could barely function. Was forced out as CEO...
So she built ANOTHER company, "Nearly Me", ALSO selling plastic breasts... this time, customized prosthetics for mastectomy survivors. Like the Hairpiece for Men guy, she's her own best customer.
THAT EVENING
I hide out--refuse to answer the phone, book more applicants for the room. Those interviews really drained me. Do I need sleep? No, just time free of human obligations!
Work on Tharn, my model of an arid but planet-size moon bearing life. Expand the outlines for regional tours and add illustrations.
Then I read dreams from last summer--especially health and social advice. Takes time to reconnect with myself! That morning parade of needy people left me spacy, drained, even a bit sick--I feel feverish, sweaty.
THAT NIGHT
I'm talking and flirting with Kate outside her art studio. Strange, it's a converted storefront way down in Palo Alto, on Lytton Street near Prometheus Center, where I went to psychodrama for years. Kate's packing up to move out though--she got death threats! Unclear why, but serious and repeated. I helped her put older paintings in storage, then say "Call me if there's more I can do." Next she'll have to decide what to do with her newer art. Her recentest print has loud flat colors I'd have shaded, but the lines and shapes are elegant as usual.
But half-hidden by her abstraction is a startling subject: three women making love in that bed, done with open, affectionate lust. "Hmm," I think. "For someone who likes girls, she sure flirts with me a lot!" Well, maybe it's femme souls she likes... in whatever package.
I wonder now if Kate's appreciation for my dream art was due to a similar sexual orientation--a taste for femme. Instinct, not artistic judgment!
But... if I discount her praise for my sexier dream images, than shouldn't I ALSO discount that crowd of critics who prefer male figures, angular and brutal shapes, dull dead colors, violence to sensuality, and dark bitter moods? They worship butch--and most American art IS butch. When will I respect my own esthetic?
Kate finds some EEG-ish charts of her dream recall. Ha! I didn't know anyone but me did this, mapping dreamwork over time. And then...
Two construction workers yell something hostile from across the street. Wait, I know one. Rich the Engineer! He and his friend are just posing as construction workers; they've unilaterally taken on the job of guarding Kate from the death-threat makers.
But why yell? Am I really a problem? Or are they just working hard at being authentic Hardhats Who Yell at Babes?
I feel it's Kate's choice and mine if we want to flirt, talk art, talk dreams, whatever. Not their damn business! Literally self-appointed guardians.
In the street, I spot a leather or vinyl bag. Full of coins. Lots of quarters, larger coins, HUGE. Half dollars, dollars? Unsure. Sit on the sidewalk and try to go through methodically. Plan to keep the coins and return the bag & ID if any, but none so far. And then...
A little green Martian two feet tall and built like a fireplug stomps up to me waving a ray gun. "Thief! I've seen your sort on BART! I ride every day! There you are, all of you, cutting purses, picking wallets..."
I didn't steal this. I don't even ride BART. Who is this nut?
The scene degenerates into a set of satirical ads--posters in BART stations--warning about this bad-tempered little Martian and his vigilante campaign. He's become a one-man crimewave himself.
Well, one-fireplug. At least the little green thug is easy to spot...
'Adrift', an early painting by Kate Nichols |
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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