I think we can all agree that there isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t look the eeeeeensiest bit cuter in a silver spandex space-suit, or as I like to call it…
The Gallery Girls are many things:
- hot art models who pose for the lucky artists who get to sketch them
- a gallery where artists can exhibit their work
- a forum for drawing classes and workshops
- they’ll even show up at your swanky-dank party and stand around looking titillating for the right price
How is it possible that I hadn’t heard of them before now? Well, I am so new to this whole “art” thing that I haven’t been initiated into the fun stuff yet. I’m not part of any art “scene” (unless you consider sitting at home in my pyjamas, crouched over my big black desk while drawing whatever I dreamt las night a “scene”). So, like anything new, it’s exciting to learn (as I go) what’s out there in the art world– culturally, intellectually, and even socially. It takes a LOT (usually a paycheck) to get me to voluntarily leave the house, but this event has done just that.
My whole life I’ve dreamed of being an old-fashioned pin-up girl.
And though that hasn’t happened (YET!) this Gallery Girls event seems like the next best thing. I mean, if I can’t BE a pin-up girl? I’ll draw one. And apparently this is where one goes to do just that.
I think this is how it goes down: a bunch of artists sit around drawing the live models, but it’s these very models who sort of “curate” each event- picking a theme that will influence the poses, the costumes, etc.
I’ll report back after I attend the “International Space Exploration” event on April 12th. (Maybe that’ll force me to NOT be lame by claiming I’m too tired/busy/cranky to show up once the night arrives).
Pin-up girls are NEVER cranky.
Scientists Figure Out What You See While You’re Dreaming | Science | Smithsonian. by Joseph Stromberg
(Please say the following line in an “Irish cop from Bugs Bunny cartoon” voice… YOU know the one I mean, the guy who goes “Ya might, Rabbit! Ya might.”)
Reeeeeally… DID they now? Ya don’t say… So these scientist folks can see what I dream before I do? Ain’t that somethin.’
oh never mind….
Okay, of course it’s cool that scientists have this (60%) ability, but most of the fun for ME isn’t the dreams THEMSELVES (or predicting them) so much as the DISCOVERY of what I dreamt when I wake up the next morning. I mean… that’s like waking up on Christmas to see what the Subconscious Santa brought you; or like when I was a kid taking pictures with a Kodak instamatic camera.
You couldn’t see the pictures right away. You had to drop off your Kodak film cartridge at a little booth in a parking lot somewhere, or send it off to some mysterious mail-order service that advertised in the old paperback-size TV Guide:
And then you had to…
wait some more.
Then about a week or two later- you’d open up that bright yellow envelope and it was like a big explosion of happiness in your hands. And you couldn’t retouch any of ’em. Back then, “retouching” was basically throwing them in the trash.
Sigh… I’m 46 years old now, and the TV Guide magazine is way too big (like a normal magazine), but I ain’t knockin’ photoshop or Instagram filters or airbrushing. I NEEEEED that shit now!
But here’s a better assignment for you, scientists. Are you listening? Here’s what I want you to figure out how to do— make some kind of cloaking device that will allow us all to walk around in our own personal “airbrushed” bubble. I know, I know… probably a long way off. Until then, I will dream on, sweet dreamers. 🙂
DREAMS ARE ON STAGE:
I just happened to get an email from my friend Annette, announcing a solo show duo she’s duo-ing. (Is that a thing? A solo show duo? Yup. But is it a solo show? A duo show? A duo of solo shows? Math is hard.) Anyway, one of ’em is titled “DREAMLESS.” So If you’re in NYC this Spring, check out a theatrical double bill that will fill your belly with comedy yumminess. Your main course will be Cheryl Smallman’s “Dreamless.”
But to start things off, you’ll get a delicious appetizer: “It Ain’t Pretty,” written and performed by Annette Guarrasi. Oh, and did I mention they also serve WINE at the show??? Cuz they (hiccup) do. Yer welcome. And since that Annette Guarrasi is just as cute as a little fava bean… How about a nice chianti*?
*Warning: Do not eat Annette Guarrasi or her liver. You will be tempted to cuz she's so cute. Don't.
DREAMS ARE ON FACEBOOK:
If you haven’t been to the birdsongdreambook facebook page, you’re missing so much! There must be at least 1500 dream drawings I have photographed and catalogued on there. So, if you can’t sleep some night, there’s THAT…
And one of my fave facebook followers is the always astute Oren Saurus. (See his quote to the left)
Why Can’t You Remember Your Dreams? 5 Questions About Dream Recall Answered
The only possible interpretation I can come up with for this dream (and its pile of ladies) is this:
It’s been so long since I’ve done my laundry that I’ve started to see the pile of poly-cotton, rayon, & denim that’s overflowing out of the plastic basket in my bedroom not as loads of laundry, but as loads of ladies. Well, at least they’re all hugging, and not fighting.
PS Any of you know which temperature to set the washing machine dial on for clothing that’s already been through my subconscious spin cycle?
I shall elaborate later, but below is a different shot of the same drawing so you can read some details about the dream, the gist of which seemed to be:
Laurence Fishburne is seated on a bus, across the aisle from the bus driver. I am seated further back. In order to get OFF the bus, I have no choice but to literally climb over Laurence. (Hmmm… Rosa Parks much, Mary?) Our limbs get all tangled up in each other. The plus side? Our bi-racial pretzel dance makes it clear that there is plenty o’ chemistry between “the fish” (Larry) and “the bird” (Mary).
…and they’re not even MINE!!!
I really like being by myself a lot. Maybe too much. But if YOU were inside my head? Trust me- you’d crave more “alone time” too. Like a vampire craves blood.
I feel guilty about this need for solitude wayyyyy more than I should. But just look around at our collective, cultural snowglobe we all happen to live in and it’s easy to see why. The quality of enjoying the company of others is celebrated. People throw around the term “people person” (in everything from dating profiles to job interviews) as if it’s synonymous with “cancer-curer.” So it MUST be important:
“Look, before you decide if you want to mate with me or hire me, just know that I’m a PEOPLE person, okay? A PEOPLE PERSON! That’s me in a nutshell. A PERSON of PEOPLE. A person who likes to engage with other members of my own species. Yup. Looooooove me some people. Can’t get enough of ’em, “the peeps!”
It’s never considered a selling point to admit that you’d prefer to have about 25% “people” time, and 75% “people-free” time. But if I’m honest, that’s me.
And the above illustration of my dream sums this up perfectly. I really AM susceptible to “catching” other people’s emotional states like most people catch colds. (Interestingly, I rarely catch colds or the flu or other mystery viruses that “everyone in L.A. has right now!”). And once I tune in to your emotional needs, (which is to say, once I inhale oxygen) without consciously TRYING to, my brain is firing up at astronomical speeds; calculating what you want to hear, what my facial expressions should be while you’re talking, what I should say to make you feel happy and at ease around me. I’m basically putting on a mini solo-show every single time another human interacts with me. And it’s not as simple as “Oh, well then you’re just manipulating people to get what you can from them.” It doesn’t matter if you’re a policeman, or the pope, or my mother, or a toll booth operator, or one of my best friends. If we’re talking, there’s a wholllllle lotta work going on backstage, behind the scenes, off-camera, so to speak. The show you’re paying for is happening on my face and on my body. But the REAL show is under the bio-suit. Behind the pretty blue eyeballs and the mouth that serves as the grand entrance for all those clever, witty, insightful words that make you feel good.
This is even happening with people whose company I LOVE more than anything.
But when we part, no matter how much I love you, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. My whole body, brain and soul get a much-needed, symbolic cigarette break of silence.
I really DO look forward to seeing many of the people who populate my social circle. But my synapses and neural networks are so exhausted by engaging with others that it’s no wonder I just need to be…
Maybe that’s okay.
Or maybe it means I should be put on display at the nearest carnival freak show.
Whatever the case, if you see me edging my way out the door a lot sooner than you’d like, it’s truly nothing personal.
And for all I know, you secretly feel the same way.
(My GOD, when is she gonna leeeeeeave???!!)
One of the tips they offer is to keep a dream journal. My dream journal is way more ambitious than most people would want to keep, but it’s so much fun keeping it that it’s become a daily habit (bordering on an OCD morning ritual). Here are a few dream drawings from the vault:
It’s almost alarming how excited I felt tonight to discover another human being who (like me) keeps a dream journal and draws the images from his dreams in them.
The drawings above are from 1939, and were part of a dream journal kept by a man who was some sort of insect expert for the Smithsonian. I must learn more about all of this. Will report back. I also discovered something called the Dreamstage Museum in VT, created by this man who seems incredibly cool: Dr. Allan J. Hobson.
For those who are new to this blahhhhg, here’s the gist: Every morning w/o fail I draw whatever I dreamt the night before. I use magic markers, nail polish, and white-out, and they’re all in a big bound black sketch book. Kay? K. Now…
Today’s Dream Drawing features soup, boobs, and a sick lady. I don’t really care what those symbols are SUPPOSED to mean. Don’t put much stock (pardon the pun) in those universal dream symbol interpretations. But the words within this dream drawing DO interest me. They’re kind of hard to read, though, so allow me… “She thought she was gonna be sick, til she realized she already was.”
A strange sentiment to be sure. But I kind of get it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve invested hours & hours of worrying into some future event (both those of the “real” variety and those I only IMAGINED might happen) only to realize later that the worrying I did was far worse than the events themselves. The lesson?
DON’T WORRY. BE SOUPY.
That soup special comes w/one “trivia tit-bit”:
The only reason I wound up putting her boobs IN the soup bowl in this drawing is because Facebook has given me shit recently for (GASP!) nipples; yessssss….. for showing the dreaded nipple in a drawing or two. And I’m too tired and too old to fight the good fight. Besides– restrictions like this often lead to wonderfully quirky choices we never would’ve considered or just plain wandered into had “the man” not been holding us back. So thanks Zuckerberg!