I was with my parents and Stan (I think). They were trying to find a place to rent--an apartment. They/we drove to a large 3-4 story apartment complex with a whole bunch of playground equipment on the outside of the building, like scaffolding or waterpark equipment. Despite all that hideousness, the apartment building looked very nice from the outside; not so nice on the inside. My parents went into the unit that was for lease, but I was later in coming in, so I had to call out "Mom!" in front of a whole bunch of doors before she responded. I went into the door and it was just awful inside. The walls were mid-century lime green-painted cinder bricks, the windows were up high like basement windows although this was a first-floor unit. Although I didn't go into them, the 3 bedrooms all came off of the long, dark, main room. No hallway, no area of separation, no privacy. I have no idea why, but I was going to live with them (horror of horrors), possibly with Stan there as well. Just give me the razor blades now. Anyway, I wandered around toward the back of the main room and found an open doorway that led directly into another room that was a very nice, classy furniture store/art gallery. There was also an open stairway that led upstairs, but I didn't go there. I walked into the store room and saw that it was a functioning business during business hours. Why it was attached to this apartment was a mystery. There was some art on the wall that resembled my own, some like the way I painted maybe around 20 years ago with abstract figures, and then some others that looked like the way I paint now, except not as beautiful and colorful, and more like the tar paintings in the Wim Winders movie, Million Dollar Hotel (apologies to Stan for using a movie reference in here that he hasn't seen...I watched it one day on IFC or Sundance when he was at work...sorry). I went back into the apartment and saw the realtor agent/landlady there who was or looked like a teacher of mine from high school (creative writing and drama). I asked her if the furniture store/gallery was actually part of this apartment, and she said no. I told her about the paintings and how they resembled mine, and that although I don't like the apartment, I would rent there if this place also showed my art. She thought it was a great idea, and that we should talk to the people there to see if that would be ok. I followed here there and I was expecting her to do the talking because I hate doing stuff like that. But no, she just waited for me to talk (thanks a lot). I explained my situation to a couple of people there, and one woman started shaking her head "no" before I even finished what I was saying. They seemed like pretentious assholes from the UW, a gallery full of shit-painting friends. As I wandered around the place some more, there was a studio area where some of the artists were still working on pieces. Some of the paintings were hung upside down so the paint would form stalagtites (as if that were possible).

Then I got caught up in eating reception food that was quite odd. I commented to Stan that this whole thing was like the movie "After Hours". (In fact, come to think of it, some of the art seemed like the art in that movie, except it was painting, not sculptures) One of the reception foods was a hard-boiled egg that was the size of a mango. I took my egg over to a high table with barstools that was difficult to eat at, especially because sitting next to me was this very heavy-set ruddy-complected bare-armed biker man with tiny orange freckles all over his body. Then my egg, which had paprika sprinkled on it started to resemble the man's freckles. It was gross. I looked over at some plants by a window and there was a cat or something chasing a chameleon around a large tropical. Not an anole, but a true chameleon...with the weird eyes and hands.

The whole dream left me with a pissed-off feeling about the art world and why I hate it. It's no better than Bush administration cronyism.

Labels: Art, Dreams