I had a rather jumbled dream last night. I don’t remember all of it.
The part I remember most clearly involved my husband and me being seated in a room with a dozen other men at long soapstone tables — like the kind they use in the labs at Cornell University. I was the only woman there, and other than my husband, I don’t think any of the other men could even see me. My husband was wearing his desert MARPATs and Danner boots. He is excessively fond of Danner boots.
The men were asked what they thought “women were for.” That’s a hell of a question. “What are women for?” I’m not sure if a man or a woman asked the question; I don’t remember the person’s face.
One pair of men held up a picture of a nude pornstar serving beer and marijuana, and chuckled stupidly to each other. I remember glaring venomously at them for it.
I don’t recall what the other men said, or showed to the “class.”
I remember what my husband held up, though. It was a verdigrised Mannerist style metal plaque. On it, Venus and Mars were shown together, accompanied by an Amorino — that is, a Putto (Putti are those fat winged baby-things that appear so often in Renaissance and Baroque art, as well as in Ancient Classical art) meant to represent Amor, or the God Cupid. In Renaissance and Baroque art, as styles evolved, Amorini and Putti grew indistinguishable from one-another.
Readers take note: Cupid is not actually a fat winged baby. Try to think of Him more as a slender youth, as He is portrayed in Caravaggio’s 1603 (?) Amor Vincit Omnia.
The composition of the piece didn’t look anything like Palma Giovane’s 1590 Mars and Venus, but that was the general feeling of it. If that makes any sense, which it might not to anyone who hasn’t been bludgeoned half to death with Art History coursework for years on end.
When my husband held up the plaque, he didn’t look at the person who asked the question. He looked at me, directly into my eyes. His look was soft. Sad, almost. Like his heart went to his eyes. Filled to the brim with too many emotions at once. He didn’t say anything.
I’m not entirely sure what to make of this dream — though I’m certainly glad he didn’t hold up a picture of a naked woman serving booze and recreational drugs.
Had he, I would’ve had to dream-divorce him and dream-sue him for dream-alimony. Ha.
