JOHNS, RAUSCHENBERG: Not an Art Post

I know I said I wouldn't post today, but I woke early after a restless night with a number of restless dreams. The first was clearly an anxiety dream about today's conference: Ellie dropped me off before I remembered that I had left my book bag at home with all my notes. The registration process was chaos, and no one knew who anyone else might be. I spent most of the time worrying about where to find a men's room. The people with whom I shared a table were unsympathetic...

A second dream--the rest I have mercifully forgotten--found me in what seemed to be a bank. I was about to leave, but ran into a couple of old men on the threshold, both quite decrepit, though one clearly more than the other. He was supported by his companion from behind, but also clung to the door jamb to prevent himself from collapsing to the ground. They clearly needed help, so I offered to see them back into the bank.

It was the older, more decrepit one that I recognized first. It was the painter, Jasper Johns. The other, I soon divined, was Robert Rauschenberg. I helped the two of them to the teller's counter, at which point Rauschenberg stepped away, rather snootily telling Johns that he would "let him have some privacy." It was clear, though, that Johns would collapse without further support, so I stood behind him, annoyed with Rauschenberg and literally propping the old man up. He would otherwise have fallen to the floor.

I'm guessing these two men to be projections of my older self--the one more dependent, needing help; the other aloof, a bit cynical, refusing to give it...

Now, off to the conference.