(11/12/200 - I had this dream exactly a month ago, back before I started noding, but it still haunts me so I needed to write it up.)
Diego Rivera is planning to paint a
mural at the friend-I'm-staying-at's apartment. The apartment is located in the lower East side of
Manhattan so it is necessarily
tiny, and the idea of a mural there seems slightly ridiculous. Rivera is willing to cope with that by making the mural similarly tiny.
Rivera keeps going on and on about how this mural must be
perfect. Absolutely perfect. He then explains that since he is painting this mural for the appreciation of
an artist such as myself he
has to worry about its quality. Nothing but perfect will do.
I woke up and had to stop myself from crying because I didn't want to wake up my friend who was sleeping beside me. No one's ever called me an
artist. Ever.
Never my
parents. They still hope it's a phase. Not really my
friends. With them I'm a
physicist who happens to
paint. Not even me.
Maybe I have
faith in me after all.