Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

The New-York Historical Society is newly housed in a Mediterranean villa on a hill overlooking a bay. It is a spectacular vista but the scene is chaotic as boxes of collections are unloaded and unpacked with no sense of coordination.  I walk around, looking for a way to be useful in this disorganized effort.

I go in search of my desk and office. I’m directed outside to a garden, set in a series of tiers on the hillside leading down to the water. It’s a lovely walk, lined with blooms and canopies of trees, disturbed by the walls lined with collection items left exposed to the elements. Movers bustle past recklessly adding more and more items. I find my desk, secluded on a brick terrace that would be a relaxing spot to dine but not appropriate in all weather. Taking in the view, I see Shelter Island and beyond that, the South Fork. Shelter Island has been transformed into a kind of visual amusement park, with hologram unicorns jousting and volcanoes spewing rainbows. It’s impressive and I see how this will work with the Society’s new location, but it would’ve been wiser to work out the relocation before adding glitz. 

Unsure what else to do, I search for colleagues in these ad hoc offices. I find my son Jasper sitting in a suit and tie at a desk. We’re glad to see one another. I act as his mentor and suggest that we see how we can help. We walk back toward the villa. Inside, in an open-air veranda, some displays have been placed under cases on a round side table. This looks precarious with all the activity. One items is a multi-faceted mask made of aluminum foil, apparently made by a child. It’s fragile and out of place among collections. I take the mask from its case and ask my eldest son to take it to a secure place and try to learn more about it. I suggest he start with the curatorial files. He doesn’t know what those are and I can’t imagine where to find them or who to ask. He stands holding the mask as I look around.

I spot my mom at a table unpacking boxes. She’s chatty and in a good mood as she hands items over to her friends, who move them to flat spaces. There’s no checklist or order, so I see this process as part of the problem. One of Mom’s friends places an item on the table that had held the mask. The item is tall and weighted so that part of it hangs over the edge and drops below. I intervene to say it is much too exposed. A curator arrives to say it’s fine where it is. She’s calm, assured and authoritative. I’m relieved to find her in charge.  

I take my eldest son, still holding the mask, to show him the Shelter Island display. A crowd gathers as I indicate the surrounding area, saying a few words about the topography. The display isn’t active; I continue to lecture, hoping it will begin as we watch. Afterward, I am alone, taking stock of the collections along the walk. I’m impressed by an automaton created to announce the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. When activated, it mechanically gives the news, intended for a single recipient. Fascinated, I find more such memorial automatons and begin to assemble them into a small display.