Title: The Brown Felt Apron – A Dream of Printmaking, Memory, and the Rolling Stone
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A dreamlike collage: a brown felt apron, an open-air festival scene with tables and printmaking tools, and a ghostly image of a younger you working in the University of Green Bay studio, all fading into one another.
It was an art festival out in the open, with all kinds of creative activities—food, music, laughter—everything one might expect, or so I felt. Each artist had their own table, and mine was to present a printmaking demonstration.
I found myself running back and forth, scrambling to gather what I thought I needed for an etching demo. The pressure was intense. I could feel the eyes of the crowd—some cheering me on, others laughing and waiting for me to fail. How could anyone do a proper printmaking session out in the open, amidst noise, distractions, and the chaotic energy of an eager audience?
Then things got stranger, as they often do in dreams. Some people offered me marijuana—ganja—to help me relax. I fumbled trying to light a joint, sparks flying embarrassingly all over. A fiasco. Yet somehow, I persisted. I kept going, kept reaching for something familiar, something true.
And suddenly, the chaos faded. I found myself transported back to the Printmaking Studio at the University of Wisconsin–Green Bay. There she was—a fellow printmaker, a familiar face—handing me my favorite apron, the one I always wore while working in the studio: a brown felt, full-body apron. I tied the strap around my waist, and from the depths of my soul, I screamed:
"CLARRY NELSON COLE!"
And then—I woke up. Not two minutes later, the azan for the Fajr prayer echoed from the State Mosque loudspeakers. As always, the Devil was in the details of my dream.
My art forte has always been printmaking, ever since I was introduced to it in college in Green Bay. I studied under my late professor and friend, Mr. Clarry Nelson Cole, a gifted artist from Sierra Leone, Africa. I spent countless hours in that studio—sometimes twelve to fourteen hours a day. Eventually, the administration allowed me to sleep there. The loft was cleared for me to rest after long sessions of creative work.
I remember one morning after a night of printing monoprints of Native American chiefs. I had fallen asleep up in the loft, and two ladies came in to work. They didn’t know I was there. I overheard one say to the other, pointing to my prints on the wall:
"He does this, but he hardly sells any of them... this is art for art’s sake."
That touched me deeply—and I drifted back to sleep.
I eventually sold some of those copper plate prints to George Berberis, a Greek friend living in San Jose, when I moved to San Francisco. That was another chapter of my life—one filled with learning, brotherhood, and, like many others, loss due to my own shortcomings.
Another opportunity came years later in Sendai, Japan, where the Miyagi Museum of Fine Arts offered an open studio policy. Artists could work freely using all tools and equipment, and I made full use of it. I had six solo exhibitions in Sendai and sold many of my works.
In Penang, I worked at the University of Science Malaysia’s print studio. I created many monoprints and held solo exhibitions at respected galleries in Georgetown. I was never the disciplined kind, but rather, an obsessed printmaker. When the inspiration hit, I could produce as fast as my fingers could move.
Yet, like much of my life, nothing lasted long enough to be called a true “success.” I have always been a rolling stone, gathering no moss. But I’ve come to embrace that. I never intended to hang around in one job, one relationship, one style, or one city for too long. I leave behind a trail of mini-successes—glimpses of what could have been, sparks of potential, works of passion.
In this morning’s dream, someone—perhaps a Chinese friend—sneered, "You will never learn," just before I was handed the brown felt apron. Then came the scream. The name. The call. And then the dawn prayer.
Maybe what I’ve truly learned is this: to be tethered to one career, one path, one identity, is not my style. I am an eclectic. I take the best of all things and move on before they tie me down.
Closing line:
In dreams and waking life, I wear the brown apron still—if not on my body, then on my soul.
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