What is the stuff of dreams?

Insider #126 with thoughts from watching Rohan sleep.

Feb 18, 2024

Dear Insider,

This month I became a father. It is now two weeks of feeding Rohan, cleaning him of various excreta, putting him to sleep, watching him sleep, and being startled awake by the wide spectrum of noises he makes. Our doctor assures us that everything is perfectly normal and this is just how babies are.

A big thank you to the readers who greenlit my parental leave. Your generous support grants me the headspace to disengage from the business of writing and focus on raising our tiny person.

Last week, I shared the story of bringing him into our world. In today’s post, drawings from the week and some thoughts from watching Rohan sleep. Scroll to the bottom to grab your free seat at the next drawing workshop.

He didn’t make a fuss at all, letting us massage his limbs with oil, bathe him, dry him off, and comb his hair. Rohan exults in his luxuries.

The SneakyArt (Insider) Post is written for paid subscribers and patrons of SneakyArt. Every Sunday, I share deeper thoughts from my journey as an artist and writer, and offer a behind-the-scenes look at ongoing projects.

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🚀 Work Updates

☕️ This week I accepted a commission for a local coffee chain. It promises to be some fun drawing. More about this next week.

📖 I may be illustrating a fascinating book project (by another Substack writer) this year. Details soon!

📚 Negotiations are over, and I hope to sign the revised contract for my book deal this week. The writing of this book will be one of the major journeys we take together this year (and next).

💌 Leaving Art for Strangers to Find

The great joy (and pain) of being an independent artist is the privilege to do whatever I want. One of the things I love to do is give away art. Whenever I have the chance to draw outdoors, I leave a little drawing behind for a stranger to find.

This week I was at the Elysian Cafe on Broadway, watching pedestrians at the intersection.

Behind, it says - “Dear stranger, this drawing is for you.”

Sometimes I hear back from whoever found it. But I do not expect it. I did not do it for that reason. The act of giving away art is a counter-intuitive way to regain autonomy over my work in this age of hyper-commercialization. The act is the reward.

I remind myself that my role ends with sending it into the universe. After that, the tiny drawing has its own tiny fate and its own tiny life. I wish it well.

Left behind the potted plant in the corner of the counter, at the Elysian Cafe on Broadway.

Dear Insider, your support allows me to commit such wanton acts of economic tomfoolery. Thank you for being an enabler.

What is the Stuff of Dreams?

Every few minutes, while he sleeps, Rohan throws his arms up in the air. Doctors call this the Moro Reflex, supposedly an evolutionary remnant from our time as primates living on trees.

I watch him sleep to anticipate when this might happen, so I can place my hand quickly within reach, so he can have a branch to hold onto.

Colour pencils from Caran d’ache to help me think about light and shadows.

Every few minutes, while he sleeps, Rohan smiles widely. I wonder what his dreams are made of.

He does not know any human stories. He does not have any concept of being a human being in this world. Science claims that he cannot see very far, or very clearly. He cannot even tell colours yet. Without people, places, stories, or a sense of self, what is the kaleidoscope of his dreams?

I shower him with kisses as he farts and scrunches his face in agony over a loaded diaper. He appears only mildly perturbed by my overtures and does not respond. Perhaps because he cannot see me yet. Perhaps he does not know what a kiss is. Maybe, right now, I am just a smell, and some sounds, and the feeling of beard-hair against his cheeks, and the touch of a palm against his back, burping him after every feed.

Is that all I am to him? If so, what a privilege. What a privilege to not be seen as myself, or heard as myself, or judged as myself. To walk in this existentialist garden and not be objectified by this tiny life. To be just a bunch of sensations, bound loosely together.

Rohan coos softly and wriggles his arms out of any swaddle. We have stopped trying to swaddle him. He drools after every feed. He fidgets until he is burped. He burps loudly. He does not consider it impolite to poop even while we are cleaning his earlier poo. Does he not feel embarrassment? Has he no sense of shame? Behind those tiny human eyes, there are no self-conscious hesitations at all.

Rohan being fed by his grandma, drawn with a Blackwing pencil.

What a way to live. I am desperate to see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, to discover the personality he will develop, but I will be sorry to see him stop being this way. He will become lesser than he is, even as he grows around us. Shame will find a way into his heart. Self-doubts will plague his mind. He will grow to have a sense of his body, and what it lacks. He will see himself but no longer see perfection because he will interpret himself in the reflected light of other people’s eyes. He will learn to keep secrets.

I wonder at what age he will stop smiling in his sleep. I wonder what this waking life teaches us that destroys our dreaming world so completely. Enough time will pass that this life, and these moments, will become the dream. A silly dream. And embarrassing stories from pre-historic times.

What a loss. Such a pity. But what a joy to be on this ride. His human adventure begins this way and reminds us that we too started from such a point. Maybe that is the reason to have children. To remember our own pre-histories. To see reflections of ourselves and believe in our own perfection.

Thank you, Rohan, for reminding me. Maybe one day I can be more like you.