Duchamp Dream

In a dream, Duchamp and I are sitting at a café, playing chess--somewhere in the “bohemian” quarter. Duchamp has a familiar expression of secret amusement on his face. When he moves his hand toward a pawn, I see that the skin around his fingers is soft, almost translucent. “You know,” he observes, “it’s important to take what life gives, without struggling . . . how do you say, with futilité . . . against it.” I nod judiciously. I also see that the cashmere sweater he is wearing is worn threadbare at the elbows. I think to myself that this is a sign of sublime cultivation. Duchamp lights up his pipe and takes two slow draws, emitting curling blue exhalations which meander around his face in the still air. My eye wanders to the neighboring table, the café chairs with their slightly curving legs—readymades, I assume. They’re everywhere you look. Just then a tall, beautiful blonde strides by us, totally nude, except for a pearl necklace and trim sandals. Duchamp glances toward her for a second or two, then resumes his attention on the game board. “These gratuitous events are impossible to predict,” he offers, “but once they happen, there is no choice,"--waving his hand dismissively--"one must incorporate them into the flow of one's experience.”