The door of Room Five is made of glossy stained planks of knotted oak, its top perfectly arched. This is a door you know very well. Or anyway, the pop-culture savvy American television watching parts of you do. It's the door through which you can expect Suzanne Somers and Joyce DeWitt to come barreling through with pigtails and bell bottoms to greet a sheepishly charming John Ritter at the behest of a cheery theme song. In brass, the number five is screwed into the door, a fixture taken from the address of some house in an upscale neighborhood. This is Dean's room.
MUSIC PLAYING IN THIS ROOM
Dean's physical presence is tawny, and under his spray tan, he retains the eternal perfection of a dancer, of God's ideal creation, his form as clean and cold as a sculpture carved from ice. He's the song stuck in your head and the elegance of your mother's hands as she powders her face. Ever in motion, both his body and the air around it exist in perpetuation of the vibrations which cause all music to exist. Where any one of the Gray Family might represent a caricature of themselves, maybe none so much as Dean. You can imagine him in a pristine, white letter sweater, his hair immaculately combed for his date with the girl he will surely pin, and then marry, and then devirginize. In that order.
Inside, the set of the old show Three's Company. The light is dim, pooling with a gauzy, bare quality like that of the stage where the show was filmed, like any soundstage once its audience has gone home.
WHAT THE WALLS WOULD SAY
The light is hollow and strange between you and Dean, where he's handing you a Leonard Cohen record and a hopeful smile from a wicker chair in Room Five.
"Do you like this one? I bet Stories of the Street sounds like what your room says to you every time you think about leaving again," he says and busies himself again sifting through a shuffle of vinyl spread out on the coffee table.
Under your momentary irritation at his insinuation that you would ever leave again, you consider the idea that your room would have something to say about it if you did. Listen to yours walls talk and make a mix from the perspective of your bedroom.
A young Clyde reveals himself to an unwilling Rosie.
Dean is an organizational master, gathering together everything we produce as a House and collating it all in one place. He's the only reason we've been able to keep our things straight enough to present them how we do. This includes mixtapes, his favorite of all things to collect and sort. He's also in charge of our Song of the Day, which he updates nightly, located in the Foyer. We want to listen to any mixtapes or songs you make about yourself or Gray House. Send them to Dean and he'll make sure we all listen and respond.
In Gray House, our own words can fail us miserably, especially in the magical situations we find ourselves. For this reason, music has become an integral part of our communication and emotional processing. Sending songs can be as powerful as sending a letter or having a text conversation and something we engage in daily. And like with everything else, you're invited to join in that with us. Just make mixes or collaborative playlists on Spotify and send us the links, and we'll start talking to you through music.