Joel Gersmann,
mentor and friend
[Author's Notes: While most of the artwork described
by critic Hal Sutherland should be constructed and on the stage, the central
painting, Christess, should not be
represented in any fashion. In the
original production, it was suggested by a large frame, which hung from a
ceiling pipe to just above the tallest actor's eyes. It was a low ceiling in a black box theater. This gave all the actors (and the lighting
technician) one central place to focus, it allowed the audience to see the
characters looking at the painting and, most importantly, it allowed each of
the audience members to perceive the painting with their own imaginations based
upon the description given. For the
same reason, no attempt should be made to create a rendition of it for posters,
programs, publicity, etc. The stage
setup should be simple. In the original
production, the gallery took most of the stage. A curtain was pulled and the other locations were played in front
of it. Each of the artists in the
gallery had their own primary playing area, though they were free to move in
and out of those areas.]
(Lights up on an art gallery. Bertrand is pacing. Music from Pictures At An Exhibition is playing as he paces. He holds an almost finished bottle of
tequila. He continues to pace, step off
stage, back on, etc. He finally
swallows the rest of the tequila and the worm.
He suddenly stops, looks ill and half-stumbles to a seat. He sits and stares into space. The music pauses as he speaks.)
BERTRAND:
(Looking at the bottle) My God, I’m going to be sick.
I’m going to die. I drink for
inspiration. I drink to drive
myself. I drink because I’m a fuckin’
artist. But I can’t stop with the
booze. I can’t stop. I always gotta swallow the goddamned
worm. Because you have to. That’s what I’ve been told. You have to. It’s tequila, for God’s sake, good tequila. You gotta eat the fuckin’ worm when it’s
good tequila. But I can’t stomach
it. Oh, God. Speaking of stomach. I
can feel it turning. I can feel the
fuckin’ worm turning in my stomach.
It’s like turning over or something.
Wriggling around. The fucker’s
alive. Jesus. Alive. Oh, Jesus. Oh.
I’m sick. I’m sick. (He turns away and retches, throwing up
behind the chair; he leans back and then moves back up with a worm in his hand,
which he looks at intently before speaking).
Now this is art. (Music starts
again as he stares at the worm, then it continues under) Oh, Jesus.
You little bastard. You made me
sick. I ate you and you made me
sick. Little bastard. What the hell am I doing? What the . . . I’m a goddamned tequila worm
bulimic, that’s what I am. Tequila worm
bulimic. I have to eat them, but then I
throw them up. Worm bulimia. What a . . . Binge and purge. Binge and purge. So what am I doing? What
the hell am I doing? I’ve got a show
opening tonight. I shouldn’t be doing
this. I’m nervous enough. I’ve already got butterflies. (He laughs crazily to himself) I just had an image. Of a butterfly. Flap, flap, flit, flit, flap, flit, fuck, clit, fuckclit,
fucklet. Fucklet!—a little fuck. (Beat)
Fuck it. (Pause; he sees a butterfly
in his head) Here, come here little
butterfly. Let me fuck with you. Now there’s an insect I could eat. Butterflies are so pretty I could eat
them. (He laughs) I swallow beauty and vomit filth. I drink poison and regurgitate art. (Beat)
What images. Images are always
coming into my head. They paralyze
me. With their beauty. With their ferociousness. Like a butterfly. (He mimes actions to the next part) Here, butterfly. I sneak
up on it. Grab it. A tiny morsel. I eat the beauty. Eat the
beauty. I put it in my mouth. Bright yellow wings like gills fucking
flapping at the corners of my mouth. I
chew. Mandibles seesawing away. Eat the beauty. Eat the beauty away. And
when I do . . . when I do . . . I’m left with a caterpillar, eyes bulging, pair
of eyes bulging, head swaying from lip corner to lip corner, and I can’t
fucking move! I can’t swallow and I
can’t spit out. I’m paralyzed. Images are always paralyzing me. They come into my head and they paralyze
me. Fuckin’ art. It hurts too much. Shit. People are
coming. What the hell do I do? Oh, Jesus, what do I do? Help.
Jesus. Help! (Long pause) This is too fuckin’ weird.
They’re going to see me and wonder.
My photos are in the other room.
I can’t just sit . . . well, I gotta do something. My hand.
Concentrate on the hand. Think
about one thing. The hand. One hand at a time. (Pause)
No go. What do I do? I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m
paralyzed. I sit and wait. (Pause)
Another fucking exhibit.
(Lights out on Bertrand; lights up on the office,
where Brie is playing solitaire and Jon-John is pacing, looking out the window,
looking at his watch, etc.; Brie shuffles the cards loudly; he looks at her in
disgust)
BRIE:
Far better to shuffle a deck of cards than to
shuffle around the office like a spoiled boy moping about something. (He ignores her and peers out the
window) Jon-John, you look like some
kind of perverted peeping Tom, looking out instead of in. What will the people on the street think?
JON-JOHN:
I don’t give a fuck what people think.
BRIE:
That’s why you’re so nervous? Because you don’t care about other people’s
opinions? That’s why the headline
didn’t bother you?
JON-JOHN:
(Turning away)
Leave me alone.
BRIE:
Jon-John, Hon, why don’t you come play solitaire
with me?
JON-JOHN:
Brieby, dear . . .
BRIE:
Don’t call me that.
You know I hate it.
JON-JOHN:
Brie . . .
BRIE:
I know you only call me that when you’re upset with
me. Or in moments of extreme
tenderness. I’m feeling like this is not
a tender moment.
JON-JOHN:
Brie, dear.
Hon. Whatever. Two people do not
play solitaire with each other.
Solitaire is a game for one.
Thus the name.
BRIE:
Haven’t you ever heard of double solitaire?
JON-JOHN:
Wasn’t that an album by John and Yoko? A couple almost as artistically successful
as we are.
BRIE:
Double Fantasy. Like the love life in your mind.
Double solitaire is a card game.
JON-JOHN:
What is it?
Two people playing with each other alone? With or without the cards, Brieby dear, that’s who we are. Now, I need to be alone at my window.
BRIE:
What is there to look at? The gallery is scheduled to open at 7:00 p.m. You’ve been at the window, or pacing, since
at least 6:15. You and that freak in
the back. Who are you looking for?
JON-JOHN:
Jesse Fucking Helms. Everyone knows we open our doors a half-hour before the doors
open. I mean, the scheduled opening of
the doors. Especially on opening
night. Anyone who’s been here could
tell you that. So just leave me alone.
(Pause)
BRIE:
Trouble is—so few people have ever been here. (Beat)
So, most people who come to this showing will have to depend on
information from the Post or Rocky Mountain News, and the Post does list 7:00
as the opening. It says right here,
‘Spirituality: Perspectives from Five Artists, at Nuances Gallery, opening 7:00
p.m. Friday . . .’
JON-JOHN:
Stop!
BRIE:
Well, I was just saying . . .
JON-JOHN:
I know what you said. I don’t want to hear about the goddamned paper!
BRIE:
But you haven’t even read the review yet.
JON-JOHN:
I will, I will.
But not tonight. I don’t want to
spoil tonight, not anymore than it’s been spoiled already at least. I knew we shouldn’t have let him in for a
preview. I tried telling you, but you
insisted. It’ll give us advance
publicity, you said. I knew he was out
to get us. I don’t want to hear about
the goddamned review. That headline was
enough.
BRIE:
If nothing else, you have to admit, the headline was
clever. ‘Spirituality is Hell.’
JON-JOHN:
That’s enough!
(He grabs the newspaper from her hands and shakes her furiously) I will not have that read in this building
before the opening night is over.
BRIE:
(Recovering; very drawn out) Hell.
(Jon-John lifts his hand as if about to hit her;
they glare at each other as the lights go to black; during the blackout, a
curtain is pulled across the stage; lights come up on a small group of people
in front of the curtain--they are riding a bus; Bob is holding a paper; she
turns to a stranger behind her)
BOB:
You know, there’s only one thing I like better than
sex, and that’s photography. Sex is
fleeting, a moment, an orgasmic moment that’s thrown to the cosmos. But photography, it catches something. It grabs a moment and gives it to you. To keep.
To hold onto. Can you imagine
sex like that? An album? That you can open up and experience your
best orgasm over and over again? God, I
could come just thinking about it. (The
person gets up and moves to another seat; Bob opens the paper and speaks aloud
to herself) Spirituality is Hell, by
Hal Sutherland. (She turns away,
looking out the window; another person gets on the bus and sits near her; she
turns and talks to the person, gesturing to the newspaper) I hate Hal Sutherland. I mean, I have no idea what he looks like or
who he is, but there’s something I could guess about him. He probably couldn’t draw a stick man with
any accuracy. (Beat) He probably is a stick man, in desperate
need of a good fuck. He probably gets
off on trashing people like this. (She
looks out the window) Oh, we’re on
Lincoln Avenue. Look, there it is. See that sign on the building there? It’s my fave. Entrance to Library for the Blind. Did you see it? Above the
door? (The person next to her gets up) Irony!
Can’t you see it? (The person
moves to another seat; Bob looks at the paper again) Spirituality is Hell.
(Lights up on down right corner where Hal Sutherland is reading his
review as he rubs himself through his clothes)
BOB and HAL:
Last night was the preview of Spirituality: Perspectives from Five Artists, the newest showing at
Denver’s newest gallery, Nuances. The
show officially opens at 7:00 p.m. today, provided God does not embark upon a
retaliatory strike before that time.
(Bob’s voice fades out, lights dim on the bus where the actors freeze
and the curtains open)
HAL:
Luckily for the artists God, and likely most of the
city, won’t notice the exhibit.
(As this progresses, Hal moves around the artworks,
touching them, rubbing them against himself, laying on them, etc., so that by
the end he is having an orgasm)
One of the most striking
things about the exhibition is the dearth of work, especially given the number
of artists represented. A total of
eleven pieces are on exhibit, four of which are photographs that might easily
be missed, as they are in a dark room at the back of the gallery. It might be added that due to the overtly
sexual and amoral tone of these photos by Bertrand Travis, they probably should
be missed. Why they are included in a
show that is supposedly about spirituality is beyond the ken of this reviewer.
The
concept of an exhibition that purports to explore the spiritual sides of five
artists is a good one. However, upon
examination of the other works on display it becomes glaringly evident that the
dearth of work is due apparently to a dearth of spirituality and talent among
the artists, though none of the others seem as far removed from a true
spiritual being as the photographer, Travis.
Angela
Morningstar is represented by two ‘found’ pieces, a mirror and a Christmas tree
decorated with Easter eggs. Under the
tree are open boxes containing carved pumpkins. All her section was lacking was a rack of Hallmark greeting cards
to be complete. Virginia Fast has two
items on display, both in a realistic style, paintings of Pope John Paul II and
Mother Teresa. (He takes the Mother
Teresa painting from the wall, lays it on the floor and thrusts at it, as if
humping it, then calmly picks it up and hangs it back on the wall) These are tangentially related to
spirituality; unfortunately, neither is rendered well by the artist.
Two of the more unusual
pieces are done by collaborators, and proprietors of the gallery, Jon-John
Toulouse and Brie Lautrec. One is a
mobile, a four-sided plastic Buddha. It
hangs from the ceiling above a copy of the I Ching. Four lights with colored gels shine on the Buddha from four
corners of the room.
Covering
most of one of the walls is a sculpted mountain, which looks like one of those
from a model railroad set, but in life-size.
Built into the mountain is a ramp, which leads to the top. Looking down into a hole one sees what
appears to be a mound of . . . dare I say it . . . dog droppings on the floor
below . . . somehow lit from underneath.
While these two works are intriguing, their meaning proves elusive.
(Hal moves in front of the Christess where he has an orgasm as he speaks)
The
eleventh piece is by an anonymous artist, and while its ultimate meaning may
not be discernible either, it is a rather compelling painting. Entitled Christess,
it is a somewhat surreal painting in various hues of vibrant blues depicting a
woman on the cross, complete with a large nail in her vagina, as well as in her
hands and feet. As disturbing as it is,
something about it draws in the eye and forces one to look, even against the
will.
(He moves down center and the curtains close behind
him again)
Despite the power of this one painting, the show is
overall a failure, both of art and spirituality. This is the fourth showing at Nuances since it opened three months
ago, and they have yet to have a successful exhibit.
(Lights start to fade on Hal and come back up on
Bob)
BOB & HAL:
If the gallery survives this debacle, then the
artists currently on display there must all come to a belief in God, as it
would be a miracle.
(Hal exits)
BOB:
What an ass.
(Beat) He could have at least
described those photos in more detail.
(The bus passes a man in a three-piece suit; he is
hauling a cross with a wheel on the bottom; a young man carrying a Bible
follows him.) This whole city is
repressed. (She puts her head out the
window) And I’m the Virgin Mary! You!
Stop it! Jesus! Stop it!
(Everyone on the bus is staring at her except for Estelle, who is
sitting across the aisle) Excuse
me. I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry, that . . . that was . . . my
son. He has forsaken me.
(Estelle starts laughing uproariously as the lights
go to black; they come up again stage right, still in front of the curtain, on
Robert and Lee’s apartment)
LEE:
It sounds just hideous from the review.
ROBERT:
Don’t pout.
You’re such a pretty young thing except for when you pout. The cute little dimples and everything
disappear when you get like that.
LEE:
Sorry, I just don’t really wanna go. What’s the fun of an art gallery?
ROBERT:
You exasperate me.
Oh, well. With 19 year old
bodies come 19 year old minds. You just
haven’t developed an appreciation yet.
(Aloud, but more to himself)
Jesus Christ. 19. And I’m in my 30’s already. How the hell did that happen? Soon I’ll be forty, then fifty. Heaven help us—what will I do when I hit the
big four-oh? Perish the thought.
LEE:
I don’t wanna go.
Maybe we could stay home and make love tonight. Maybe I’ll let you spank me, like I was bad
in school or something, and you can be the principal.
ROBERT:
You know just how to get me don’t you? (To himself) A taste of administering corporal punishment on occasion can be
good for the soul, to see that pretty bare bottom turn pink, then red under my
hand, to feel that certain sting between hand and buttocks and hear the
accompanying crack and whimper . . . (To Lee) No, no. It sounds . . . delightful, but we must go.
LEE:
But why?
ROBERT:
We have a special invitation to this.
LEE:
So? You can
say you didn’t get it. Why don’t you
tie me up and spank me tonight?
ROBERT:
I may just tie you up and gag you. Now, I can’t say we didn’t get the
invitation because Brie delivered it to me personally. She stopped in at the antique store. She really wants me to be there.
LEE:
Probably because she figures no one else will come.
ROBERT:
No. It is
because we are old and dear friends. We
were in the cast of Hair together at
Bible college. We have known each . . .
LEE:
You were in Hair
together in Bible college?
ROBERT:
Well, yes, it was one of the more liberal Bible
colleges and it was edited somewhat by Brother Samuel. But it was good.
ROBERT:
What is what?
LEE:
Hair.
ROBERT:
You’re serious.
LEE:
Yeah.
ROBERT:
A play. That
Brie and I were in together. Anyway, we
have been friends for quite some time.
She respects my opinion and she knows I’m honest, so she probably wants
to hear what I have to say, rather than that asinine reviewer.
LEE:
Does she know you’re gay?
ROBERT:
No, and for God’s sake don’t you dare tell her that
or give anything away.
LEE:
I can’t let anything slip to her if we’re not there.
(Pause)
ROBERT:
Get your ass over here and pull those pants
down. You’ve been a very naughty boy
today. Daddy doesn’t like naughty
boys. Come into the bedroom.
(They exit; lights shift to center stage, on the
street, where Sam enters with his cross on wheels; Simon is walking behind him,
with his Bible open, but he is looking at a pornographic magazine which had
been hidden between the covers)
SAM:
When I was a boy my mother spanked me often. Because I was evil, she used to tell me, an
evil boy, son of the devil. And I
believe I was. I believe I am. I believe I’m saved, but I believe I’m evil,
too. This cross . . . this is my
penance. (He starts to walk again) Ouch!
(He stops) Right now, my penance
is digging into my shoulders a bit. (He
tries to walk again) Ouch! (He stops)
Simon, could you take this for a block or so? I think my shoulder’s bleeding.
SIMON:
It’s plastic.
And it was your idea. We’re
almost there.
SAM:
It’s my penance.
It’s the cross I must bear through my life. (Beat) Why did that woman
scream from the bus window? What is she
afraid of? The truth could set her
free. Probably going to the filthy art
showing. Art. There is no art but God.
There is no literature but the Word.
(Sam stumbles and falls and almost drops the cross,
but Simon catches it in time; Sam moves to his knees)
SIMON:
Nice play, Shakespeare.
SAM:
(On his knees)
Forgive me, Lord, for not being able to carry the burden you have placed
on my shoulders.
(He picks up the cross and they walk out; the
curtain opens to reveal Angela looking in the full-length mirror; she is
talking to herself in it, as if praying; Virginia is kneeling down stage right
with a rosary, beneath the Mother Teresa painting)
ANGELA:
If I am my own god/goddess/god figure, which I
believe I am, the Lord Savior and the sole ruler of the universe that is my own
soul, which I believe I am, then why am I doubting? Why do I look in the mirror and see an ugly hag looking
back? What kind of god is ugly? What kind of good is ugly? What kind of goddess doubts her own
work? Why is that glow-in-the-dark
rosary bothering me? (She turns and
crosses to the Christess painting) Why
is this one painting, the only piece of art in this whole gallery that is any
good, why is it calling to me? It pulls
at me. It whispers my name in the wind
that whistles through the windows.
Angela . . . Angela . . . Angela.
It’s freaking me out. I feel
like I should take it down and take it away—I don’t know why—to protect it,
possibly to protect others from it.
Something about it is great and good, but also horrible and
dangerous. My psychic interior tells me
there is danger, but my Pagan shell urges me to let things be as they will
be. I’m scared. But that’s only my feeling. I have to take ownership of that. I am the master of my own universe. I am my own shepherd. I shall not want. Oh, well, Ob-Lah-Di,
Ob-Lah-Da, life goes on. It’s only
a picture. Pictures don’t kill. (Glances at Virginia) People kill. And animals. Some animals
kill. And insects. There are insects that kill, with
poison. Even some plants. It’s a dangerous world. I’m getting scared. It’s time for a mantra. Yes.
Mantra. (She sits in a lotus
position and rocks back and forth) Life
rocks on. Life rocks on. Life rocks on.
(She slowly fades the line down as the lights fade
on her and come up on Virginia, who is humming Rock of Ages as she looks at her rosary)
VIRGINIA:
Sometimes, sometimes when I hold this in my hands, I
can feel the Holy Spirit in the beads.
And sometimes, when I look at the beads, I see fifty some tiny angels
hovering at my fingertips, or dewdrops of God’s love. When I pray, and the hovering angels fly one by one to the ears
of God Himself, there is no pain in my knees.
There’s no pain in the world.
(The following lines are delivered very fast) Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee blessed art thou
amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus Holy Mary Mother of God
pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Amen Hail Mary full of
grace the Lord is with thee blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the
fruit of thy womb Jesus Holy Mary Mother of God pray for us sinners now and at
the hour of our death Amen (Virginia’s
speedy delivery of the lines slows down as the lights shift on the painting of
Mother Teresa) Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee blessed art thou
amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus Holy Mary (She stops and stares at the painting of
Mother Teresa; a strange light is emanating from it; she looks at the other
painting and back) Mother . . . of . .
. God . . . Hail Mary . . . (She stops and looks at her finger, touches her eye
as if feeling for a tear, reaches up to the eye of Mother Teresa in the
painting, then rubs her finger on her blouse as if it were wet) full of grace .
. .
VOICE:
The Lord is with you.
VIRGINIA:
Blessed art thou and blessed is the fruit of thy
womb Jesus.
VOICE:
I am Mary, Mother of God.
VIRGINIA:
But I painted Mother Teresa.
VOICE:
She’s dead now, dear.
VIRGINIA:
Oh. What do
you want?
VOICE:
I want to hear you pray. It’s music to my ears.
VIRGINIA:
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Amen.
VOICE:
That’s good, dear. You can start with the Hail Mary part again if you’d like.
VIRGINIA:
Hail Mary full of grace . . .
(Lights go down and the curtain closes as she
continues; the lights go back up on the bus; Estelle is laughing; she seems to
regain her composure, then she starts laughing again)
ESTELLE:
(Laughing)
The Virgin Mary. I have to
pee. (She laughs harder) This is not funny. I am a good Christian woman.
(She laughs again) Now that’s
funny.
(She laughs uproariously, then calms down a bit; a
man overdone in Denver Broncos fanwear reaches up and pushes the "Stop
Requested" button)
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
(Estelle laughs harder; the man stops in the aisle
between Estelle and Bob; he doesn’t look at them, but speaks)
BRONCOS FAN:
You two lesbian wenches are gonna rot in hell.
(He walks away; Estelle laughs uncontrollably; Bob
frantically searches for something in her purse as the man walks to the back
door of the bus; another passenger starts to play with the "Stop
Requested" button)
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
BRONCOS FAN:
Back door, please!
BOB:
Back door!?
Back door!? I’ll give you back
door!
(Bob leaps at him and pushes a large dildo into his
backside; he yelps; she pushes him out the door with it; Estelle laughs some
more)
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
DRIVER:
Okay, ladies.
(Standing and facing them) I’ve
had enough of your blasphemy. Get off
my bus.
BOB:
You don’t have the right . . .
DRIVER:
Lady, I got a right.
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
DRIVER:
I got a radio here.
I can call the cops and have them here in minutes. I can file a complaint of assault against
you for what you did to that poor man, and for what you said about the Lord.
BOB:
Arrested for assaulting the Lord? Oh, God.
Only in Colorado.
DRIVER:
Lady . . .
(He picks up the radio receiver)
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
BOB:
Okay, okay.
I’m gone. I’ve only got a couple
of blocks to go anyway. Geez.
DRIVER:
Good. Now
the two of you get off my bus.
BOB:
Two? She
didn’t do anything. I don’t even know
her.
DRIVER:
Yeah, right.
Both. Off. Now.
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
ESTELLE:
Could I have a transfer, please?
DRIVER:
No.
ESTELLE:
But she’s right.
I’m not with her. I’m far from
home and I have to pee.
DRIVER:
The rules state you must ask for a transfer upon
boarding. And if you pee on my bus I’ll
land you in jail. Get out now.
ESTELLE:
But I can’t . . . I’m a long way from home.
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
DRIVER:
Out or it’s the cops.
BOB:
Come on, sweetheart. We don’t need the cops.
They hate lesbians.
DRIVER:
That’s right.
Get off now. Filthy lesbians.
ESTELLE:
(To driver)
But I’m not a lesbian. I have a
family. I have a husband. He’s very big. I should . . . (Noticing the dildo) That is strange. Where does a lesbian get such a penis?
BOB:
What?
PERSON ON BUS:
Lady, dykes are dickless.
(Bob slaps the person’s arm with the dildo and
glares)
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
BOB:
From the penis store.
ESTELLE:
I’m serious.
What my husband could do with that.
But I’m serious. Where?
BOB:
What?
ESTELLE:
Where did you get that thing?
BOB:
I won it in a bobbing for dildoes contest last
Halloween.
PERSON ON BUS:
Lapping for labia, maybe a little closer.
(Bob starts slamming the person with the dildo)
DRIVER:
(Grabbing radio microphone) Yeah, base, we need some police help. Assault on the bus. Assault on the bus. (Bob heads off the bus, with Estelle
following) Assault with a deadly
weapon.
RECORDED VOICE:
Stop requested.
Stop requested.
(Lights go to black, then come up on Robert and
Lee’s apartment. Lee is over Robert’s
knees; Robert is dressed in a cap and gown)
ROBERT:
Oh, God.
Thank you. Thank you. Oh my.
Oh my. That was good. It was good. I wish I wouldn’t do it so soon, though.
LEE:
You always do.
ROBERT:
Yes, well, I . . . I get so excited. How’s your butt?
LEE:
My ass is on fire.
ROBERT:
Well, I’d like to help you now.
LEE:
(Standing)
Oh, I came.
ROBERT:
You did?
LEE:
I always do.
Just the force of your hand is enough.
ROBERT:
I never feel you . . . I can never tell you’re
excited.
LEE:
Oh, I am.
Just being with my schoolmaster spankmaster is exciting enough.
ROBERT:
Good, then.
Let’s get cleaned up and go.
LEE:
Nooooo.
Nooo. I don’t wanna go. I hate art.
ROBERT:
What? You
can’t be gay and hate art. Any more
than you can be gay and hate show tunes.
It’s an oxymoron, gay art-hater.
The words don’t go together.
LEE:
I got an F in art in high school.
ROBERT:
I’m not the principal. We’re done with schoolmaster for the night.
LEE:
No, I mean in school. I flunked art. I hated
it. I break ceramic ashtrays whenever I
see them.
ROBERT:
That’s not art.
LEE:
And I flunked art appreciation. Because I couldn’t understand—who
decides—who says that Picasso is good, but John so and so is not good
enough. Who says that ceramic ashtrays
aren’t art and that Rembrandt is? I
don’t get it.
ROBERT:
Well, the only way to get it is to expose yourself
to it. You’ll come to understand. Even
the critics disagree. This person in
the Post might be wrong. Maybe the
reviewer for WestWord will love it.
Actually, they probably will.
It’s an alternative gallery.
LEE:
What’s that mean?
ROBERT:
It's an alternative paper. They’ll probably love it because it’s alternative art at an
alternative gallery and they’re an alternative paper.
LEE:
So that sounds more like politics and who has the
power to decide, with everyone pushing their own point of view.
ROBERT:
It gets sorted out in the long run, over time. It can take years to recognize an artistic
genius.
LEE:
Then why are we wasting our time now? If we won’t know for 20 years that what we
see tonight is genius, then why are we going now, when it’s bad?
ROBERT:
You’re not getting it.
LEE:
See!?! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell
you. I failed again. Don’t make me go.
ROBERT:
We have to go.
That’s all there is to it.
LEE:
I don’t wanna go.
(Beat) You don’t want Brie to
know anything about you. Why don’t I
just stay here?
ROBERT:
No.
LEE:
Why?
ROBERT:
Look, I don’t pay you to be a houseboy just for the
sex. It’s also for the companionship
and someone to clean up after me.
You’re going. That’s final. That’s really all there is to it.
LEE:
You could handcuff me. Play big, burly police bully.
ROBERT:
Don’t start.
I can’t. We’ve already done this
four times today.
LEE:
You can do more than that. You’re not that old.
You’re not old at all, Officer.
You’re just right.
ROBERT:
Come on, don’t.
You know how much I like that game.
LEE:
But I can’t stop.
I’m a deviant criminal and you’re the sex police. Arrest me, Officer. Beat me with your nightstick.
ROBERT:
Goddam it.
(Beat) Get into the cell. I’ll be right in.
(Lee exits; Robert heads toward the exit)
LEE:
(Off stage)
Officer, I’m breaking the law!
Public indecency!
ROBERT:
(Looking to the side, as if talking to someone
else) Book him, Dan-O. (Looking to the other side) Yes, sir.
I’ll take care of him.
(He exits singing the theme song from "Hawaii
Five-Oh"; lights go to black; curtain is reopened in the dark; Jon-John
enters as the lights come up on the gallery)
JON-JOHN:
Someone left the fucking door locked and the fucking
outside lights off.
BRIE
(To herself)
Someone left the fucking cake out in the rain.
JON-JOHN:
No wonder nobody’s been here.
BRIE:
And I don’t think that I can take it.
JON-JOHN:
And that pisses me off.
BRIE
(Crossing to him)
Gee, whom might you be blaming?
Let me see. Two people own this
place, you being one of them. And, of
course, you never do anything wrong . . . so, that leaves . . . hmm . . . who
do you think it might have been?
JON-JOHN:
Shut up. I
wasn’t blaming.
BRIE:
You weren’t taking it either.
JON-JOHN:
That’s because I can’t take it. I wonder how many people passed by.
BRIE:
All who had an opportunity, no doubt.
JON-JOHN:
I wonder how many found the door locked.
BRIE:
Probably the one who unlocked it.
JON-JOHN:
I wonder how long you’re going to continue to be a
pain in the ass.
BRIE:
As long as there’s an ass that’s asking for it.
JON-JOHN:
I’m going to go check on things, see how everyone
else is doing. This isn’t a very goddam
good start. It doesn’t bode well for
the evening.
BRIE:
Neither did this morning.
JON-JOHN:
Brieby, why don’t you play some more solitaire?
BRIE:
Sure, why don’t you go play with yourself some more
too?
JON-JOHN:
I’m going to greet people.
BRIE:
No, I’ll greet people and you go check on the
artists. I know how to deal with
people.
(She steps into the main gallery as the performance
artists are entering; he exits)
AMPERSAND:
Hello, woman.
BRIE:
Hi, I’m Brie.
AMPERSAND:
I am Ampersand.
(Long pause)
BRIE:
And?
AMPERSAND:
No and.
Ampersand.
IS:
Is.
BRIE:
Is . . . what?
IS:
I am Is.
It’s short for Izzy. Like Iggy
Popp, but with Z's.
BRIE:
Oh, come in.
Welcome. And you are?
MAMA DADA:
I go by many names.
Sometimes I am Auntie Art.
Sometimes I am Lady Da.
Sometimes I am Mama Dada.
BRIE:
That’s nice.
And which are you tonight?
MAMA DADA:
Tonight I am Mama Dada. Notice that all three allow the feminine side of me to be
explored. All three have to do with
Dadaist art. All are used to corrupt
art and language, so that creation can begin anew.
AMPERSAND:
Quiet, Mama.
You, cheese lady. Where do we
perform?
BRIE:
Perform?
This is an art gallery.
AMPERSAND:
And we are performance artists.
BRIE:
I should have guessed. I’m sorry, we didn’t get your application.
IS:
We thought the isness of us was enough.
BRIE:
Well, it’s not.
We needed to hear from people by the deadline, two weeks ago. The gallery’s full.
AMPERSAND:
We couldn’t apply ourselves sooner.
IS:
We don’t work that way.
BRIE:
That’s not my problem.
MAMA DADA:
We have been in meetings trying to decide what to do
and what not to do, how to make this art as not art as possible. We’ve been talking about it, so we haven’t
been able to do anything about it.
We’ve been planning and talking.
Creation takes planning, planning takes meetings, meetings take
creativity.
IS:
We’ve been being.
Because that’s what artistic being is.
Is being. It just is.
BRIE & AMPERSAND:
Is?
IS:
Yes?
AMPERSAND:
You’re talking in circles.
IS:
I know.
That’s the only way to get to the beginning and ending of
everything. We’re about that, you know.
AMPERSAND:
I only know what is at the moment, which has no
beginning or end. And in this moment
I’m feeling that the cheese lady is a drag.
BRIE:
Brie. The
name is Brie.
MAMA DADA:
Brie? How
pretentious.
(The performance artists laugh uproariously)
BRIE:
Thank you, Mama Dada. I think you should leave now.
IS:
We haven’t performed yet.
BRIE:
I believe that, and tonight will be no exception.
AMPERSAND:
It’s your loss.
I was going to defecate to decorate.
It would have been an appropriate gesture given the gallery.
BRIE:
Get out.
Your art movement was over before it started. Out, out, out, out, out.
JON-JOHN:
(Coming up to her) Jesus Christ, you’re chasing people away.