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. Do you hate me that much?
BRIE:
No, I love you that much.
JON-JOHN:
What the hell does that mean? Who are these people?
AMPERSAND:
We are the destruction of construction, the creators
of non-creation.
BRIE:
It’s not important.
JON-JOHN:
I want to know.
IS:
I am Is.
BRIE:
A passive aggressive verb and her friends,
okay? Later. I’ll explain it later.
Okay now, you people, it’s time.
Good night. Shoo.
MAMA DADA:
I will create a piece for you, a non-art comment on
your non-art gallery.
BRIE:
If it’s a piece of shit, which I don’t doubt,
really, I don’t want it. Thank you and
good night.
JON-JOHN:
Look, if Brie says to go, you’d better go, or I’m
gonna kick your asses so hard you won’t be able to think for a year. More.
(They exit grumbling)
BRIE:
My anti-hero.
I’m so proud of you.
JON-JOHN:
Oh-oh, it looks like Travis is paralyzed again. I’d better go help. Hey, I’m sorry about before. You know how I get on opening nights, all
tense and everything. I didn’t mean
anything.
BRIE:
Yes, you did, but that’s all right. Go take care of Bertrand.
(She exits; Jon-John goes over to Bertrand, who is
still paralyzed)
JON-JOHN:
Run, it’s the cops!
(Bertrand jolts in fear, then falls down)
BERTRAND:
Goddam it!
What, are you trying to kill me?
JON-JOHN:
Trying to help you.
BERTRAND:
Thanks a fucking bunch.
JON-JOHN:
I saw you were paralyzed.
BERTRAND:
I tawt I taw a puddy tat. Leave me the fuck alone.
JON-JOHN:
All right, your choice.
(He leaves)
BERTRAND:
Jesus. I
need a drink. Wine. Beer.
Anything. Anything but
tequila. I can’t do ‘ny more fuckin’
tequila. It’ll kill me. Jesus.
Is this place open? How long was
I like that? It feels like . . . I
don’t wanna think about what it feels like.
Stomach upset. Reaally
upset. Fuckin’ head’s upset, that’s
what. My fuckin’ head’s not on
right. All I can think about is booze
and getting laid. Screw the art. It doesn’t mean anything. See?
I even dismiss it sexually.
Screw it. See? Didn’t even know I was saying it, but I did. And I said screw, for God’s sake. Like I was censoring myself, like I
shouldn’t say fuck and art at the same time, like they don’t go together. Fuckin’ art. No, no, I know I’ve said that before. It works too well.
Fuckin’ art. Yeah, I’ve said
it. And I’ll say it again. Fuckin’ art. Fuckin art! Fuckin’
art!! Fuckin’ art!!! Fuckin’ art!!!! Fuckin’ art!!!!!
(Angela has crossed over to Bertrand)
ANGELA:
Excuse me!!
BERTRAND:
Fuckin’ what!?!
ANGELA:
You’re being a little loud.
BERTRAND:
I’m sorry.
ANGELA:
I was meditating.
BERTRAND:
Oh, Jesus.
ANGELA:
I was. And
don’t pooh-pooh it—it’s a valid thing for me.
BERTRAND:
I wasn’t. I
was meditating too.
ANGELA:
Really! That
is so super cool I can’t believe it.
BERTRAND:
Ommm, ommm, fuckin’ art, fuckin’ art. From the book, Chants for the Starving Artist.
Believe it, lady, I was chanting.
ANGELA:
Angela.
BERTRAND:
What?
ANGELA:
Angela.
That’s my name.
BERTRAND:
Angela? Like
angel with an a and big hole at the end?
ANGELA:
Yes.
(Beat) Let me ask you a personal
question—how do you define your spirituality?
BERTRAND:
Sort of like your name.
ANGELA:
I don’t understand you. (Beat) You must be one of
the artists on display.
BERTRAND:
I’m not on display.
My fuckin’ work is. Barely, it’s
buried in the back room there.
ANGELA:
Are you drunk?
Oh, that’s a joke. What were you
chanting? Really?
BERTRAND:
Fuckin’ art.
I swear. I’ll drink to it.
ANGELA:
So, are you drunk?
(No answer) I think you have
self-esteem issues. (He crosses away
from her) There must have been past
events that . . .
BERTRAND:
Past issues.
Back issues. Angel, we all have
back issues in our lives.
ANGELA:
Angela.
BERTRAND:
But if we spend our time on those, we miss the
current issues, if you know what I mean.
I’m Bertrand. Like you fuckin’
care. But I’m Bertrand. You’re not the one with the rosary, are
you? For God’s sake, tell me you’re not
the one with the rosary.
ANGELA:
No, that’s Virginia. (Nodding toward Virginia who is still kneeling with her rosary in
front of her paintings) I’ve met her
too.
BERTRAND:
Quite the social club, isn’t it? Bunch a fuckin’ misfits. Bunch a bad art types hangin’ in the gallery
space.
ANGELA:
She’s nice.
(Bertrand looks at Angela for a moment, then speaks)
BERTRAND:
So are you.
Wanna fuck when this is all over?
ANGELA:
Excuse me?
BERTRAND:
Just asking.
ANGELA:
Sorry, I don’t ‘fuck’ just any man I meet.
BERTRAND:
I’m not just any man. (Beat) I’m a drunk man.
ANGELA:
Thanks, but I . . . I need to do my mantra.
BERTRAND:
A mantra from heaven. You know, I don’t just fuck any woman either. Presumptuous of you to think so. You are a mantra from heaven. I haven’t asked anybody that in a long time. Usually just wank. It’s easier. But just
now, I saw you, I mean really saw you for a moment, and there was this big-ass
light around you like a fuckin’ goddamed to hell fuckin’ halo thing.
ANGELA:
My aura. You
saw my aura.
BERTRAND:
Ah, Jesus.
Don’t interrupt me. I’m being
poetic. There was this fuckin’ halo
thing around your head, your body. It
was beautiful. You were beautiful. Radiating.
Shit. (Beat) That’s funny. Radiating shit. But it’s
still there. I’m seeing it now,
surrounding you.
ANGELA:
My aura. My
aura.
BERTRAND:
What, a New Zealand tribe, like this has to do with
anything . . .
ANGELA:
No, my aura, my aura. What color is my aura?
BERTRAND:
What, are you fuckin’ speaking Spanish? Portuguese?
What is that? Miora, miora, what
the hell does that mean? I don’t
know. I don’t know what color it
is. What color is your parachute? Who the fuck cares? I need a drink. But this is cool. It
is. I’m seeing this white and yellow
and sometimes orange light that looks like a bad 70’s drapery around your body
and I wanna enter into it, totally, let it consume me, and I can bathe in the
light.
ANGELA:
I’m seeing yours now. Our aura.
BERTRAND:
Aurora?
What?
ANGELA:
Cut it out.
BERTRAND:
Northern lights.
What the fuck are you talkin’ about?
I’m seeing this thing and trying to connect and you’re making bizarre
references to anthropology and astronomy.
I’m talking religion here. I’m
talking a basic human connection.
ANGELA:
I said stop it!
BERTRAND:
It’s changing.
Now it’s more orange, flashes of red and cold blue. Really red and really blue. It’s burning and freezing at the same time
and it’s scaring the fuck outta me now.
(He starts crossing up stage again, with Angela
following)
ANGELA:
Your aura.
It’s gone. My aura. Tell me more about my aura.
BERTRAND:
Red.
Scarlet. It’s getting
bigger. Your body’s on fire. Run away!
Get the fuck outta here! Oh,
God! I can’t move. I’m fuckin’ paralyzed again. Don’t do this to me!
ANGELA:
My aura. My
aura. My or, uh, you, uh, your, uh,
aura, aura. My aura. My aura.
My mirror. My mirror. (Catching sight of herself in it) I can see my aura in my mirror. I can be the goddess of my own light!
(She examines herself in the mirror)
BERTRAND:
The burning stopped. She got away. But I can’t
move. Shit. I can’t move.
(Beat) So much for fuckin’
Angela.
(Virginia walks over to Angela)
VIRGINIA:
Are you okay?
I heard some loud voices.
ANGELA:
Oh, I’m fine.
I had a weird experience with the photographer. I just need to focus some positive energy
into the universe.
VIRGINIA:
I can pray for you.
ANGELA:
I’m a Pagan.
VIRGINIA:
Then I should pray for you.
ANGELA:
I mean I’m a Pagan.
I don’t believe in your prayers.
Don’t waste your time.
VIRGINIA:
My prayers are your positive energy. It’s just a different name for the same
thing. Maybe I can intercede with Mary
and ask her to intercede with Jesus to ask His Father to help you.
ANGELA:
And I’ll plant a tree in your honor, and maybe the
last leaf on the last limb will shade your house. Really, I don’t need your help.
Thanks for stopping.
VIRGINIA:
I had a vision.
I have to tell someone.
ANGELA:
A vision?
Like a peyote vision? You don’t
seem the type. What kind of vision?
VIRGINIA:
The Virgin Mary appeared to me.
ANGELA:
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
VIRGINIA:
I’m serious.
ANGELA:
I really need to do some . . .
VIRGINIA:
Usually she appears to younger people. Teenagers and those who are more
innocent. I can’t understand why she
would come to me. I’m a sinner. I was praying and my Mother Teresa painting
started crying. I looked up and it
wasn’t Mother Teresa at all, and I know I’m a better painter than that. It was the Mother of God. She was crying.
ANGELA:
Why?
VIRGINIA:
She didn’t say, but she was sad. I could see her pain was limitless. I need to suffer more.
ANGELA:
You need to suffer more because the Virgin Mary is
hurting over something?
VIRGINIA:
Maybe I can take some of her pain away.
ANGELA:
Listen, Virginia, you’re a nice person. I believe you saw something. I believe you believe you saw the Virgin
Mary. But I can’t. Look at my work here. See this mirror. It‘s actually a piece of art.
I call it God. Does that tell you something? And my other work . . . Christmas tree,
Easter eggs, carved pumpkin. Do you get
it? I call it Origins. It’s an
examination of the Pagan origins of Christian ritual. I don’t believe that the Virgin Mary exists, but if she does I
think she should just be called Mary, if you know what I mean. I think the whole episode should be called
the Immaculate Misconception. And I
don’t say that to hurt you. It’s what I
believe.
VIRGINIA:
Your work speaks to me too. I can look in your mirror and see God too,
because He created us in His own image, because He exists within each of
us. Your work doesn’t exclude my
beliefs. It complements them. We can be friends. I can show you the way to my God.
ANGELA:
I’ve had two abortions. I don’t think your god wants me.
VIRGINIA:
I’m going to go pray some more. It was nice talking to you.
(She walks away; Robert and Lee enter)
ROBERT:
Hello, is anyone here?
LEE:
It looks even worse than what the paper described.
ROBERT:
It’s quaint, but that doesn’t mean the work isn’t
any good. Brie always had such good
taste in everything. (Jon-John
enters) Except men. Hello!
LEE:
How long do we have to stay?
ROBERT:
You’re under arrest and only out on bail. You’ll stay until I say we go.
(Brie enters from the office area)
BRIE:
Robert! You
devil.
(They hug)
ROBERT:
Brie, the space is so nice. So elegant.
LEE:
I thought you said it was qu . . .
ROBERT:
Oh, this is Lee, a friend of mine.
BRIE:
And this is my husband, Jon-John.
(They all shake hands and then somewhat
uncomfortably look around the gallery)
ROBERT:
(To Lee) Did
I tell you she could pick them? He
looks positively monstrous.
BRIE:
(To Jon-John)
I knew he was gay. Look at the
little boy-toy.
LEE
(To Robert)
I thought you said she was pretty.
JON-JOHN:
(To Brie)
Boy? That looks like a girl.
ROBERT:
This really is an elegant space. I adore it.
BRIE:
Thanks, but we think of it more as quaint than
elegant.
ROBERT:
It could be that.
If that’s how you see it.
ROBERT, BRIE & JON-JOHN:
So, where did you two meet?
ROBERT & BRIE: LEE:
At Bible college out of
town. Some fag bar
downtown.
JON-JOHN & BRIE:
Pardon?
LEE:
Oh, I . . .
ROBERT:
Bible college.
BRIE:
That’s where we met.
ROBERT:
You two? At
Bible college too?
BRIE:
No, you and I.
We met at art school, Jon-John and I.
But where did you two meet?
Bible college too?
LEE:
No.
JON-JOHN:
(Laughing)
It sounded like you said some fag bar.
BRIE:
(Tugging his arm)
Jon-John, I’m sure that’s not what she said, and we don’t use those
terms.
ROBERT:
She? Who?
BRIE:
Did I say she?
I don’t think so. I’m sure I
said he.
JON-JOHN:
Well, it sounded like it.
BRIE:
Like he, you mean.
JON-JOHN:
Yes.
LEE:
Like what?
JON-JOHN:
What? Oh,
you. Yes, like you said some fag bar
downtown.
ROBERT:
No, no, no.
Fag bar, that’s silly. Not fag
bar. Agra, as in India. But downtown, not at the Taj Mahal.
BRIE:
India? How .
. . exotic. Mixing with the Indians.
LEE:
I’m not Indian.
I’m white. More a cowgirl than
an Indian.
JON-JOHN:
Cowgirl?
ROBERT:
(Flustered)
Lee suffers from occasional gender dysphoria. Don’t worry about it.
BRIE:
I see. I
meant . . . I meant . . . what were you doing there?
ROBERT:
We were there studying . . . I mean I was there
studying . . . Hindu mysticism.
LEE:
What’s Hindu mysticism?
ROBERT:
Lee, as you can see, was only touring, a round the
world jaunt. But enough of that. We’re here now. This is what counts. Not
where we came from, but the fact that we’re all together here at the moment. Life is beautiful when you’re with old and
dear friends.
JON-JOHN:
(To Brie) I
agree, but none of mine are here today.
BRIE:
Robert, you look wonderful. You haven’t changed a bit.
LEE:
Since last week, when you delivered the invitation?
BRIE:
Oh, no, Robert and I haven’t seen each other in
years.
LEE:
You lied to me.
You said she delivered it to you personally.
ROBERT:
No, I must have said she addressed it to me
personally.
LEE:
(Turning away)
I can see we’re going to have a gay old time tonight.
ROBERT:
(Laughing nervously) Brie, you look wonderful too.
And so does the gallery. Lee and
I should check it out and let you get back to work. We’ll catch up with you after we’ve had a chance to look around a
bit. (Under his breath, to Lee) If you thought your ass hurt earlier today,
try another stunt like that and you’ll see what pain really is.
BRIE:
(To Jon-John)
He’s gay.
LEE:
(To Robert, as they’re walking away) Oh, beat me, Daddy. You know I like to be hurt.
JON-JOHN:
(To Brie, as Robert and Lee walk away) I don’t think so. I think the other one is a woman.
ROBERT:
You know I’m a true sadist. Really true.
LEE:
What does that mean?
ROBERT:
A true sadist is one who, when a masochist says,
‘beat me’, says ‘no’.
LEE:
You bitch.
(Robert and Lee work their way through the gallery,
starting with Virginia’s work)
BRIE:
Jon-John, what is that big painting hanging there in
the middle?
JON-JOHN:
That’s the one that came in from the anonymous
artist. You didn’t see it? It’s called Christess. I didn’t really
get a look yet either. I had Angela
hang it last night and I got too busy to look at it.
(They walk over to it; they walk around it and
examine it; the lights shift to many shades of blue)
BRIE:
Oh, this hurts.
I’m hurting. You’ve hurt me too
much. Why do you do it?
JON-JOHN:
You had it coming, bitch. You had it coming. Who
were you with tonight?
BRIE:
I was with my sister. I told you that.
JON-JOHN:
All night, I don’t believe you. Don’t you ever lie to me. You think that little slap hurt, wait 'til I
really belt you one. That was a love
tap, baby, a love tap.
BRIE:
Don’t ever hit me again. Ever.
JON-JOHN:
(Very threatening)
Or what? You know the cops won’t
believe you. You know I could really
hurt you. I mean really. I won’t hit you if you don’t fuck around on
me like this. You brought it on
yourself. Just behave and everything
will be all right. That’s all you have
to do.
BRIE:
Fuck you!
JON-JOHN:
No, fuck you!
(He raises his hand to hit her; the blue lights
disappear and the lighting returns to normal; they both look at the painting)
BRIE:
I can’t look any more. It hurts too much. She’s
too real.
(She starts to exit)
JON-JOHN:
It’s art, Brieby.
It doesn’t mean anything.
(Brie exits; Angela crosses over to Jon-John)
ANGELA:
It’s powerful, isn’t it?
(Jon-John doesn’t say anything; he crosses to
Bertrand; she goes back to her work)
JON-JOHN:
It’s the cops!
BERTRAND:
(Flying to the floor) Jesus Christ! Goddam it,
Jon-John. Isn’t there another way?
JON-JOHN:
Not that I’ve found.
BERTRAND:
Fuckin’, what is this? Why does this happen to me?
JON-JOHN:
‘Cause you’re a wimp.
BERTRAND:
Get the fuck outta my face, all right? Go on.
I gotta go check on my photos.
(He exits just as Bob and Estelle enter)
BOB:
We made it!
Here we are!
ESTELLE:
We are where?
BOB:
At the photo gallery. That I was reading about in the papers. Hellllooo! This place is
emptier than an NBC sitcom. (She
laughs) Hellllooo!
ESTELLE:
You’re a strange lesbian, with a penis and a smile.
(Jon-John has crossed to them)
JON-JOHN:
Hi. You
don’t need a tour guide. You can just
look around on your own.
BOB:
Hi, I’m Bob.
(To Estelle) And I’m not a
lesbian. I just let him think I was.
JON-JOHN:
Bob. A woman
named Bob who comes in with another woman and then makes a point of stating
she’s not a lesbian. Are you in the
right place?
ESTELLE:
I’m not a lesbian either. I just came with her.
JON-JOHN:
And you’re not a lesbian. I’ll have to introduce you two to the gay guy who doesn’t know
he’s straight because he’s with an androgynous woman with a unisex name who’s
acting like his boy toy.
BOB:
I’m definitely in the right place. And Bob is short for Barb, which is short
for Barbara. Get it?
JON-JOHN:
I’ll just let you two look around.
BOB:
Where are the photos?
JON-JOHN:
In the back.
(They cross up left and exit; Jon-John hangs out by
the entrance, looking for more patrons; Robert and Lee move over to Virginia’s
work; she continues to pray)
ROBERT:
(To Virginia)
Honey, it’s bad, but it’s not that bad.
I’m sure the artist recovered fully.
LEE:
It’s very nice.
VIRGINIA:
And so are you.
Thank you.
ROBERT:
This from the boy who flunked art school. Let us move on and hope to God there’s
something more interesting. Like at
least a cute boy or two, because obviously the art’s not going to do it for me.
LEE:
Maybe in 20 years this'll be like an Andy Warhol.
ROBERT:
I don’t think so.
Mother Teresa’s can is nowhere near as nice, and it’s not even showing
from this view.
VIRGINIA:
Why are you so negative?
ROBERT:
Don’t tell me—you painted these—am I right?
LEE:
Don’t be so mean; they’re nice. (To Virginia) I think they’re nice.
VIRGINIA:
I was merely the instrument for God’s handiwork.
ROBERT:
God flunked art, too. Let’s move on.
VIRGINIA:
I’ll pray for you.
ROBERT:
Thank you, dear, but please, not to the god who
helped you with the artwork, okay? (To
Lee) Come on, Lee, let’s move on to the
next exhibit.
(Robert grabs Lee’s arm and starts pulling Lee
toward Angela’s exhibit)
LEE:
Thank you for the work.
(Virginia returns to her rosary as Robert and Lee
work their way over to Angela’s area; they stop next to the tree)
LEE:
This isn’t art.
It’s a tree.
ROBERT:
That’s the most perceptive thing you’ve said all
day.
LEE:
But it has a name.
Origins. So it is art, huh?
ANGELA:
It’s what I call ‘found sculpture’, pieces of your
everyday environment salvaged and meticulously weaved together in some fashion
to make a statement about the world/universe/spiritual domain in which we live;
ornamentation of various sorts stripped to its essentials and reconstructed to
breathe new life.
LEE:
This is amazing.
What does it mean?
ROBERT:
It means she’s too poor to afford quality materials.
ANGELA:
You tell me.
Enter into it, become one with it, and then return from it and tell me
what it means.
ROBERT:
This ought to be good. (Lee examines the tree very closely) While we’re waiting for the boy genius to come back from the
forest, would you have any ceramic ashtrays I might use.
ANGELA:
You can’t smoke here.
ROBERT:
I was thinking for target practice.
LEE:
I think it’s a comment about, uh, it’s something
about how Christianity has been corrupted.
I’m not sure.
ANGELA:
That’s good.
Keep going.
LEE:
Well, I think I heard once that Christmas trees were
around before Christmas, that they started as some kind of heathen thing or
something. And the pumpkin . . . well,
Halloween is all about evil spirits and everything . . . and I can’t remember
about the eggs . . . some kind of . . . was it some kind of fertility ritual or
something . . . I don’t know . . . I’m not very smart.
ANGELA:
That was brilliant.
That’s pretty close to being exactly it, a reflection on the Pagan origins
of Christianity, and thus a comment about it.
You did better than the reviewer for the Post. (Angela points to the mirror)
What do you think of this one? I
call it . . .
LEE:
Don’t tell me.
ROBERT:
Let’s go.
LEE:
It’s beautiful.
ROBERT:
Yes, dear, you are.
Now stop it.
LEE:
I’m entranced.
ROBERT:
Excuse me, Narcissus, I’d like to move on.
LEE:
Don’t treat me like that. This is the first time I’ve ever had an appreciation for art.
ROBERT:
This isn’t art.
It’s bullshit.
ANGELA:
Excuse me, Rex Reed, I heard that.
ROBERT:
Rex Reed reviews films, dear, not recycled craft
shows. I’m sorry, but I’m used to
Picassos, Goyas, that kind of thing. I
don’t like the newer trash as well.
LEE:
I do. I get
it. It’s all about looking at
yourself. It’s beautiful.
ROBERT:
I’ve never known you to be so enamored with
yourself.
LEE:
I’m talking about the work.
ANGELA:
(To Lee) And
truth. It’s also about truth. It should make you look at yourself—not just
this work, but all art—it should get you to examine what you see and see who
you really are.
LEE:
(Turning away from the mirror) I can’t do that.
ROBERT:
Okay, good, playtime is over. Let’s move on.
LEE:
I think I want to stay and talk with this woman.
ROBERT:
No, let’s go.
LEE:
And that woman.
They’re like sisters. I wanna
stay.
ROBERT:
I said no.
We’re moving.
ANGELA:
(To Robert)
Maybe you should look at this piece long and hard.
ROBERT:
Maybe you should mind your own business. (To Lee)
Let’s go.
(He grabs Lee’s arm again and pulls her away from
Angela and toward the ramp; Hal Sutherland enters; Jon-John stops him)
JON-JOHN:
What are you doing here?
HAL:
It’s open to the public, isn’t it?
JON-JOHN:
Yes, but we prefer visitors who appreciate what we
do, not trash us every chance they get.
HAL:
I do appreciate good art. That’s why I’m here.
JON-JOHN:
But the headline said it was hell.
HAL:
And most of it was.
But that Christess. It brought me back.
JON-JOHN:
What did you think of my work?
HAL:
You didn’t read the review?
JON-JOHN:
No, I couldn’t.
HAL:
I thought it was well written.
JON-JOHN:
No, I couldn’t because of that headline.
HAL:
I thought the whole Buddha thing was a bit
simplistic.
JON-JOHN:
That was Brie’s work, not mine.
HAL:
I thought you two were collaborators.
JON-JOHN:
We are. One
of us designs and then we both build.
That one was her design. Mine
was the ramp.
HAL:
The ramp was perhaps the most tasteless,
thoughtless, stupid piece of shit I’ve ever seen passed off as art. If you’ll pardon the pun.
JON-JOHN:
You didn’t get it.
You’re just too stupid to get it.
HAL:
Maybe I didn’t.
JON-JOHN:
It’s a symbol for life. The ramp is the uphill road we travel day after day to get to the
end. The mountains on the side are the
struggles we go through and have to get over.
It symbolizes a journey. But
when you get to the end and you look at what is there, you see it’s shit. Get it?
The work is existential, nihilistic, and agnostic all at once. You’re just too stupid to get it.
HAL:
I was wrong.
You did put some thought into it.
So it’s a thoughtful piece of shit.
I stand corrected.
(Brie comes out and joins them)
JON-JOHN:
Get out. We
reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.
HAL:
I want to see the painting.
BRIE:
What’s going on?
HAL:
I need to see the painting.
JON-JOHN:
This is the jerk from the Post. He hated my work.
HAL:
With good reason.
Existentialism is meaningless.
JON-JOHN:
He’s trying to get in.
BRIE:
He has the right to do that.
JON-JOHN:
Stay out of this.
I said no. (To Hal) Get out.
HAL:
I must see the painting.
(Hal tries to pass Jon-John, but he blocks the way;
Jon-John roughly grabs Hal and hauls him outside, with Brie following, just as
Samuel and Simon are stepping in)
SAM:
May the peace of the Lord God Almighty in Heaven
shine down upon your worthless souls.
May the blessings of the Holy Spirit be yours.
JON-JOHN:
May the fleas of a thousand camels eat your
communion wafers.
BRIE:
Jon-John.
JON-JOHN:
Well, who needs this shit?
SAM:
Deb?
BRIE:
Excuse me?
JON-JOHN:
(Looking around)
Who? What?
BRIE:
Excuse me?
What did you call me?
SAM:
Deb. You are
Deb. I don’t believe it.
JON-JOHN:
There’s no one here by that name. This is Brie.
SAM:
Deb, you taunt me.
I remember you. Grade A
student. Top of her class. Biblical scholar par excellence. Simon, this is Deb Bell, one of the best
students I ever had. (To Brie) Are you here protesting also?
BRIE:
Brother Samuel?
SAM:
One and the same.
JON-JOHN:
Don’t tell me.
From Bible college.
BRIE:
Mount Saint Mary.
(To Sam and Simon) Come on in.
JON-JOHN:
Brie, he’s here protesting. He brought a fucking cross on wheels.
SAM:
(Covering his ears)
Don’t say that word. Wheel. There’s only one wheel. It’s a little hard to move around without
it. I used to, though, when I was
younger. Simon here . . .
SIMON:
I’m Simon.
SAM:
Simon saw my suffering and decided to help. He drilled a hole in the bottom of the
rugged cross and put that wheel on for me.
BRIE:
Maybe you shouldn’t bring that in.
SIMON:
I wanted to put a motor on it, but he thought that
would be too modern. Then I wanted to
put pedals on and a seat on top, like a unicycle, but he thought that would
eliminate the suffering. Basically he
doesn’t like anything I do. Sometimes I
feel like basically he doesn’t like anything.
BRIE:
I used to think that too. Robert and I both. Oh,
Brother Samuel, Robert is here tonight too.
SAMUEL:
Not your friend, Robert, the theater queen.
BRIE:
Yes. I mean,
yes, Robert, my friend.
SAMUEL:
It is time for us to go. We have made our point.
It was nice seeing you, Deb.
JON-JOHN:
Her name is Brie.
BRIE:
Brie Lautrec.
I changed my name for the sake of art.
SAMUEL:
I changed my art for the sake of a name. The name of the Lord, Jesus Christ, my
Savior, hallelujah. Good night.
JON-JOHN:
Hallelujah, I agree.
SIMON:
We just got here.
BRIE:
Yes, you just got here. Robert will want to see you.
SAMUEL:
It is time to move on to other works for the
Lord. Robert will have to do without
the pleasure of my company.
SIMON:
I have to use the bathroom.
SAM:
You must suffer in silence.
SIMON:
I have to use the bathroom.
BRIE:
Oh, go on in.
It’s in the back, just past the photographs.
JON-JOHN:
Brie, he’s a Christian. You can’t let him in there.
BRIE:
How can you be so intolerant?
JON-JOHN:
But what he’ll see . . .
BRIE:
It’s a show about spirituality. Maybe he’ll see something that will open his
eyes. (To Simon) Go on in.
SAM:
You are entering the lair of the lion. You are walking through the gates of hell
itself. You may be devoured.
BRIE:
Oh, Brother.
JON-JOHN:
Actually, he may be. By Robert. I’ll show you
the facilities.
(Jon-John leads Simon in and back toward Bertrand’s
section; Simon stops and looks lustfully at the Christess; Brie exits to the office; Jon-John and Simon exit;
suddenly two women are heard screaming and Estelle and Bob enter from the
photography section; they appear to be finishing getting dressed)
BOB:
I swear, I am not a lesbian. That was my first time like that and I
didn’t like it.
ESTELLE:
That was my first time, too, with another, with
another . . .
SAM:
(At the door, to passersby) It’s a gallery of rogues and thieves.
BOB:
With another woman?
ESTELLE:
No, with two anothers, what is that called . . .
manage a something.
BOB:
Menage a trois.
ESTELLE:
Yes. Another
woman, no big deal. My neighbor, she and
I, we munch each other much. But I’m no
lesbian neither. I have children, with
a husband. You can’t have children with
a woman, unless you’re a man.
BOB:
I’m impressed.
You and your neighbor . . .
ESTELLE:
And I like my family, they’re nice. My church says lesbian is wrong, so I stay
straight. We just munch once in a
while. But three, this is unique.
BERTRAND:
(Stumbling out of the photography gallery; Robert
and Lee cross and exit toward the photos)
Wow, fuckin’ A. Thank you,
ladies. That gives a whole new meaning
to the Holy fuckin’ Trinity, let me tell you.
Jesus. A big fuckin’ thanks.
ESTELLE:
(Looking at the Christess; the blue lights
return) Maybe I should be a lesbian
full-time.
BERTRAND:
I thought we were havin’ fun there. You didn’t like it? What the fuck?
BOB:
I liked it.
Sex with a photographer.
Woo-hoo! You have my address,
right? I gave you my address.
BERTRAND:
Yep.
BOB:
When you get them developed, I want them, to live it
over and over again.
BERTRAND:
No problem.
(Bob sits down and starts looking at photos in her
wallet, caressing her own body as she does so)
ESTELLE:
She’s in such pain.
SAM:
(To people outside)
Praise the Lord!
ESTELLE:
(Mournfully)
It hurts.
(Estelle
drops to the floor under the painting, howling in pain; Brie runs out of the
office and over to her; Bertrand crosses away)
BRIE:
(Holding her)
What’s wrong? What is it?
ESTELLE:
Are you a lesbian?
BRIE:
No, dear, I’m not.
Why?
ESTELLE:
This image, she knows my pain. She’s in the same dark blue closet where I
hide my emotions. Behind pretty
dresses. But see she has no dress. Stripped of makeup. She is only the pure color of my pain.
BRIE:
(Rocking her)
I know, I know.
ESTELLE:
But you are not a lesbian.
BRIE:
No, but I am a woman, and she did the same for me.
ESTELLE:
I feel crazy crying.
BRIE:
Shhh. It’s
okay.
SAMUEL:
You who look upon this filth will rot in hell.
(Brie continues to rock her on the floor; Bertrand
has crossed over near Virginia; the blue lights fade from the Christess and the
strange emanating light returns to the Mother Teresa painting, which he looks
at for a long while before he speaks)
BERTRAND:
How did you get this fuckin’ Virgin Mary thing to cry? It’s amazing.
VIRGINIA:
You can’t say that.
BERTRAND:
What?
VIRGINIA:
The ‘f’ word and the Virgin at the same time. They don’t go together.
BERTRAND:
Lady, I’ve done the ‘f’ word with virgins many a time. I can say it. Give me a f . . . give me a break. I was just wondering how you did that with the tear thing?
VIRGINIA:
You did say that!
BERTRAND:
No, I stopped. Just the "f" and then I . . .
VIRGINIA:
About the Virgin crying. And you said ‘Virgin’, not Mother Teresa. You can see the vision too!
BERTRAND:
No, what I really said was God grant me the serenity to accept all the bullshit. I’m wondering—let me put it in English for you—how the hell do you get the fuckin’ tears to come flowin’ out of the goddamed picture.
VIRGINIA:
It’s a miracle.
BERTRAND:
It’ll be a miracle if you ever tell me the trick to it.
VIRGINIA:
The tears are a miracle. It’s a vision. The Virgin is crying.
BERTRAND:
Very symbolic. What, somebody deflower her?
VIRGINIA:
You are blessed. Nobody else sees it, but me.
BERTRAND:
You’re serious.
VIRGINIA:
Yes.
BERTRAND:
I’m a sinner, lady. The Virgin Mary ain’t gonna make me a saint.
VIRGINIA:
We are all sinners.
BERTRAND:
You! Ha. What did you do, steal a tootsie roll from the drug store when you were five?
VIRGINIA:
I turned away from God. But now I’ve turned back, and He has sent the Virgin Mary to comfort you. She can help you too.
BERTRAND:
(As the strange light starts to fade away) We’ll have to call her Our Lady of Nuances, after the gallery. You know, like Our Lady of Lourdes, Our Lady of Fatima. I’ve heard them all. ‘Say the magic word and the Virgin’ll come down and give you a miracle.’ (The strange light is gone from the painting) Jesus, I need a drink. This is stupid. Keep your Virgin. I want a whore. I need a fuckin’ drink.
SAM:
The blood of the Lord was spilled for you!
(Bertrand starts crossing stage right toward the office; Jon-John comes out of the photo gallery, looks around at everyone, and then crosses to Bertrand)
JON-JOHN:
What the hell’s going on here? It looks like some kind of war zone or something.
BERTRAND:
As near as I can tell, your wife is comforting the lesbian I just had sex with, the new age weirdo is still chanting in her head, the other woman who had sex with me and the lesbian is taking a stroll down memory fuckin’ lane, there’s some screaming guy doing wheelies with a cross in the doorway, and the strang-o in the corner is having a vision of her Mother Teresa painting crying the Virgin Mary’s tears or some such shit. I think that about sums it up.
JON-JOHN:
I think you may have missed a couple.
BERTRAND:
Who cares? The point is, they’re all fucked up. I’m fucked up, but not enough. I need a drink. You got a drink?
JON-JOHN:
Yeah, in my office. Come on.
(They exit; as they do; Lee enters from the photography gallery; she sees Estelle and Brie on the floor and then gazes at the Christess painting for a bit; the blue light returns)
LEE:
(To Angela) I’m learning to love art. I always hated it. (Angela smiles) And just now, looking at this, I’m learning to love myself.
ANGELA:
I could see it happening.
LEE:
I look at her—some woman on a cross—and I see myself. He doesn’t know I’m a woman. You knew I was a woman, right? He’s never seen me naked. We have a dozen games that all end with him putting me over his knee and spanking me 'til he comes in his pants. I’ve never seen him naked either. A dozen games, at least, but they’re all the same. And he’s not easy on me. The harder he hits, the harder he gets. It hurts, a lot. It hurts a lot.
ANGELA:
Why?
LEE:
I need the money. He keeps me. I’m a toy he went out and rented. Rent to own. He owns me now. And it’s gotten rougher. Handcuffs, ropes. He makes me bleed sometimes.
ANGELA:
I’m sorry.
LEE:
(Looking at the painting again) She’s me in a couple of years. I have to leave. It’s scary.
ANGELA:
Tonight.
SAM:
Sinners are damned!
(The blue light disappears)
LEE:
Tonight.
ANGELA:
It will be okay.
(Lee crosses to Angela and sits with her)
SAM:
(At the doorway) Let’s go, Simon! We must go! (Coming back in) Simon!
(Jon-John and Bertrand come out of the office)
BERTRAND:
What the hell is all the noise?
JON-JOHN:
Out, come on, get out. We don’t want you here.
SAM:
Simon!
VIRGINIA:
Please be quiet, I’m praying.
SAM:
With idols. (Crossing toward her and threatening her with his cross) Rosaries. Catholics. Statues. Idols are the work of the devil.
JON-JOHN:
Okay, leave her alone.
SAM:
Simon!
(Robert enters from the photo gallery and crosses to Lee; Jon-John escorts Sam toward the door)
ROBERT:
Let’s get out of here. The one cute boy in the place was on his knees in there, but for all the wrong reasons. I assumed he was waiting for something, given that he was kneeling in front of that sexy photograph of the stinkhorn, so of course I offered to give it to him. He didn’t take it. Let’s go. I’ve got a brand spanking new game in mind.
LEE:
Fuck you.
(Hal Sutherland enters and stands in the entryway)
SAM:
Simon!
(Simon enters, looking dazed, terrified, and angry; he drops to his knees in front of the Christess; the blue light returns to the painting)
SIMON:
Forgive me God for the lust in my heart! Forgive me Jesus for the sins in my soul!
SAM:
(Crossing to him) Simon, what happened? What sin ensnared you? What demons in this gallery? (To Robert) You, what have you done to my son?
ROBERT:
Son?
SAM:
Yes, my son.
ROBERT:
Brother Samuel, if only I had known it was your son, I would have done the same for him that you did for me all those years ago.
SAM:
Robert? You’ve changed.
BRIE:
Robert, what are you saying?
ROBERT:
I’m saying that when my parents put me in Brother Samuel’s able hands they had no idea how literally they were doing so.
(Beat)
BRIE:
You too?
BERTRAND:
Ah, Jesus fuck.
VIRGINIA:
Mary, Mother of Peace, pray for us all.
BERTRAND:
You sick mother fucker.
JON-JOHN:
Get out, now, before I kill you. How could you do that to this woman?
BRIE:
How could you do what you have done to this woman?
SAM:
Simon, let’s go.
JON-JOHN:
Come on, Brie. Give me a break.
SAM:
Simon.
(Simon suddenly screams as loud as he can; he pulls a pocket knife out and starts slashing at the Christess; they all look at him in horror, but nobody can move to stop him; when he finishes the blue light explodes and disappears and he collapses on the floor in a fetal position; long pause)
JON-JOHN:
Get the boy out of here.
SAM:
Simon, let’s go.
JON-JOHN:
Not you. You can just leave. Go to hell. If there is a hell, you’ll be there.
SAM:
I’m saved by my faith. But I’ll pray for you.
(Sam exits; Estelle gets up to go; Brie gets up)
BRIE:
Jon-John, Hon, I’m leaving.
JON-JOHN:
Where are you going?
BRIE:
Somewhere far away. From everything.
JON-JOHN:
You can’t go, Brieby . . .
BRIE:
Don’t.
JON-JOHN:
Bertrand was telling me how the Catholic girl there, she’s been having visions. I’ve got an idea. We can make a lot of money. We turn the place into a shrine, a Mecca. You know, like that place in Yugoslavia. People will pay. They’ll give up everything for religion.
BRIE:
You do that. I’ve got better things to do.
(Brie exits)
JON-JOHN:
(To Bertrand) What the hell was that all about?
BERTRAND:
(Sits) Who knows?
(Bob gets up and crosses to Estelle; Bertrand is looking at the Christess frame)
BOB:
Hey, let’s say you and I get a cab together. And I’m not a lesbian. And I know you’re not either.
ESTELLE:
Maybe lesbian. Who knows?
BOB:
Yeah, right. Married. How many kids? Six? Yeah, you’re a lesbian. Come on, girlfriend.
(They exit)
ROBERT:
Let’s go then. This party is over.
BERTRAND:
Shit. I can’t move.
LEE:
I said fuck you before. You didn’t hear me?
BERTRAND:
I can’t fuckin’ move.
ROBERT:
No, fuck you. I’m the one who pays you and I’m the one who calls the shots, all right?
BERTRAND:
Goddam it.
LEE:
No, it’s not. Fuck you.
ROBERT:
Who the hell do you think you are all of a sudden?
LEE:
I’ll tell you who. You know why you’ve never seen me naked? Because I’m a woman and I knew you wanted a boy. I needed the money.
ROBERT:
Right. Well, I’m leaving now. If you’re not coming along, you won’t get paid for this week. Let’s go.
(He exits)
LEE:
(To Angela) Thank you.
ANGELA:
For what?
LEE:
I think you know.
(Robert re-enters)
ROBERT:
Are you coming?
LEE:
No.
ROBERT:
Fine, your choice. I’m leaving.
(He exits)
LEE:
(To Angela) Good bye. And thanks, really. (To Bertrand as she exits) Good night.
(Jon-John comes out from the office)
JON-JOHN:
Did anyone call the cops yet?
(Bertrand falls off his seat)
BERTRAND:
Jesus, Jon-John, cut it out.
JON-JOHN:
I mean about the vandalism.
BERTRAND:
Not me. Hey, Jon-John, time to go. Look man, it was one hell of a night, huh? Fuckin’ art, fuckin’ drinkin’, fuckin’ good fuckin’, fuckin’ violence, what more could you ask for, huh? Fuckin’ great.
JON-JOHN:
Yeah, the best.
BERTRAND:
I gotta go get sober. Thanks again. Fuck.
(Bertrand exits)
JON-JOHN:
(To Hal) Why are you still here?
HAL:
I told you, I came back to see the painting.
JON-JOHN:
Well, I’m sorry, but like the gallery and like my life it was destroyed tonight. Slashed to pieces in the name of Jesus. Good night.
(Jon-John exits back to the office; Hal crosses around to look at the painting)
HAL:
(To Angela) The one thing that was worth anything to anyone here and that’s what was destroyed.
ANGELA:
It was art.
HAL:
And?
ANGELA:
From the chaos of destruction new life is created. Yin-Yang. Everything changes. Nothing changes. Life goes on.
HAL:
I guess so.
(He exits; Angela turns and looks at herself in the mirror)
VIRGINIA:
Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus (Lights begin to slowly fade) 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 among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.
(Lights out)
THE END