SCENE 1
A man dressed in a tattered suit, paddy cap, and braces stands thoughtfully centre stage. Stage right there is a small writing desk with an ink well and quill. Stage left there is a beautiful portrait.
The man turns slowly and faces the audience.
The Man: The wistful thinking’s of a muse so beautiful aught not create an image so vile. Why must we as artists tremble at the sight of beauty, true beauty.
We should revel in it, revere it. Yet, as it is so oft with such certainties, we cannot. We see beauty and wonder how can we let the world know of such divinity. For Picasso, it was the abstract. For Canaletto it was the exact. For Joyce it was the ramblings of an artist who lost himself in the midst of an Irish street and a tragic Greek epic. As artists, we must learn to adapt beauty in its truest form.
I believe it is possible to achieve this feat, but we must sacrifice a piece of ourselves to do it. We must sacrifice the “organ” that Simmel says surrounds all people.
We must shed this hard shell and allow our softness to feel the breeze of the world.
We must let this softness smell the odours of lust and euphoria.
We must let this softness live without fear in a world encased by it.
The Man: (walks to the beautiful portrait) Why can’t you describe your beauty to me? Tell me! Tell me how I am to perceive you! How can I shed this shell when you will not surrender your opinion? Yes you are otherworldly, perfectly proportionate, perfectly postured. Yet, you are not perfectly perceivable. Something faultless, yet faulty. Is that beauty?
The man sits by the portrait cross legged, staring up at it, entranced.
SCENE 2
Another beautiful portrait is stood beside the first, the man is sat cross legged in an old suit, hair finely combed. He quietly weeps. A woman enters stage left and stands by the portraits, dressed in shabby trousers held up by braces, and a white shirt with sleeves rolled. She sees the man but ignores him and heads to the writing desk and begins to write.
The Woman: (singing) Speak to me darlin’ of evening. Speak to me lover of night. Hold me in your firm embrace, until I cry, cry, cry. Until I cry, cry, cry. (Stops singing)
The Woman: What can this man not understand? What can this man not see? The beauty of portraits stems from their will to be. To be divine, to be holier than thou. They know their worth and shine like effervescent snowflakes on moulded cobble. They will not give him answers. He will remain in melancholy until he is finally set free. To him, beauty is teachable. To him, beauty is quantifiable. But he can’t understand that beauty is when we are free. Free from societal restrictions. Free from social necessities. “Nothing human is offensive to me”. Je ne sais pas pourquoi il est trés triste quand il est beau. He is dashing, why can’t he be happy? Look at these portraits, they’re creating their own light! They stand tall under infinite scrutiny. His infinite scrutiny.
The woman walks centre stage, with quill in hand.
The Woman: I feel their pain, I feel their desperation, to be loved rather than examined. I am beautiful, and I perceive it. I am gorgeous because I am human. I am handsome because I want to be. I weep, I laugh, I scream, I shout, but most importantly, I bleed.
Stabs herself with the quill. I trickle of blood begins to saturate her white shirt.
The Woman: (singing) Speak to me darlin’ of evening. Speak to me lover of night. Hold me in your firm embrace, until I cry, cry, cry. Until I cry, cry, cry. (Stops singing)
SCENE 3
Numerous beautiful portraits litter the stage. The writing desk has been toppled. The woman lies across centre stage. She is wearing the same clothes, but her shirt is now red. The man sits stage left. He is shirtless but is wearing shabby trousers and braces.
The Man: Chaos!
The Woman: Disorder!
The Man: The baffling ratios of humankind implore me to cease this degenerate existence.
The Woman: Why must the polluted people be so perceivably perfect?
The Man: I will not listen! They will not control me.
The Woman: They flutter about in their gold chariots, plastic smiles bathing their audience.
The man picks up a portrait and holds it in front of him.
The Man: You! Devil of wonderous delight. I beseech you to unravel the mysteries of my world.
The Woman: Bathing? Swallowing? Engulfing? No no no no no this is not right. Fiat mihi secundum Verbum tuum.
The Man: Abair anois! An bhfuil tú in ann mo fhírinne a insint dom?
The woman stands and walks over to the man and stands behind the portrait he is holding.
The Woman: Ní féidir liom. Tá brón orm mo chara.
You are lost in a sea of misunderstanding. You are captive on a sinking ship. Please do not give in to the merciless nature of the world. She beckons you to come forth and be free. Do not listen to the heinous grinding gears of structure. Succumb to the chaos of the world, and in tow, become and understand your freeing beauty.
The Man: The wistful thinkings of a muse so beautiful aught not create an image so vile.
END.