Giving Up Art

Scene 1

(Sounds of thunder and pelting rain. Lights slowly come up on a bare room. CLAUDIA is on the floor drawing in a big sketch pad. Behind her, sitting in a window, is ART. Oblivious to the storm outside, he peers intently over her shoulder watching her draw. CLAUDIA looks up and addresses the audience.)

We're all alone in this building, in this neighborhood, and probably in the world, Art and I. He's sitting in the window with his legs drawn up on this dark night, with the lightning flashing on and off like a photographer's bulb coming in around his feet, and around his ears, and around his fingers. He's watching me sketch.

Art says it makes no sense to draw things like trees and oceans and children's faces. God has already done the best possible job, and no matter how hard we try we'll always be second best. He says, it's better to draw things we can be first at. We mostly draw dreams and ideas, Art's dreams and ideas. Actually, Art can't draw at all, but he comes up with enough ideas for both of us, which is why we sign our work with both our names. I draw the lines, and then Art paints between them, and sometimes over and around them.

(LIGHT COMES UP, showing drawing supplies on floor, half-finished painting, Art sitting in the window behind her. Sounds of lightning and thunder)

We do most of our work in the abandoned warehouse where Art lives. He likes to sit in the window and watch me working on the floor. He gives me suggestions.

You're making it too realistic.

It won't be realistic if you color it in all green and purple again.

(to audience) That night was rainy, with a little lightning that lit up Art's big frame in the window. You could see the whole loft, then, all of Art's dirty sheets and bent spoons and forks and the light bulbs he turns on and off with a hot mitt.

(Suddenly, there is a loud BANG! Light bulbs shatter, a few lights go dark, and two wires fall down over the window in a cross pattern. Claudia and Art both leap to their feet)

What's that?

It's lightning! Lightning hit this building! It must be a sign.

Maybe it means we'll actually sell a painting.

I think it means even better things. Look, Claudia. They make a cross.

(to audience)

I looked for a moment, and then I saw it. One of the wires was drooping from the roof in a sort of a semi-circle, and another hung straight down to the ground. In the frame of our window they made a perfect Roman cross.

(Sudden light change. CLAUDIA crosses the stage fighting the rain. ART disappears. CLAUDIA waits impatiently for the bus.)

The bus was late, and cars kept rushing by, splashing me. I looked up and tried to find the cross again. I could just barely make it out in Art's window, just as the bus arrived.

.

Scene 2

(Lights up on a law office. One or two people are seated in chairs, hunched over manuscripts. On an empty chair sits a document. KEVIN, a busy lawyer, crosses upstage shuffling some papers and hurries out of sight. CLAUDIA rushes in and crosses downstage.)

I was almost late that night, and I was trying to think of a good excuse as I rushed, dripping down the carpeted halls of the law firm where I work. A few partners were still at work beneath their private yellow lights, their doors ajar, their computers humming.

(She circles back upstage and makes her way to the empty chair.)

We get watched much more closely now, the third-shift legal assistants, ever since someone figured out that we were all artists of some sort and had been taking long breaks in the night to write poetry and refine dance routines and work out character motivations for acting roles. Some of the guys were even bringing in guitars.

So now we have a supervisor, whose only job is to watch us as we sit in silence at the long mahogany table in the conference room. We sit there all night in the big leather chairs proofreading briefs for multi-million dollar legal cases, all the boys with their long, snarled hair and second-hand suede jackets, and the girls in cotton dresses with snake tattoos by their ankles.

(She picks up the document, sits in the chair and starts to go through it.)

There was already a pile of papers waiting for me when I got there, although the supervisor was drawing in her sketchbook and didn't see me come in. Next to me was a girl I knew at art school last year, the girl who got me the job at the law firm, so I could never tell her what a bad painter I thought she was. When the supervisor got up and went to the bathroom, she leaned over...

Guess who's getting a gallery show. Vicki Parsley.

Vicki Parsley? She graduated a year after us.

She's getting a solo show. Her parents donate tons of money to the Art Fund, and this guy who works for the Art Fund is opening a gallery.

My parents only ever give money to the Old Folks Home.

The supervisor was back already.

Hey, we're moved in at the new apartment. Can Art come over tomorrow?

Sure. I'll let him know.

Art knows how to rig up cables to steal power from the electricity company. There's a Cuban restaurant downstairs from his space in the warehouse, and he figured out a way to tap their wires so we could paint at night. Now, for a little money, he helps all the artists we know get free electricity.

I finished most of the proofreading in an hour or so. It was a case about legal malpractice, and actually kind of interesting. The lawyer for a zoo had been taking payoffs from this company that sold fur coats.

(Someone takes the document from her and gives her six inches of stacked paper.)

But my next assignment was page checking, counting every page of a 1700 page document to make sure none were missing.

(She counts silently for a bit, then keeps counting as she speaks.)

I let my mind wander.

I get ideas for paintings, sometimes.

I like sentimental things, children and puppies and animals on a farm.

Art says they're stupid.

He wants me to draw flying eyes and liquid suns and other incredible stuff.

I guess we can get farther painting what he wants to paint.

(She counts. KEVIN, the busy lawyer, enters downstage. He puts money into a candy machine and makes his choice. Nothing happens. He kicks the machine. CLAUDIA gets up and puts the stack of papers on her chair. Lights begin to change.)

I took a break after a while, and went down the hall for some coffee.

(CLAUDIA circles around as legal assistants clear the stage. KEVIN is on his hands and knees.)

In the snack room, looking up inside the candy machine, was one of the firm's youngest partners. He's a real small guy who laughs like a chicken, and he works a lot of overtime. I caught him picking his nose once, very late at night.

Lost my candy.

Hey, Claudia. Look at this.

He opened a wallet full of money and took out a photograph.

It's my new car. It's a 1966 Corvair.

It's got a red racing stripe.

And it's always had one. It hasn't just been painted that way so some rich kid would buy it.

He was posing himself, with his short little legs, against the candy machine.

I'd take you for a ride, except I never have time to drive it. I work so many hours here, I never have time for anything else. I'm going to get this photo blown up for the wall of my office.

I'm an artist. I usually just take the bus.

You want more money? You should take our paralegal course during the day. The paralegals earn a lot of money, and all you need is a lawyer to recommend you. I could recommend you. It'll help you get into law school, if you ever want to. We could eat lunch together during the day.

I can't. I'm a painter. I sleep during the day so I can paint before work.

(KEVIN gives the candy machine a whack. A candy bar falls out, and he gestures with it, as if it were a pointer, as he talks.)

Just remember, I can recommend you. My name's Kevin K. Waller, if anyone asks. I'll get you my business card. Kevin K. Waller.

I know your name, Kevin. Don't worry about it.

(KEVIN exits eating his candy bar. Claudia turns and crosses downstage.)

On the way back to the conference room it occurred to me that I should have tried to sell him one of our paintings for the wall of his office, considering he had so much money. It would have been our first sale, and it would have been good to go for it while the forces for good were on our side, with that cross maybe meaning a blessing and all. But I thought of that much later.

.

Scene 3

(A faint pool of light hits CLAUDIA. She is lying down and holding a pillow.)

I'd been home and sleeping for three hours when my roommate woke me up.

(LAURIE rushes on holding a phone.)

Claudia! Art is on the phone. Talk fast because I'm on call-waiting with this literary agent I met at the bar last night.

(LAURIE hands CLAUDIA the phone and hovers close by. CLAUDIA shoots her a look.)

There's three of us sharing this two-room apartment with only one phone between us.

Hello?

(A pool of light comes up on ART who stands at a pay phone.)

This is our lucky day!

He was calling from the street, from a pay phone.

What happened?

It made me feel wonderfully warm, hearing his voice from bed.

Did we have some good luck?

I did. I found a seashell on the sidewalk. I was out with a painting and I found a seashell, right on the sidewalk in the middle of the city.

When Art's not helping people with their electricity, I can sometimes convince him to take our paintings around to the galleries. He won't take slides or color Xeroxes, like everyone else. He says that's not genuine.

Claudia?

Just a minute.

Besides, he's so big that he can easily carry the whole picture under his arm. He walks around with these big canvases like a moving man.

I found a seashell on the sidewalk in downtown Manhattan. Maybe it has something to do with the rain yesterday. Maybe the sea is coming to swallow up New York.

Claudia, I'm on the other line.

Hold on.

But this guy is a literary agent and an erotic photographer. He's going to take the greatest shot for my dust jacket. I need to speak with him.

One minute! One!

Did you go to the gallery doing the show on blue paintings? The one I read about with the show next month? I thought they might like one of our blue paintings.

I went there, and they were showing such stupid things, typewriter ribbons with the Bible typed on them and turkeys people drew by tracing around their hands. I didn't even talk to them. I didn't even unwrap it. We can't work with them, Claudia. They have bad taste.

(LAURIE pulls the phone out of CLAUDIA'S hand and pushes the call waiting button.)

Hello? Hello? Now he's hung up! Well, there goes my Svengali! You know, if I could just sell one story I'd be a professional writer!

(LAURIE shoves phone back at CLAUDIA and storms out. CLAUDIA ignores her and pushes the call waiting button.)

So you didn't even talk to the gallery people?

It doesn't matter. I came out, and this postman asked me what it was I was carrying. And here's the other good luck. I unwrapped it right there, and he really liked it. He liked it as much as we do. When I saw him around a corner, he said he was still thinking about it. So I gave it to him.

You gave it to him?

The call waiting beeped again and it was for my other roommate --

TRACY!!!

-- who had to be woken up and brought to the phone so someone could read her the dance casting listings.

(TRACY enters sleepily, but still walks like the dancer that she is. She takes the phone and does little dance exercises as she talks.)

Hello?.... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Uh-huh.....

Uh-huh, uh-huh..... Uh-huh...

She talked for so long I worried that Art would run out of quarters.

Uh-huh, huh-huh.

I always gave him all my quarters.

A hot dog suit? Is it for television? I could dance in a hot dog suit if it's for television. Uh-huh, thanks.

(TRACY hands CLAUDIA the phone and exits. CLAUDIA pushes the call waiting button.)

When I finally got the phone back, Art was still there.

You're the one who always wants to show the paintings to more people. I bet that postman has a lot of friends. He's a very friendly guy.

But we have to show them to galleries and things if we're going to go anywhere!

What do you mean by going anywhere? Today I want to go to the beach. Do you know how hard it is to draw water? The painting is never as good as the real water.

The call waiting beeped again, and this time it was for me. It was the girl I knew at work, and she didn't want Art to come by and rig the electricity after all. She was going to an art fair upstate at some weird location where no buses or trains went, but where two people last year got picked up by galleries. Her boyfriend had a car, and he was going to drive her and all her bad paintings up to the art fair, drive her faster and faster towards success and fame and a whole bright future. She wanted to know if I could cover for her at work. I told her yes and went back to Art on the other line.

Why don't you have a car?! Everyone else has a car!

What?

I'm sorry. I'm just sleepy.

You know I don't even know how to drive.

(Blackout.)

(Spot up on CLAUDIA lying on the floor, struggling with the pillow under her head.)

I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn't. I was lying in bed and the pillow kept getting out of shape. I finally found that the most comfortable position was with the pillow over my face, blocking out the light and air. I thought about Kevin K. Waller's car and if there was any way I could borrow it without him thinking I liked him.

I lay there, not sleeping, and thought about how impressed I was when I first met Art, how impressed with his genius.

And I still think he's brilliant. I still think he's one of the great geniuses of all time. People will probably figure out that he's brilliant long after he's dead, when they find all the stuff we've done in a trunk or a warehouse or the postman's living room.

I just don't know if I can wait that long.

.

Scene 4

(Lights up. CLAUDIA is at the bus stop carrying a shopping bag.)

When I got off the bus at Art's house that afternoon, I looked up and saw the cross was still there and I felt relieved. I don't know why.

I went upstairs and found the whole room lit with golden sunlight.

I'd bought vegetables for dinner with all the money I had until payday, which was supposed to be that night. The electricity was still out, so I couldn't cook them on Art's rusty old hotplate. I cut them up as sort of salad. Art only had one bowl.

When I was done I sat in the window and waited. I was starting to get hungry. Art had said something about being back by five, but it was nearly seven. The whole situation looked better in the end-of-day sun. I looked at the piles and piles of months and months worth of unsold paintings, and felt almost all right that the blue painting wouldn't be coming back, as if it were the one bird that had flown away free.

Am I late? I was trying to figure out the time by looking at strangers' watches, and they all said something different. What are we eating?

Vegetables. I cut up some vegetables, like a salad. It's payday.

(CLAUDIA reaches out to him with her arms, but ART's back is to her as he gets together the drawing gear.)

I went to the seaside, and it was amazing. Gulls make such tiny tracks in the sand. I have something for you to draw.

Let's eat first. I have the salad all ready.

We have to do it now, while the idea is fresh. You have to be a slave to your inspiration if you're ever going to do something amazing. You should know that.

(CLAUDIA sighs and sits on the floor with her pencils and sketch pad. ART picks up the bowl of vegetables and sits in the window and begins to eat.)

Your inspiration can be a real pain in the ass.

I was at the beach today, and I realized that even though water looks blue, it isn't blue. There are a million colors in waves. Purple, pinks, reds, even oranges. So what I want you to draw is the outlines of a wave, the curves and the edges, the FEELING of a wave. Then I'll color it in.

I worked on ways to present Art's wave idea for a long time.

Art, when do you think we're going to get somewhere?

I mean...

I thought things would be different. I thought we'd be successful, and we'd end up in magazines, end up in books... I mean, if we're good but no one ever knows we are, are we really that good?

Claudia, I'm not going to worry about impressing people I don't even like. People are just big hairless rats, just big animals standing up and moving around. Who cares what they think? You can either make stuff for other people or for the angels, for God. I don't think God gave me talent so I could make funny faces in a magazine.

Well, I don't think God gave me talent so I could eat vegetables in a warehouse. Look, you've eaten all the vegetables! You've eaten more than your share!

You know, I found out at work last night that I could be a paralegal if I took courses during the day. I could make a lot more money.

Why would you want to do that?

I don't want to make any more paintings we can't sell. This is so much energy and so much trying and we never get anything in return. If what we did was any good, people would pay us for it!

What's money? I don't even understand money. I don't even understand why people rob banks. Claudia, we don't need money. We don't need food from the outside. We can just live for the paintings, live for beauty and love, just live off of lightning. You can live off lightning from inside.

You live off other people's electricity! You live off my electricity! You're stealing all my electricity!

Art got up and walked to the other side of the room. He stayed there for what seemed like forever. The sun had gone down and we were sitting in the twilight.

There aren't ever any books written about paralegals.

(Lights fade to black except for a lone spot on CLAUDIA.)

That night, at work, I told Kevin that I'd take the class if he'd recommend me, but that I didn't want to

have lunch with him. At least not very often.

.

Scene Five

(In the legal firm's conference room, CLAUDIA and JULIE are again counting huge piles of paper. THE SUPERVISOR briefly walks away.)

Well, they turned me down, but I think it's a blessing in disguise. I think I need more time in privacy to develop if I'm going to do anything truly innovative. See, the thing is, famous people don't ever do anything good. You can only really do good things when you're obscure. Once you're famous, people just want you to do what you're famous for. That's what's going to happen to Betsy Magnolia. She got picked up by a gallery, and now it's going to ruin her.

Betsy Magnolia? She's terrible!

I know, but she goes to parties and schmoozes all those big guys, and she gets ahead. That's where the business is done. From now on, I'm not going to even bother with my paintings. I'll do those in 15 minutes. I'm going to put all my energy into self-promotion.

I haven't been painting, either. I've had this paralegal course during the day, and then studying at home in the evenings. I haven't even seen Art.

You do legal stuff during the day, too?

It's not so bad. It's kind of interesting.

(KEVIN appears in the corner of the stage. He is visibly sweaty and appears nervous, fumbling with his tie and trying to not to pick his nose.)

That night, Kevin K. Waller came and found me in the conference room. I hadn't been having lunch with him that much, but he was always trying to talk to me. It wasn't so bad if we talked about law and the way legal things worked and not about his career ambitions. He was always trying to impress me with his career ambitions.

Claudia?

Oh, hi, Kevin.

He was really sweating. He looked as if he'd just done a couple laps around the office.

(KEVIN beckons CLAUDIA off to the side. JULIE and the piles of paper disappear.)

Claudia, I'm highly familiar with the New York State statute concerning sexual harassment.

I didn't know what he was talking about.

Under New York State law, you have a right to feel secure in your workplace regardless of gender or gender preference. A hostile work environment, as characterized by unwelcome sexual advances, is firm grounds for litigation.

Now I was nervous. We'd been coming up with nude sketches of the mailroom boy when things got slow overnight, and I guess we shouldn't have sent them through the mailroom to some of the girls who worked daytimes.

Claudia, the following proposal is in no sense meant to constitute sexual harassment. The New York Association of Litigation Attorneys is having its annual dinner dance next week. Would you like to go with me?

Oh.

It's just a party for schmoozing all the big guys, but it's where the business gets done. I have to go for professional reasons, but I thought you might like to go along too, purely as a professional escort - no, that's not what I mean.

Sure. I'll go.

Really? It's in the evening. Can you give up painting for an evening?

I think so.

Hey, thanks. Thanks, Claudia. Thanks.

Hey, Claudia?

You'd make a great First Lady. I only date girls who'd make great First Ladies.

.

Scene Six

(A lone spot comes up on CLAUDIA. There is the sound of rain.)

About a week before the dinner dance, it started raining again. It rained for days, and it seemed like it would never end, like the sea really was coming to swallow up Manhattan.

(Stage lights come up full. ART is sitting in a chair. There is an empty chair beside him.)

On the day of the dance I came out of the office, and before I could get to where Kevin was supposed to pick me up, I found Art waiting for me in a red convertible. I hadn't seen him in a couple of weeks. It was an enormous old car, from the sixties or something, boat-size, and he had the top down despite the pouring rain. He was parked in the bus lane, and a bus was honking behind him, and passengers yelling at him to move.

Get in.

It's raining!

Get in!

(CLAUDIA crosses the stage while trying to protect herself from the rain, walks around the red convertible and climbs into the empty chair beside ART.)

In a moment we were speeding down the street, and huge puddles splashed up around us.

Where did you get this car?

I stole it. It's a beautiful red car.

We swerved onto the highway, and that's when I remembered what Art told me about his not being able to drive. We were going very fast. We were swerving between lanes. He had the windshield wipers going. The windshield was clean, but the rest of the car was spotted with raindrops. Fat drops of water were tracing trails down the odometer.

Now we're really going somewhere! You wanted to GET somewhere, and we're really going somewhere now!

Art's hands were slipping on the steering wheel.

Is this what you want? Is this what I have to give you to give you what you want?

The seats were wet, and my hair was getting wet, and my dinner dance clothes were all covered with water spots. Water was collecting in little pools on the rubber mats at our feet.

Now everybody admires us. Now everyone looks at us because we're in a big car. This is human pleasure, Claudia. This is horrible, earthly, HUMAN pleasure.

I couldn't talk. I was watching the road, and we were moving so fast.

We were made for greater things! We could have made art -- we could have made colors where there were never colors before! Don't you understand? That's art, Claudia. It's like a vein running from your heart to God's.

I started to feel wet, and cold, and I suddenly caught hold of something that had been swimming around inside me for a long time.

I think... I think I want to be a lawyer.

He turned to look at me. He looked at me for a long moment as the car sped sixty miles and hour straight ahead... All at one he swerved, swerved across three lanes of traffic to the side of the road, and stopped the car.

Get out.

I knew I had to get out, but all of a sudden, I didn't want to. All of a sudden I wanted to pretend nothing had happened and make everything right between us again.

But I got out.

(CLAUDIA gets out and moves a few steps away.)

I got out and stood on the pavement in the world filled with real people, got out where he couldn't get out and I stood on the shoulder as he started to drive away. He stopped a few feet up, and it looked like he was crying, with his head on the steering wheel. All the cars sped past him, not knowing they were passing Art, passing one of the greatest artists ever.

(The lights fade to black except for a lone spot on CLAUDIA.)

A cross is sometimes a crossroads, I guess.

I still love him. Of course I still love him.

But I'm a person who likes a sunny day once in awhile, not always rain and thunder.

I want the good things in life, like sleep and food and money.

But I miss Art sometimes, and I miss our painting.

I miss it when there's lightning outside. I miss it whenever I see a thousand colors in water. I miss it.

.

.

Library of Congress Copyright Txu 632-947

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