Jeremy Richards (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} jeremyrichards) wrote,@ 2002-06-28 09:18:00 |
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The Critic and the Guard
(A CRITIC stands in an art gallery, admiring a painting. A young GIRL stands nearby, watching the Critic.)
Critic: The appeal of impressionism, and of Monet's work, especially, is that it evokes the soft resonance of memory, and yet it's at once present and completely vivid.
(Critic looks at Girl. Girl starts to cry. Girl's MOTHER enters to console the girl.)
Mother (to Critic): We've had a death in the family.
(Mother and girl exit. Critic stands and gazes at the painting, occasionally sighing, scowling, or expressing little peeps of excitement. The SECURITY GUARD enters, holding a brown lunch bag. The critic turns, startled.)
Critic: My goodness, sir. You startled me. Well done!
Guard: Oh, sorry about that. I'm just on my lunch break.
Critic: No need to apologize. That you could evoke surprise in someone as jaded as I--that, sir, is quite a feat. Such is the purpose of art, after all: To replace expectations with truth.
(Guard shrugs, sits down.)
Critic: You've chosen to sit. A bold move! Note the perpendicular setting of the upper thighs and the calves, loosely draped to evoke comfort and fortitude.
Guard: Are you coming on to me?
Critic: And just a hint of homophobia. Thus reinforcing the masculine facade of patriarchal authority. Perhaps a tad trite and reactionary, but I'm going to give the piece a chance to blossom.
(Guard shakes his head, takes out a sandwich.)
Critic: Mmm, a sandwich.
(Pause. Guard looks at him and takes a bite.)
Critic: And just watching this process of chewing, I sense in myself a visceral response in the salivary glands. A drooling, if you will.
Guard: Look, buddy, if I give you a ginger snap cookie, will you go away?
Critic: I . . . my, the hostility. I'm a little taken aback, honestly. The paradox here, of an offered sweetness and a threat of distance, throws me into a spiral of yearning.
Guard: Hey, I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't cut the yearning, I'm gonna have to ...
Critic: Yes?
Guard: If you don't knock out all the creepy . . . (stops, the words catching in his throat.)
Critic: I sense a breakthrough here.
(Guard starts to weep.)
Guard: Oh, God. I'm so lonely.
Critic (a little choked up): I . . . I . . . I mean, yes. Yes, that's it exactly. All this isolation, this cold and clinical division of motive and gesture. In my attempt to capture the habits of beauty, I have built a cage around myself. But you--(he sits next to the Guard, holds him) you have opened up a whole new world of vulnerability. That, sir, is true beauty.
(Pause. The two men freeze in position. The Mother and Daughter enter, watching the men. A CURATOR enters with a feather duster and brushes off the men.)
Mother: Excuse me?
Curator: Yes?
Mother: The critic and the guard?
Curator: Yes.
Mother: We'll take it.
(The Curator nods, keeps dusting.)
Fade out
© Jeremy Richards 2002
(A CRITIC stands in an art gallery, admiring a painting. A young GIRL stands nearby, watching the Critic.)
Critic: The appeal of impressionism, and of Monet's work, especially, is that it evokes the soft resonance of memory, and yet it's at once present and completely vivid.
(Critic looks at Girl. Girl starts to cry. Girl's MOTHER enters to console the girl.)
Mother (to Critic): We've had a death in the family.
(Mother and girl exit. Critic stands and gazes at the painting, occasionally sighing, scowling, or expressing little peeps of excitement. The SECURITY GUARD enters, holding a brown lunch bag. The critic turns, startled.)
Critic: My goodness, sir. You startled me. Well done!
Guard: Oh, sorry about that. I'm just on my lunch break.
Critic: No need to apologize. That you could evoke surprise in someone as jaded as I--that, sir, is quite a feat. Such is the purpose of art, after all: To replace expectations with truth.
(Guard shrugs, sits down.)
Critic: You've chosen to sit. A bold move! Note the perpendicular setting of the upper thighs and the calves, loosely draped to evoke comfort and fortitude.
Guard: Are you coming on to me?
Critic: And just a hint of homophobia. Thus reinforcing the masculine facade of patriarchal authority. Perhaps a tad trite and reactionary, but I'm going to give the piece a chance to blossom.
(Guard shakes his head, takes out a sandwich.)
Critic: Mmm, a sandwich.
(Pause. Guard looks at him and takes a bite.)
Critic: And just watching this process of chewing, I sense in myself a visceral response in the salivary glands. A drooling, if you will.
Guard: Look, buddy, if I give you a ginger snap cookie, will you go away?
Critic: I . . . my, the hostility. I'm a little taken aback, honestly. The paradox here, of an offered sweetness and a threat of distance, throws me into a spiral of yearning.
Guard: Hey, I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't cut the yearning, I'm gonna have to ...
Critic: Yes?
Guard: If you don't knock out all the creepy . . . (stops, the words catching in his throat.)
Critic: I sense a breakthrough here.
(Guard starts to weep.)
Guard: Oh, God. I'm so lonely.
Critic (a little choked up): I . . . I . . . I mean, yes. Yes, that's it exactly. All this isolation, this cold and clinical division of motive and gesture. In my attempt to capture the habits of beauty, I have built a cage around myself. But you--(he sits next to the Guard, holds him) you have opened up a whole new world of vulnerability. That, sir, is true beauty.
(Pause. The two men freeze in position. The Mother and Daughter enter, watching the men. A CURATOR enters with a feather duster and brushes off the men.)
Mother: Excuse me?
Curator: Yes?
Mother: The critic and the guard?
Curator: Yes.
Mother: We'll take it.
(The Curator nods, keeps dusting.)
Fade out
© Jeremy Richards 2002
