print previewNude in Front of the Garden
PLACE A prestigious art museum.
CAST MAN 1, short, sharp, smart.
MAN 2, much bigger, easily manipulated.
WOMAN, unstable but battling for stability.
Nude in Front of the Garden is based on an actual event.
(A large room in a small but prestigious museum. A padded bench sits in the middle of room. Perhaps there a few people looking at the art. Two men—one tall, one short—stare, transfixed, at a particular painting. Beat.)
MAN 1
Nude in Front of the Garden.
MAN 2
I read. I can read.
MAN 1
Nude in Front of the Garden.
MAN 2
I can read.
MAN 1
I feel things.
MAN 2
I read things.
MAN 1
I am not a passive observer. That’s not just paint. There’s no paint.
MAN 2
I see paint.
MAN 1
It’s the medium. The medium, you moron.
MAN 2
I am not a moron! I read.
MAN 1
Read then. What does it say?
MAN 2 (reads)
Nude in Front of the Garden.
MAN 1
Wrong.
MAN 2
Not wrong!
MAN 1
Wrong. You’re wrong. You read the words. Don’t read the words. Read the painting.
What do you see?
(MAN 2 is stumped.)
She’s nude. She’s reclining on a chair. Read the image. What does that say?
MAN 2
Picasso.
MAN 1
That’s the fucking signature!
(MAN 1 pulls out a silver butter knife.)
I could scrape that off and it wouldn’t make a difference.
MAN 2
You—you’re not supposed to have that. I’m telling.
MAN 1
Listen to me.
MAN 2
I’m telling. You brought that with you. They told us at the clinic, they told us. We
couldn’t bring things with us. Nothing. Not even gum. No gum, no anything. They
said it. Twice. Once on the bus when they searched us—hey, how did you even—
MAN 1 (fast but hyper clear)
Listen.
What if, when they give us lunch here,
we’re served toast.
But the butter’s on the side
not on the toast like they do it at the clinic?
And what if all they have here
are little white plastic knives
that can’t even cut through what will more than likely be a much-too-frozen patty of
butter?
The plastic snaps
and it’s stuck in the butter.
Butter patty with plastic stuck in it.
Now that’s dangerous.
Do they think of that?
And, do they think of how shitty dry toast is?
It’s shitty. I won’t eat it.
MAN 2
Yeah, yeah me neither.
MAN 1
Now look. Look and read. Her body.
(MAN 2 laughs, abashed.)
Why are you laughing? What do you see?
MAN 2
A vagina. And boobies.
MAN 1
Very good. What else?
MAN 2
Her legs look weird. They’re short.
MAN 1
And her feet are on backwards.
And it doesn’t look like she has any arms.
And she’s smiling with her little red valentine’s lips.
And a big chunk of her head is missing, yet all her features are smushed to one side of
her head so the part that’s missing is deceptive
and almost doesn’t look like it’s missing at all. And how many toes do you count on
that foot?
MAN 2 (counting, then confused)
Four.
MAN 1
What happened to her other toe? Huh?
MAN 2
I don’t know.
MAN 1
Guess. Imagine.
MAN 2
Maybe, uh, a Weedwacker?
MAN 1
Maybe. And that’s very gruesome isn’t it. And what does that mean about her head,
and her arms?
MAN 2 (getting increasingly agitated)
Oh, God. Oh, God, I don’t know.
MAN 1
But you can imagine.
MAN 2
Yes.
MAN 1
It’s an act of violence. He’s taken her.
He’s snatched her right from us, right from our minds,
and look what he’s done to her.
She’s disfigured.
MAN 2
Oh, God.
MAN 1
That’s not the way she is. That’s not the way a woman looks, is it?
MAN 2
No.
MAN 1
But now she does in here.
(MAN 1 points to his head.)
He put it in here.
And we have to get it out.
MAN 2
We have to get it out!
(MAN 1 hands the butter knife to MAN 2. MAN 2 charges the canvas, cuts into
it, and keeps cutting until he carves out a large hole. A security guard runs in.
He grabs MAN 2 and drags him out of the room.If there are other people in the room, they might clear amid the hullabaloo. Only
MAN 1 remains. He continues to stare at the disfigured painting. Pause. Then,
without turning, he senses it. Her presence.A young WOMAN enters, nervous. She takes a lightning-quick scan of the
paintings in the room, then quickly averts her gaze, staring down at the ground.
Her breath is quick. She’s agitated by the paintings.She sings the songs below to herself, or perhaps she just speed-whispers the
lyrics, all in an attempt to quell her extreme perturbation).
WOMAN (singing “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana)
“With the lights out, it’s less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us . . .”
(Beat. MAN 1 watches her, surreptitiously.
Thinking she might now be ready, WOMAN ventures another quick peek at a
painting. Again, she quickly stares back at the ground, blurting out a song as she
does.)
WOMAN (singing “Viva La Vida” by Coldplay)
“I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing
Roman cavalry choirs are singing . . .
For some reason I can’t explain
I know St. Peter won’t call my name.”
(MAN 1, without looking at her so as not to disturb her, speaks. He’s nervous.)
MAN 1
I’ve seen you.
I’ve . . . watched you.
At the clinic.
WOMAN (blurting, yelling)
“For some reason I can’t explain
I know St. Peter won’t call my name!”
(MAN 1 quickly leaves. WOMAN sings to herself.)
WOMAN (softly, as if giving herself instructions, singing “Little Red
Corvette” by Prince)
“I guess I should’ve closed my eyes
When you drove me to the place
Where your horses run free.”
(eyes closed, on the verge of tears)
“Little Red Corvette.
Baby, you’re much too fast.”
(Pause. A tussle is heard offstage, perhaps a loud crash. A man enters the room,
trying to button a museum security guard shirt over his existing shirt. It is MAN
1.He looks back over his shoulder to see if anyone is following (or chasing) him.
Nobody. He stares at WOMAN. She is on the bench, curled up, her eyes
covered. MAN 1 takes a deep breath and begins his approach. He goes to the
bench and sits down next to WOMAN. Pause.When MAN 1 talks, he looks straight ahead, so as not to scare her. He takes his
time talking to her, taking little stops in between thoughts.)
MAN 1
Look at me, I’m a security guard.
(She doesn’t.)
MAN 1
I.
Guard.
Security.
I find that confusing.
Whose security am I supposed to guard?
No. No, that’s not the first question.
The first question, I believe,
is that if I’m guarding security,
that assumes that it already exists.
If I’m going to guard it.
But is it truly security?
Security by definition, it seems to me,
doesn’t need guarding.
If it does it’s not truly secure.
It’s insecure.
If you’re secure, really, you don’t need anything.
You know what that means?
The job title is wrong.
And if my job title is wrong, how am I supposed to carry out my duties? I’m left to
my own interpretation really.
So let’s see. OK. I’ll call myself, instead,
a security provider.
Facilitator might be better.
Security does not exist, so I help create an atmosphere in which it is possible.
Where the illusion of security is possible.
But, now I’m sure you’ll see my point here,
if I’m to do that,
to really do this job,
I think I should be put in charge
of the way the room is arranged.
Decorated.
Adorned.
I’ll tell you why.
(pointedly)
Because in my mind, this room does not arouse feelings of security.
(MAN 1 takes a chance and turns to her. Softly.)
They’re hard to look at aren’t they?
(WOMAN senses MAN 1 looking at her. She doesn’t return his look but
perhaps angles her head towards him ever so slightly. Progress.)
MAN 1
I don’t blame you.
These paintings don’t arouse security.
They arouse emotions.
Emotions.
Those are not secure.
Not at all.
As a security facilitator,
I’d take them all down.
The paintings.
Then
I’d hire an artist
to paint the room itself.
Paint it a more pleasing color.
A more soothing color.
Mauve perhaps?
Like we have at the clinic?
(WOMAN doesn’t answer.)
And music.
Hell, I’d put some music in here.
(WOMAN turns her head a baby step more toward MAN 1. He is encouraged
by this development.)
Not classical, mind you.
God, no.
Not classical.
Not in an environment like this.
Music like that,
it could cause a riot.
Beethoven?
No. I’d go with something different. Something . . .
something short.
Something repetitive.
A standard AABA format perhaps.
Something we know the words to,
know what to expect,
have heard on the radio,
in stores,
in techno remixes.
Pop tunes.
Decades old.
Ones we’ve heard
over and over again.
Predictable.
Secure.
You’d be secure.
(Pause. WOMAN slowly turns her head and makes eye contact, ever so briefly, with MAN 1. Then she looks back down. MAN 1 removes his security shirt. Gently, he wraps it around WOMAN’s shoulders. They sit there together.
End of play.)
Three Plays: Introduction & Table of Contents
