100 Paintings (eBook)

Jack Michael Stacey (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
100 Seiten
Renard Press (Verlag)
978-1-80447-017-6 (ISBN)

Infos

Revolution has torn through the land, leaving society teetering on a knife edge. A young artist finds himself holed up at the City Hotel with his mother, where he must sing for his supper. In the face of ruin, with a pile of unpaid hotel bills growing out of control, the artist has just three days to produce one hundred artworks before he and his mother are turned out onto the street. Forced to face his demons, the artist struggles to stay on course, and soon finds he has to consider the very nature of art and capitalism if he is to succeed in his task.

Jack Michael Stacey is a graduate of the Academy of Live and Recorded Arts. His first play was shortlisted for Soho Theatre's Verity Bargate Award, and he was the runner-up for the Sir Alec Guinness Award. His plays have been performed at Edinburgh International Fringe Festival, The Waterloo East, The Arcola, The Bread and Roses and The Hope.

Textauszug

ACT I

scene i

Lights up. Some time in the future. Room 101, the City Hotel. Late afternoon. A suite that has seen better days: stains dotted around, peeling wallpaper, a carpet that looks as if it smells, etc. There is an en suite and a large window with a view of a brick wall. An air duct with a vent runs across the ceiling and a map of the city is pinned to the wall.

An old TV in the corner flickers into life. Static gives way to scenes of poverty and deprivation, before they are replaced by images of violent revolution and, finally, static once more.

After a moment, the toilet flushes, the tap runs and somebody screams.

voice of the artist (off): Fuck! Fuck!

(As the artist comes out the TV goes blank. He is barefoot and wears a paint-covered dressing gown that is too big for him. He is nursing his hand and has a cigarette in his mouth.)

the artist: Fucking fucking fucking tap. Fuck! (He sucks on his hand for a moment.) Oh, sod it, I’ll live. Unfortunately.

(He goes over to stand by an easel and picks up a brush. He dips the brush into some paint without much thought, then stares at the canvas. He prepares to paint. Pauses. Repeats. A long moment passes. He doesn’t move a muscle. He inhales deeply and is finally about to start when the door bursts open and the mother enters. the artist puts out his cigarette and fans the air.)

the mother (impossibly quick): The new management of this hotel is a shambles. I get back from a lovely lunch with the lawyer and they’ve forgotten all about my dinner reservation. No record of it, apparently. Nothing in the book, she said. Nothing in the book. Well, I said, if there’s nothing in the book, that means I must not have come down earlier, I must not have booked a table for two by the window at seven fifteen and I must, on account of my great age and weakening grip on reality, be going absolutely, undeniably, irretrievably fucking mad.

the artist: Mother—

the mother: I’m sure the receptionist wasn’t paying attention when I booked in. Daydreaming, she was. Daydreaming. Why do people do that? Night is for dreaming; day is for working. That’s what I say. Unless you work nights, I suppose, but that’s beside the point.

the artist: Mother, I’m—

the mother: Not that you can get any sleep in this city. Revolution after bloody revolution. Nothing changes. People on the streets demanding this and that, expecting the Party to budge or change their minds. No point. They never do. They like it when the people revolt; it distracts them from what’s really going on. They’ll be revolting against the revolution next. They were dressed up as gorillas today. Gorillas. Imagine it. The city streets lined with fucking gorillas. Well, they weren’t actually fucking, but they might as well have been. Sorry, I shouldn’t swear.

the artist: Mother, I’m working.

the mother: I shouldn’t be so upset. It isn’t good for me. I miss the old manager. Ever since he died this hotel has been falling to pieces. Have you seen the bathrooms in the restaurant? They’re a disgrace. You’ve got to sit there and squat over a hole like some fourth-world savage.

the artist: Did you hear me?

the mother: I can’t complain too much. It’s not good for me. I must remember what the doctor said.

(the mother pulls out some pills and quickly swallows a few. She does this again every so often.)

the artist: Mother, listen.

the mother: Son, listen. I have just had the most wonderful lunch with the lawyer. He’s certain we’ll be able to put in a good case to the city board, and we could even have the property returned to our hands by the end of the week. I told him all about my plans for a café. I told him about that chap we know up north who’ll front us the money. I even showed him my business plan – which he said was very good, actually, despite the fact that it was essentially unintelligible.

the artist: Mother!

the mother: What? What’s wrong? What’s happened? Where are you hurt?

the artist: I’m not – it’s nothing – it’s just—

the mother: You frightened me to death.

the artist: You can’t keep barging in on me like this.

the mother: You’ve got to be careful. Remember what the doctor said.

the artist: What did the doctor say?

the mother: That you’ve got to be careful.

the artist: Sorry. But you weren’t listening.

the mother: There’s a woman around?

the artist: No.

the mother: You weren’t masturbating again, were you?

the artist: No. Masturbating? What do you take me for?

the mother: A man? Oh, is there a man here?

the artist: I’m not gay. You know I’m not gay. I told you, she was a woman who just so happened to have a penis.

the mother: You need to calm down. I brought you some tea.

the artist: You know I don’t drink tea. And what do you mean ‘again’?

the mother: Nothing wrong with it.

the artist: I’m not saying there is.

the mother: Because there isn’t.

the artist: I’m not saying there is.

the mother: Good.

the artist: I just don’t like it.

the mother: Why not? Your father used to masturbate.

the artist: I was talking about the tea.

the mother: We all have our needs. Besides, it’s good for you.

the artist: Please don’t.

the mother: Remember our neighbour? He died because he didn’t masturbate.

the artist: He got trampled by a horse.

the mother: Exactly. Just try it. For me, dear.

the artist: Oh, for fuck’s sake!

the mother: Don’t swear, dear.

the artist: I was talking about the tea.

the mother: We live in a modern world, after all.

the artist: Well, I sometimes wish we didn’t. I miss the old days when we didn’t talk about anything. No private stuff, no feelings, no problems. We were all much happier.

(the mother hands him the cup.)

the mother: The state of this city… Really, I think it was in better shape before the liberation. Yes, we were at the mercy of machines, but at least the machines knew how to pick up rubbish.

(the artist takes a sip of the drink and immediately spits it out.)

the artist: I wanted an espresso.

the mother: You’ve had enough coffee.

the artist: But I like espresso.

the mother: What’s this? (She gestures to the old map on the wall.)

the artist: What does it look like?

the mother: It looks like you’re trying to plan your escape.

the artist: It’s for my work. It helps me paint.

the mother: Obviously. (Looks around at the empty canvases.) Barely any of it exists any more. Where did you get it?

the artist: The hotel lobby.

the mother: And this old bit of paper inspires you, does it?

the artist: Yes. No. I don’t know.

the mother: You need some air. That’s what you need. Fresh air. Let me open the window.

the artist: No, don’t open the window.

the mother: It’s good for you.

the artist: The only thing the air here is good for is...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 16.5.2022
• Verlagsort: Lodnon
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Lyrik / Dramatik ► Dramatik / Theater
• Schlagworte: aristocrat • dark humour • Dystopia • Humour • Lazy • mischief • Survival • war
• ISBN-10: 1-80447-017-1 / 1804470171
• ISBN-13: 978-1-80447-017-6 / 9781804470176