ART

Characters

Marc

Serge

Yvan

The main room of a flat.

A single set. As stripped down and neutral as possible.

The scenes unfold, successively, at Serge’s, Yvan’s and Marc’s.

Nothing changes, except for the painting on the wall.

Marc, alone

Marc: My friend Serge has brought a painting. It’s a canvas about five foot by four: White. The background is white and if you screw up your eyes, you can make out some fine white diagonal lines. Serge is one of my oldest friends. He’s done very well for himself, he’s a dermatologist and he’s keen on art. On Monday, I went to see the painting; Serge had actually got hold of it on the Saturday, but he’d been lusting after it for several months. This white painting with white lines.

At floor level, a white canvas with fine white diagonal scars. Serge looks at his painting, thrilled. Marc looks at the painting. Serge looks at Marc looking at the painting.

Long Silence: from both of them, a whole range of wordless emotions.

Marc: Expensive?

Serge: Two hundred thousand.

Marc: Two hundred thousand?

Serge: Huntingdon would take it off my hands for two hundred and twenty.

Marc: Who’s that?

Serge: Huntingdon?

Marc: Never heard of him.

Serge: Huntingdon! The Huntingdon Gallery!

Marc: The Huntingdon Gallery would take it off your hands for two hundred and twenty?

Serge: No, not the Gallery. Him. Huntingdon himself. For his own collection.

Marc: Then why didn’t Huntingdon buy it?

Serge: It’s important for them to sell to private clients. That’s how the market circulates.

Marc: Mm Hm. . .

Serge: Well?

Marc: . . .

Serge: You’re not in the right place. Look at it from this angle. Can you see the lines?

Marc: What’s the name of the . . . ?

Serge: Painter. Antrios.

Marc: Well Known?

Serge: Very. Very!

Pause.

Marc: Serge, you haven’t brought this painting for two hundred thousand francs?

Serge: You don’t understand, that’s what it costs. It’s an Antrios.

Marc: You haven’t brought this painting for two hundred thousand francs?

Serge: I might have known you’d miss the point.

Marc: You paid two hundred thousand francs for this shit?

Serge, as if alone.

Serge: My friend Marc’s and intelligent enough fellow, I’ve always valued our relationship, he has a good job, he’s an aeronautical engineer, but he’s one of those new-style intellectuals, who are not only enemies of modernism, but seem to take some sort of incomprehensible pride in running it down. . . .In recent years these Nostalgia- merchants have become quite breathtakingly arrogant.

Same pair. Same place. Same painting.

Pause.

Serge: What do you mean, ‘This Shit’?

Marc: Serge, where’s your sense of humour? Why aren’t you laughing? . . . It’s fantastic, you buying this painting.

Marc Laughs. Serge remains stony.

Serge: I don’t care how fantastic you think it is, I don’t mind if you laugh, but I would like to know what you mean by ‘this shit’.

Marc: You’re taking the piss!

Serge: No. I’m not. By whose standards is it shit? If you call something shit, you need to have some criterion to judge it by.

Marc: Who are you talking to? Who do you think you’re talking to? Hello! . . .

Serge: You have no interest whatsoever in contemporary paining, you never have had. This field about which you know absolutely nothing, so how can you assert that any given object, which conforms to laws you don’t understand, is shit?

Marc: Because it is. It’s shit. I’m sorry.

Serge, alone

Serge: He doesn’t like the painting. Fine . . . .But there was no warmth in the way he reacted. No Attempt. No warmth when he dismissed it out of hand. Just that vile, pretentious laugh. A real know –all laugh. I hated that laugh.

Marc, alone

Marc: It’s a complete mystery to me, Serge buying this painting. It’s unsettled me, it’s filled me with some indefinable unease. When I left his place, I had to take three capsules of Gelsemium 9X which paula recommended – Gelsemium or Ignatia, she said, Gelsemium or Ignatia, which do you prefer, I mean, how the hell should I know? – because I couldn’t begin to understand how serge, my friend, could have brought that picture. Two Hundred thousand francs! He’s comfortably off, but he’s hardly rolling in money. Comfortable, no more, just comfortable. And he spends two hundred grand on a white painting. I must go and see Yvan, he’s a friend of our, I have to discuss this with Yvan. Mind you, Yvan’s a very tolerant bloke, which of course, when it comes to relationships, is the worst thing you can be. Yvan’s very tolerant because he couldn’t care less. If Yvan tolerates the fact that Serge has spent two hundred grand on some piece of white shit, it’s because he couldn’t care less Serge. Obviously.

On the wall, some daub.

Yvan is on all fours with his back to us. He seems to be looking for something underneath a piece of furniture. As he does so, he turns to introduce himself.

Yvan: I’m Yvan. I’m a bit tense at the moment, because, having spent my life in textiles, I’ve just found a new job as a sales agent for a wholesale stationary business. People like me. My professional life has always been a failure and I’m getting married in a couple of weeks. She’s a lovely intelligent girl from a good family.

Marc enters. Yvan has resumed his search and has his back to him.

Marc: What are you doing

Yvan: I’m looking for the top of my pen.

Time passes.

Marc: All right, that’s enough.

Yvan: I had it five minutes ago.

Marc: It doesn’t matter.

Yvan: Yes, it does.

Marc gets down on his knees to help him look. Both of them spend some time looking. Marc straightens up.

Marc: Stop it. Buy another one.

Yvan: It’s a felt-tip, they’re special, they’ll write on any surface . . .It’s just infuriating. Objects, I can’t tell you how much they infuriate me. I had it in my hand five minutes ago.

Marc: Are you going to live here?

Yvan: Do you think it’s suitable for a young couple?

Marc: Young couple! Ha, ha . .

Yvan: Try not to laugh like that in front of Catherine.

Marc: How’s the stationary business?

Yvan: All right. I’m learning.

Marc: You’ve lost weight.

Yvan: A bit. I’m pissed off about that top. It’ll dry up. Sit down.

Marc: If you go on looking for that top, I’m leaving.

Yvan: OK, I’ll stop. You want something to drink?

Marc: A Perrier, if you have one. Have you seen Serge lately?

Yvan: No Have you?

Marc: Yesterday.

Yvan: Is he well?

Marc: very. He’s just bought a painting.

Yvan: Oh yes?

Marc: Mm.

Yvan: Nice?

Marc: White.

Yvan: White?

Marc: White. Imagine a canvas about five foot by four . . .with a white background . . . Completely white in fact . . .with fine white diagonal stripes . . . you know . . . and maybe another horizontal white line, towards the bottom. . .

Yvan: How can you see them?

Marc: What?

Yvan: These white lines. If the background’s white, how can you see the lines?

Marc: You just do. Because I suppose the lines are slightly grey, or visa versa, or anyway there are degrees of white! There’s more than one kind of white!

Yvan: Don’t get upset. Why are you getting upset?

Marc: You immediately start quibbling. Why can’t you let me finish?

Yvan: All right. Go on.

Marc: Right. So, you have an idea of what the painting looks like.

Yvan: I think so, yes.

Marc: Now you have to guess how much Serge paid for it.

Yvan: Who’s the painter?

Marc: Antrios. Have you heard of him?

Yvan: No. Is he fashionable?

Marc: I knew you were going to ask me that!

Yvan: Well, it’s logical . . . .

Marc: No, it isn’t logical . . .

Yvan: Of course it’s logical, you ask me to guess the price, you know very well the price depend on how fashionable the painter might be. . . .

Marc: I’m not asking you to apply a whole set of critical standards, I’m not asking you for a professional valuation, I’m asking you what you, Yvan, would give for a white painting tarted up with a few off-white stripes.

Yvan: Bugger all.

Marc: Right. And what about Serge? Pick a figure at random.

Yvan: Ten thousand francs.

Marc: Ha!

Yvan: Fifty thousand.

Marc: Ha!

Yvan: A hundred thousand.

Marc: Keep going.

Yvan: A hundred and fifty? Two hundred?!

Marc: Two hundred. Two hundred grand.

Yvan: No!

Marc: Yes.

Yvan: Two hundred grand?

Marc: Two hundred grand.

Yvan: Has he gone crazy?

Marc: Looks like it.

Slight pause

Yvan: All the same . . .

Marc: What do you mean, all the same?

Yvan: If it makes him happy . . . he can afford it . . .

Marc: So that’s what you think, is it?

Yvan: Why? What do you think?

Marc: You don’t understand the seriousness of this, do you?

Yvan: Err . . . No.

Marc: It’s strange how you’re missing the basic point of this story. All you can see it externals. You don’t understand the seriousness of it.

Yvan: What is the seriousness of it?

Marc: Don’t you understand what this means?

Yvan: Would you like a cashew nut?

Marc: Don’t you see that suddenly, in some grotesque way, Serge fancies himself as a ‘collector’.

Yvan: Well . . .

Marc: From now on, our friend Serge is one of the great connoisseurs.

Yvan: Bollocks.

Marc: Well of course it’s bollocks. You can’t buy your way in that cheap. But that’s what he thinks.

Yvan: Oh, I see.

Marc: Doesn’t that upset you?

Yvan: No. Not if it makes him happy.

Marc: If it makes him happy. What’s that supposed to mean? What sort of philosophy is that, if it makes him happy?

Yvan: As long as it’s not doing any harm to anyone else . . .

Marc: But it is. It’s doing harm to me! I’m disturbed, I’m disturbed, more than that, I’m hurt, yes I am, I’m fond of Serge, and to see him let himself be ripped off and lose ever ounce of discernment through sheer snobbery . .

Yvan: I don’t know why you’re so surprised. He’s always haunted galleries in the most absurd way, he’s always been an exhibition freak.

Marc: He’s always been a freak, but a freak with a sense of humour. You see, basically, what really upsets me is that you can’t have a laugh with him anymore.

Yvan: I’m sure you can.

Marc: You can’t.

Yvan: Have you tried?

Marc: Of course I’ve tried. I laughed. Heartily. What do you think I did? He didn’t crack a smile. Mind you, two hundred grand, I suppose it might me hard to see the funny side.

Yvan: Yes.

They laugh

Yvan: I’ll make him laugh.

Marc: I’d be amazed. Any more nuts?

Yvan: He’ll laugh, you just wait.

Serge is with Yvan. The painting isn’t there.

Yvan: Wonderfully. As far as they are concerned, I’m some berk tottering from one dodgy job to another and now I’m groping my way into the world of vellum . . . This thing on my hand, what is it?

Serge examines it.

Yvan: Is it serious?

Serge: No.

Yvan: Oh, good. How are things?

Serge: Nothing. Lot of work. Exhausted. It’s nice to see you. You never phone.

Yvan: I don’t like to disturb you.

Serge: You’re joking. You just speak to my secretary and I’ll call you back right away.

Yvan: I suppose so. Your place gets more and more monastic . . .

Serge laughs.

Serge: Yes! Seen marc recently?

Yvan: Not recently, no. Have you?

Serge: Two or three days ago.

Yvan: is he all right?

Serge: Yes. More or less.

Yvan: Oh?

Serge: No? he’s all right.

Yvan: I talked to him on the phone last week, he seemed all right.

Serge: Well, he is. He’s all right.

Yvan: You seemed to be implying he wasn’t all right.

Serge: On the contrary, I said, he was all right.

Yvan: More or less, you said.

Serge: Yes, more or less. More or less all right.

Long silence. Yvan wanders around the room.

Yvan: You been out? Seen anything?

Serge: No. I can’t afford to go out.

Yvan: Oh?

Serge: (cheerfully) I’m Ruined.

Yvan: Oh?

Serge: You want to see something special? Would you like to?

Yvan: Of course I would. Show me.

Serge exits and returns with the Antrios, which he turns round and sets down in front of Yvan.

Yvan looks at the painting and, strangely enough, doesn’t manage the hearty laugh he’d predicted.

A long pause, while Yvan studies the painting and Serge studies Yvan.

Yvan: Oh, yes. Yes, yes.

Serge: Antrios.

Yvan: Yes, yes.

Serge: It’s a seventies Antrios. Worth mentioning. He’s going through a similar phase now, but this one’s from the seventies.

Yvan: Yes, yes. Expensive?

Serge: In absolute terms, yes. In fact, no. You like it?

Yvan: Oh, yes, yes, yes.

Serge: Plain.

Yvan: Plain, yes . . .Yes . . . And at the same time . . .

Serge: Magnetic.

Yvan: Mm . . yes. . .

Serge: You don’t really get the resonance just at the moment.

Yvan: Well, a bit . . .

Serge: No, you don’t. You have to come back in the middle of the day. That resonance you get from something monochromatic, it doesn’t really happen under artificial light.

Yvan: Mm hm.

Serge: Not that it is actually monochromatic.

Yvan: No!. . .How much was it?

Serge: Two hundred thousand

Yvan: Very reasonable.

Serge: Very.

Silence. Suddenly Serge bursts out laughing, immediately followed by Yvan. Both of them roar with laughter.

Serge: Crazy, or what?

Yvan: Crazy!

Serge: Two hundred grand!

Hearty laughter. They stop. They look at each other. They start again. Then stop. They’ve calmed down.