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- Herausgeber: Renard Press
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
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.
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Seitenzahl: 103
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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ioo paintings
renard press—playscript iv
100 paintings: Original performance at Bread and Roses Theatre in 2021, with the artist played by Conrad Williamson, the mother played by Catherine McDonough, Beatriz played by Jane Christie and eva played by Jill Penfold, directed by Zachary Hart, produced by Mihnea Savuica.Original production at The Hope Theatre in 2022, directed byZachary Hart, produced by Mihnea Savuica, designed by Zsofia Sarosi.the artist played by Conrad Williamson,the mother played by Denise Stephenson, Beatriz played by Jane Christie and eva played byJuliet Garricks.
Special thanks to Leonora Nicholson, Jack Whitney, Phil Bartlett, Liz Bacon,Ellie Walker-Smith, Little Windmill Productions Ltd and Jasmine Williams.
ioo Paintings
jack michael stacey
renard press
Renard Press Ltd
124 City Road
London EC1V 2NX
United Kingdom
020 8050 2928
www.renardpress.com
100 Paintings first published by Renard Press Ltd in 2022
Text © Jack Michael Stacey, 2022
Cover design by Will Dady
Jack Michael Stacey asserts his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Renard Press is proud to be a climate positive publisher, removing more carbon from the air than we emit and planting a small forest. For more information see renardpress.com/eco.
All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, used to train artificial intelligence systems or models, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without the prior permission of the publisher.
EU Authorised Representative: Easy Access System Europe – Mustamäe tee 50, 10621 Tallinn, Estonia, [email protected].
Permission for producing this play may be applied for via the publisher, using the contact details above, or by emailing [email protected].
Contents
100 Paintings
Characters
Setting
act i
act ii
IOO paintings
for mum and dad, who have always supported my poor career choices.
‘There is no final one; revolutions are infinite.’
yevgeny zamyatin, We
characters
the artist
the mother, a proud woman with a presence that could never go unnoticed
beatriz, a stern, bespectacled librarian
eva, a brash, intelligent sex worker
news reporter
setting
The play takes place in a post-tech future at the City Hotel.
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 sending you to an early grave. On second thoughts, it might not be such a bad idea.
the mother: We’re ten floors up – the fumes can’t reach up here.
the artist: No, don’t – it’s so…
(the mother opens the window. The sound of the city fills the room. Loud.)
It’s not about the fumes!
the mother: I can’t hear you, dear!
the artist: What?
the mother: What did you say?
(the artist closes the window.)
the artist: I don’t need air.
the mother: We all need air, dear. That’s science.
the artist: I’m perfectly happy in my own little room with the window closed and the world firmly shut outside. Sorry, but the quiet, and the old map, and the crippling loneliness – they help me think. Work. When I’m stood here wracking my brain for some idea, some inspiration about what to bloody paint, I just stand and look and think. And it helps.
the mother: Does it?
the artist: In theory.
the mother: So it’s all for your pictures.
the artist: My paintings.
the mother: You know what I mean, dear.
the artist: My art.
the mother: Here we go.
the artist: Art. Not pictures. These are works of art specially commissioned by the City Hotel. They have to be brilliant. Each one must be utterly unique in its own way.
the mother: Don’t get excited, dear.
the artist: Mother, please. This is my first professional job, and I can’t afford to mess it up. The new wing is my chance, my opportunity to really make a mark. I know it’s a mess now, but this place really used to be something. Maybe it will be again one day. Who knows who will stay in these rooms? Politicians, celebrities, art dealers. Yes, it’s just a few grubby hotel rooms now, but if all goes well, who knows who could see my paintings?
the mother: Just get the job done so we can stay.
the artist: This is art, Mother. It’s not just a job.
the mother: You haven’t got to worry about it.
the artist: I’m not worrying.
the mother: I didn’t say you were worrying, I said that you didn’t need to. Nobody’s going to look at them, anyway.
the artist: Excuse me?
the mother: I didn’t mean it like that. That came out wrong. Forget I said anything.
the artist: How was it supposed to come out?
the mother: It’s only a hotel room, dear. I don’t mean to offend you, but people don’t come to hotels to admire the artwork. They come to do other things. You know what I mean.
the artist: The birds and the bees.
the mother: Fucking, dear.
the artist: Yes. That.
the mother: Fucking.
the artist: Would you answer me a question?
the mother: If you asked me one that wasn’t hypothetical.
the artist: What am I?
the mother
