by Kat Georges
Apparently, a child tried to pet it, the coyote bit, the child lost a finger, the coyote was shot and killed by a rookie policeman.
I called Beuys with the sad news. He told me he felt as if his own brother had died.
I sent him a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glen Farclas to cheer him up. Something about the morose effects of an exquisite single-malt scotch that makes any death in the family more enjoyable—er, bearable.
BERNARD sips from a flask of scotch.
DOROTHY: When Valerie decided to move to New York, she had already been living out of the house for a couple of years. We didn’t get along very well in those days. She was staying in Baltimore, I had no idea where.
I wouldn’t hear from her for months, then all of a sudden, she would call up and ask me to send her some money. I was not a rich woman, but I tried to send what I could. I mean, after all, she was my daughter and I did love her.
Then one day, she called and said she needed a little more money than usual because she was moving to New York to become a successful writer. I told her, “Valerie, honey, New York is a much bigger city than Baltimore. It’s very rough there. People don’t always succeed. I don’t want you to get hurt.” She just let me keep talking. There was nothing I could do. I thought I would never hear from her again. Then she called me from jail, and invited me here tonight.
VIVIAN and GOLEM begin an erotic dance that leads to a near-sexual encounter. GOLEM slowly strips to bare naked. VIVIAN to her bra and stockings and boots.
VIVIAN: Ooooh . . . that feels so good . . .
GOLEM: As smooth as oil . . .
VIVIAN: That’s nice . . .
GOLEM: You’re soo oo o nice . . .
VALERIE watches, with increasing disgust.
VALERIE: What’s all this talk about nice? Nice? Nice! Mindless dribble. The more mindless the woman, the more deeply embedded she is in the male culture, in short, the “nicer” she is, the more sexual she is.
The nicest women in our society are raving sex maniacs. But, being just awfully, awfully nice, they don’t, of course, descend to fucking—that’s uncouth—rather they make love, commune by means of their bodies and establish sensual rapport. The literary ones are attuned to the throb of Eros and attain a clutch upon the Universe; the religious have spiritual communion with the Divine Sensualism; the mystics merge with the Erotic Principle and blend with the Cosmos, and acidheads contact all their erotic cells.
VIVIAN and GOLEM are really into it now.
VIVIAN: When you make love to me, I feel every cell I have start to spin into divinity.
BERNARD discusses art with a statue, upstage, sipping from his flask occasionally. DOROTHY gets increasingly concerned about VALERIE, and files her nails to distract herself.
VALERIE: Unhampered by propriety, niceness, discretion, public opinion, “morals,” the “respect” of assholes, always funky, dirty, low-down, S.C.U.M. gets around. . . and around and around . . . they’ve seen the whole show—every bit of it—the fucking scene, the sucking scene, the dick scene, the dyke scene.
They’ve covered the whole waterfront, been under every dock and pier, the peter pier, the pussy pier . . . you’ve got to go through a lot of sex to get to anti-sex, and S.C.U.M.’s been through it all, and they’re now ready for a new show: they want to crawl out from under the dock, move, take off, sink out.
But S.C.U.M. doesn’t yet prevail; S.C.U.M.’s still in the gutter of our “society,” which, if it’s not deflected from its present course and if the Bomb doesn’t drop on it, will hump itself to death.
DOROTHY: Valerie, honey, would you like to go home now?
VALERIE: I have no home!! Pause. Not yet. Not until all women simply leave men, refuse to have anything to do with any of them—ever. All men, the government, and the national economy would collapse completely.
DOROTHY: I’ve kept your room just the way it was when you left. I thought you’d like it that way.
VALERIE: In a sane society, the male would trot along obediently after the female. The male is docile, and easily led, easily subjected to the domination of any female who cares to dominate him. The male, in fact wants desperately to be led by females, wants Mama in charge, wants to abandon himself to her care. But this is not a sane society, and most women are not even dimly aware of where they’re at in relation to men.
GOLEM and VIVIAN continue to get down on each other.
VIVIAN: I need you. You turn me into an animal.
GOLEM: We have entered into a centuries-old tradition.
DOROTHY: (To VALERIE.) Your father says hello.
VALERIE hears the last comment from her mother and stares in disbelief, then becomes frenzied.
VALERIE: Daddy only wants what’s best for Daddy . . . peace and quiet, the opportunity to control and manipulate any sexual relations with his daughter.
A few examples of the most obnoxious or harmful types of men are: rapists, politicians, and all who are in their service; lousy singers and musicians; Chairmen of Boards; bread-winners; landlords; owners of greasy spoons and restaurants that play Musak; “Great Artists”; cheap pikers; cops; tycoons; scientists working on death and destruction programs or for private industry; liars and phonies; disc jockeys; men who intrude themselves in the slightest way on any strange female; real estate men; stock brokers; men who speak when they have nothing to say; men who loiter idly on the street and mar the landscape with their presence; double dealers; flim-flam artists; litterbugs; plagiarizers; men who in the slightest way harm any female; all men in the advertising industry; dishonest writers, journalists, editors, publishers; censors on both the public and private level; and all members of the armed forces.
DOROTHY: Honey, if you’re hungry, there’s salami—it’s free!
GOLEM: (To VIVIAN.) We’re making history.
VIVIAN: Make me like death, like heroin.
DOROTHY: Oh, and by the way Valerie, been meaning to ask you. Do you still see that sailor you used to date?
At this point VALERIE goes hysterical and flaps her arms wildly during her next speech, eyeing each person at the party with increasing suspicion. While she rants, BERNARD addresses the audience.
BERNARD: (To AUDIENCE.) You’re curious about why I’m here. What is a respectable well-to-do man doing hanging around this crowd: Pill-popping crazed fags, drop-out heiresses, speed-freak cross-dressers, midgets, whores, artists (a few), all craving the attention and recognition of one man—Andy Warhol. I ask myself the same question every day. And the only answer I have is that in my life, being a part of this scene is the closest I’ll ever get to being in love.
When every day, you wake up with fresh, vibrant expectations and a sense of—well, it’s a funny word to use in this context . . . but in the faces of all these crazy people I see hope; even in the faces of those most full of despair.
And if that hope is ever completely removed from their face, they leave, or they are asked to leave. It’s as simple as that. Laughter and tears, and a great artist behind all of it.
VALERIE: The conflict, therefore, is not between females and males, but between S.C.U.M.—dominant, secure, self-confident, nasty, violent, selfish, independent, proud, thrill-seeking, free-wheeling, arrogant females—and nice, passive, accepting, “cultivated,” polite, dignified, subdued, dependent, scared, mindless, insecure, approval-seeking Daddy’s Girls, who can’t cope with the unknown, who want to continue to wallow in the sewer that is, at least, familiar, who want to hang back with the apes, who feel secure only with Big Daddy standing by, with a fat, hairy face in the White House, who can have a place in the sun, or rather, in the slime, only as soothers, ego boosters, relaxers, and breeders, who see the female as a worm.
VALERIE suddenly swings a straight razor around. Threatens BERNARD, who drops to his knees. VIVIAN and GOLEM continue to writhe. DOROTHY is petrified, then mesmerized.
BERNARD: Please, not me, Valerie! You can’t—I’m innocent! I didn’t do anything to you! Please just leave!
&n
bsp; VIVIAN: Oh, yes, yes . . .
DOROTHY: This is just like the movies!
GOLEM: (To VIVIAN.) I like the way you cover your face.
GOLEM and VIVIAN finish up rolling with a gasp and a shudder as VALERIE swings her straight razor in manic martial arts motions and approaches GOLEM (who, naked, suddenly notices the danger he’s in).
GOLEM: What are you doing?
VIVIAN finally notices VALERIE and quickly starts putting her clothes back on, as frightened as the drugs will allow her to be.
VIVIAN: Oh my God, Valerie. Stop. This isn’t me, you’re seeing . . . I was in a trance . . . a movie!
DOROTHY: Honey, put the knife down.
GOLEM: Go home, Valerie. Go back to jail. Get out—we don’t want you here anymore.
VALERIE: I will not listen to you until you get on your knees and repeat to me one hundred times, “I am a turd, a lowly, abject turd,” and then list all the ways in which you are.
DOROTHY: Everything’s perfect the way it is. Nothing needs to be improved.
VALERIE: Women are improvable. Men are not. It lies in a woman’s nature to look upon everything only as a means for conquering men. Dropping out is not the answer—fucking up is!
GOLEM: Put the knife away, Valerie.
VALERIE grabs GOLEM (who is on his knees) and holds the knife to his throat.
VIVIAN: Call the cops! I’m outta here.
VIVIAN exits.
GOLEM: No! No! Valerie, don’t do it!
VALERIE: Don’t struggle or kick or raise a fuss.
DOROTHY: Valerie, get away from him!
VALERIE: . . . Just sit back, relax, enjoy the show, and ride the waves to your demise.
GOLEM: NO!
With sudden adrenaline strength, DOROTHY rips VALERIE off GOLEM, grips her around the neck, and begins to strangle her own daughter.
DOROTHY: Why are you trying to hurt me like this? Haven’t you hurt me enough? How can you do this to me? You still don’t care about anyone but yourself!
BERNARD and GOLEM watch in fascination. VALERIE struggles hard, finally breaks free, gasping, wheeling around, barely able to see. Focusing at last, she sees her mother. DOROTHY is livid and ready to kill. VALERIE becomes demure.
VALERIE: Mama . . . I . . . love . . . you . . .
GOLEM slaps BERNARD over the shoulder and guides him to the exit, while speaking.
GOLEM: Hollywood is finally ready for us. I mean, Midnight Cowboy? No one in Hollywood would have touched it before Chelsea Girls became such a success. I just can’t believe the irony—Andy Warhol’s talking on the phone to Viva, when she’s getting her hair dyed for big-budget Hollywood production Midnight motherfuckin’ Cowboy, and he gets shot by Valerie Solanas and almost dies. . . . And now, Valerie wants him to get her on Johnny Carson?
We’re all in the movies now. Every single situation of everyday life is now documented in some movie. All we have to do is remember which movie we liked best, and then—learn the role and say the words. Unless the movies invent new roles we’ll all be bored soon. No wonder Andy didn’t show up tonight.
VALERIE is now in a post-shock therapy kind of babble-on. She quietly spews her diatribe, without feeling or passion, and wanders off the stage, back through the audience and out of the theater.
VALERIE: The male “artist” . . . contempt for themselves . . . if they’re good, that is, if they’re nice . . . fraternizing with and trying to live through and fuse. . . sexual feeling from “being a woman” . . . “culture” in short, “morals,” the “respect” . . . our educational goal will be for a while to continue to think . . . secretly destroy . . . give things away . . . expose their vices . . . men who tell it like it is . . .
During VALERIE’s babble, DOROTHY finds her walker, slowly gets into position on it.
SOUND cue: Fade up final MUSIC, “Waiting for My Man.”
LIGHT cue: Begin slow fade of lights as DOROTHY crosses stage to exit.
DOROTHY: She had . . . a terrific sense of humor.
LIGHTS fade to black except powerful BLACK LIGHT, which at full strength reveals previously hidden fluorescent additions to prints of Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe faces on back wall. After few seconds of full strength, fade LIGHTS.
BLACKOUT.
THE END
ART WAS HERE
A Technical Knock Out in Ten Rounds Featuring Poet–Pugilist Arthur Cravan
Dedicated to
all who believe in
the power of creation.
PRODUCTION NOTES:
Three Rooms Press’s spiritual advisor is Arthur Cravan. No biography yet written has done him justice. In a world where everything is known through Wikipedia, Cravan remains an exception.
Arthur Cravan was a man who lived his life with the emphasis on choice. He was the nephew of Oscar Wilde. He was a boxer, winning the French National Boxing title without ever throwing a punch—he simply trash-talked his opponents so fiercely that each threw in the towel until no one was left, making Cravan the winner by default. He was a man who knew no bounds: his art was life and his canvas was the world.
Much of Cravan’s life work influenced the Dada movement, from his magazine Maintenant, which he sold from a wheelbarrow outside a Paris racetrack, to his adamant anti-war stance, which led to his travels in North America during World War I and, ultimately, to his mysterious disappearance in a small boat off the coast of southwest Mexico in 1918.
I discovered Cravan through reading the excellent The Lost Lunar Baedeker: Poems of Mina Loy, edited and with an extensive introduction by Loy aficionado Roger Conover. I was fascinated, as Loy was, by this giant of a man. Near the end of her life, Loy was asked what had been the happiest times in her life. She replied: “Every moment spent with Arthur Cravan.” And the unhappiest? “The rest of the time.”
But how could I possibly expose the enormous energy of Cravan to a modern theater audience? I opted for juxtaposition. I had Cravan and Loy come “back to life” as three-dimensional projections at a modern-day rave festival, where crowds of partiers high on Ecstasy dance to repetitive beats feeling as “free” as the promoter encourages them to believe’. Cravan, never one to buy in to any propaganda, quickly sees through the money-grubbing fame games of the promoter and wreaks havoc of the most delicious kind.
—K. G.
ART WAS HERE
A Technical Knock Out in Ten Rounds
Featuring Poet–Pugilist Arthur Cravan
CHARACTERS:
ARTHUR CRAVAN:
Poet–pugilist–projection; “I am the focal point of the world”
MINA LOY:
Poet–artist–projection; “I am the center of a circle of pain”
GENO:
Promoter, deejay; “’S’up?”
REF:
Protégé; “You both know the rules.”
SETTING:
One night at Club Geno, an underground rave club run by the beloved world famous deejay GENO, who promises an eclectic atmosphere of freedom. Admission by invitation only. The Deejay Booth overlooks an (unseen) main dance floor and is accessible only by staff/security badge. Room has two turntables, and full deejay setup. Near deejay equipment is a table with Geno’s special punch and a few cups. The Retrofied Forest is a “chill” room with a quieter vibe and green lighting designed to make it look like an indoor forest. Seating in this room is park benches. The Control Room is a backstage area with monitors, first aid, folding chairs, and supplies. The Main Stage is an area that is generally unseen, and would feature go-go dancers, until used in Round Nine and Ten of this play.
ROUND ONE
Deejay Booth
As the audience enters the theater, GENO deejays, dancing behind his turntables, carefully selecting each new record. A pitcher of punch sits on a table nearby. The stage is dim blue. The house area is lit by blinking LIGHTS. As LIGHTS fade, an intense slow song begins. The house LIGHTS blink slower and slower until they are out.
GENO crosses to USR. Fills glass of punch. AR
T enters DSL, crossing slowly, as if pulled by the vibration. Hunched over like an old man. Punching air weakly. GENO sees ART in mirror. They stare at each other’s reflections.
GENO: (To mirror.) You looking for something? It ain’t here.
Waits for response. Gets none. ART punches his own reflection.
GENO: Hey—The head’s down the hall. This is Backstage. You got a pass?
ART punches GENO’s reflection.
GENO: Still looking in mirror, fixing hair. Hey—You got an all-access pass? Put it on. You don’t got one? Get out. Takes punch back to turntables. You listening?
ART punches his own reflection. Crosses to punch. Pours a cup. Sniffs it. Pours it back. Sees GENO’s records. Pulls one out, takes off the sleeve. Examines record.
GENO: Angry. Hey—Put that back—That’s my shit! What you doing? You in the wrong club, or something. We don’t take requests here. I’m in control of this mix. Picks up sleeve. Hey—Laughs. Heeeeyyyy . . . At least you got good taste. What d’ya know? My fav-o-rite tune. It’s so rare . . . hypnotic . . . very eclectic. I call this here tune . . . “The Dream Disconnected” . . . Yeah . . . German import. Hard to find . . . It’s collectible . . . Now go on downstairs and I’ll mix it in for you . . .
ART lifts needle on record that’s playing.
GENO: ’S’up? Oh, man! Shit! What the—. . . Tries to push ART away from turntable. ART puts his fists up. GENO backs off.
Hey, man! No one fucks with my records! Shit! That’s it, man! I’m calling . . . security, man! Into headphones. Hey! Security! Security! We got a problem! Control Room!
(To ART.) Security’s coming.
ART starts warming up to fight.
GENO: Hey—’S’up wid you, man! Security’s coming! Get out while you can. If Security finds you, you’re dead.
Fade up SOUND of crowd at a boxing match. LIGHTS change to define a boxing ring on stage.
ART picks up tempo.
GENO: Downs punch. Security! Control Room! Security! Hey!’S’up!