Act 1, Scene 6: Dedicated to My Fiancée.
Setting: Interior. Chagall’s Studio.
Time: Three nights later.
Chagall, in his candle and lamp lit studio, is painting Dedicated to My Fiancée in his tight quarters studio at La Ruche. Cut to later, still painting, the sun is coming up. The studio is a mess. There is paint in Chagall’s unwashed hair. There is a knock at the door. Cendrars and Delauney enter without waiting for the door to be opened.
Cendrars: I thought you might need… Good lord!… Amazing! Chagall… What is it?
Chagall: [Looks at him, doesn’t speak.]
Cendrars: Truly fucking amazing! You did this last night? In a single night? Look at you…. God, you need a walk… a good cleaning up. [Looks at the painting. Laughs.
Delauney: And I thought you’d be a hack. A Kandinsky knock off or a bridge painter. Hell, this is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
Cendrars: You’ve got to get out of here.
Chagall: Not now.
Delauney: We’ll be back. Tonight. We’re going to Canudo’s.
Chagall: It’s Friday?
Cendrars: Hah! Yeah! We’ll get lunch [ Looks at his pocket watch, slams it shut. 3 hours. You’ve got three hours. And be clean. Don’t embarrass us.
Delauney: God! I’ve never seen color like this. So fucking bright! Pure. Intensity. The reds. God, okay, I’m going.
Cendrars: 3 hours. Don’t forget. You need this. It’ll be fun. [Door slams.]
[The door opens back up. Cendrars pokes his head in through the door.
If I shall be the one to name it… I’ll name it, Dedicated to My Fiance! [He glances at Chagall from the side and smirks.
Hah! [He slams the door.
Act 1, Scene 7: Inflitrates the Local Scene
Setting: Interior. Canudo’s Apartment.
Time: Same date (Friday). Night.
Valentine de Sandpoint reclines on a chaise. Lhote and Luc-Albert sit on the floor propped against the chaise and Segonzac sits in a chair next to her, running his fingers through her hair that drapes over the arm of the chaise. Canudo is uncorking a bottle of wine and Leger rolls a cigarette on a coffee table. Delauney, Cendrars and Chagall have just entered the room. Delauney hands Canudo another bottle of wine just as he pops the cork off the one he has.
Canudo: Thanks. [He scoffs. Hands Delauney what he just opened and begins to open the new bottle. Chagall is in the corner taking off his coat.
Valentine: What do you think, Delauney? About the new exhibit?
Delauney: Imposters! Every one. You’ve got to see what Chagall just painted.
Valentine: Oh? [Sits up.
Delauney: Absolute authenticity. You’ve got to see it.
Valentine: Is it at the Salon?
Delauney: The paint’s still wet; it’s that new.
Canudo: What is so authentic about this new painting Chagall? Can we see it?
Chagall: Umm… yes. Certainly.
Canudo: Well, what’s so fucking exciting about it?
Delauney: It just is. I had to bring him. He’s been locked up in that studio for twenty four/ twenty six hours straight… didn’t even know it was Friday…
Canudo: [Laughs. So you need this. ?[Hands him a glass of wine.] Come sit.
Valentine: Well, Delauney, I have seen your latest and am quite impressed. I like the new exhibit much more than your previous work.
Delauney: Thank you, darling. [Kisses her head as he walks by to find a seat.
Valentine: [Smiles. You think I’m padding your ego, but I’m being serious…
Delauney: Dull. Tired. Chagall! Sit down… explain this bursting color I can’t seem to get off my mind…
Chagall: [Smiles. Sits. It is the color that brings the canvas to life, gives it it’s soul… [He looks at Valentine. The tender attentions and interactions that make up the soul of the painting make it into an act of love. Red, for instance, is not a color of love, [looks at Cendrars not a color representing love but love itself - … Do you understand what I’m saying? The intense red on the canvas created love and now you simply can’t get it out of your mind.
[Valentine stares at Chagall a moment. Delauney bursts out laughing then looks at Canudo. Chagall smiles.
Canudo: Do you see? See what I’m saying? Absolute authenticity.
Valentine: Mmm… yes. I do.
Delauney: And your technique?
Chagall: Light… the light of freedom.
Leger: [Laughs and hands him a cigarette. Go on…
Delauney: I told you he needed to get out… This is brilliant…
Chagall: No. No. This is something I have often thought about; and Paris, Paris has provided proof. Proof of light of freedom. Spiritual freedom, harmony, harmony in one’s surroundings. Do you understand? As if my technique is made of a combination and the effect of this combination is of two things:
“one being light coupled with freedom, and the other, color; inseparably linked with love”*.
Valentine: Tell us of this love, where is she?
Chagall: She is everywhere, she is Paris, she is a river, she is a light reflecting off a dancer’s skirt that swirls a thought or act of seduction through a crowded room. She is you, Valentine, and you, Riciotto. She is me, and she seeps into my paint that lures us all toward the painting, a painting filled with the love of color.
Canudo: A poet. Chagall… are you an artist, a painter, or a poet? La Poete.
Delauney: Well, anyway, you have to see it… I don’t care what he says, it’s fucking brilliant. Pablo! Come share a smoke with me on the balcony… Tell me you’re leaving cubism and that I’ll be the world’s only cubist master…
Picasso: No, that would be Leger.
Delauney: Chagall! Take your dreamy, dazed eyes off Valentine and come with us.
Chagall: Pablo Picasso? What an honor… I’ll help you throw him off the balcony, make it look like an accident. We’ll rise above him yet. [They exit.
Valentine: It is impossible to ignore this adorable man. I am surprised. he can be quite amusing; very drole, really… in an unexpected sort of way…
Canudo: I told you…spent one night and most of the next day running about Paris, showing him the ins and outs…
Valentine: Hmmm… yes. I like him. When will we see his painting?
Lhote: Leger, tell us what you’ve been up to… so I won’t have to listen to Valentine dealve into the life and times of Canudo’s latest artist friend… please…
Leger: You’re looking at it… [looks at his rolled cigarette, blows smoke and hands it to Lhote. Here… I got this in Kabul….
Valentine: [Laughs. Oh, perfect, get him wrecked,now we won’t have to hear Lhote’s insidious questioning of where I’ve been and whom I’ve seen all week. I’ll be on the balcony.
[Leger and Lhote move closer together. Chagall re-enters the room, fills his glass with wine.
Leger: I’ve been traveling, actually. Writing a little, and traveling. 3 weeks and it’s good to be home. Had a fabulous time in Istambul. Here. Chagall, come talk with us. I was enjoying the feelings of your rhetoric on colors and love. Amuse me a while….
Chagall: [Chagall smiles and his charm shows when his blue eyes open wider rather than narrow at this demand. Amuse you, good lord, has it come to this? Soon I’ll be bringing a monkey and an accordion just to get into the party?
Leger: [Laughs. Exactly.
Chagall: What about a little dog? In a tutu? I could teach it to sit up and roll over?
Leger: Oh, now you’re just getting sour about it. I’m quite mellowed out and was enjoying your words… but if you’re going to get mean…
Chagall: [Sits, fills glasses of wine.] Mean… hah… [He reaches over and brushes a lock of Leger’s hair over that has fallen in front of his eyes. One day, a young man asked a Rabbi…
Legere: Hah!
Lhote: Go on.
Chagall: [Laughs. Then holds in his laughter to continue. A young man asks h
is Rabbi… What is Hell like?
The Rabbi replies, “Come, I will show you.” He takes the boy’s hand, sings some kind of holy song and suddenly there they are, looking at a very long table. On this table are the most delicious looking dishes, wine goblets encrusted with jewels, beautiful plates, and bowls of sumptuous fruits.
[Canudo moves closer, sits near them, takes the cigarette Lhote hands him, and smiles, listening to Chagall.
The most sumptuous fruits the boy has ever seen. Cakes and many delicious smelling foods. The people sit, looking hungrily at their plates filled with food, and next to each plate is a very, very long fork. [Chagall motions with his hands. This long, at least. Even longer.
The boy watches, his mouth watering, as each person at the table struggles, unable to get the food into their mouths. The forks are just too long. Not one person at hell’s table is able to get any of this food into their mouths.
The boy looks up at the Rabbi. “What is Heaven like?” he asks.
The Rabbi sings several words and suddenly they are standing in front of a different table.
This table is also covered with the finest goblets, and again, the dishes and bowls are filled with the most sumptuous fruits and delicious smelling dishes the boy has ever seen. Next to the plates, he sees the same long forks. This long; at least. [Chagall smirks and shows them how long knowing he is entertaining the wrecked men as if they are children. They smile back and hold in their giggles.
Leger: Even longer!
Chagall: [Nods. But at this table… the table of Heaven, the people are reaching across the table with their long forks, and they are feeding each other.
Canudo: Ahh!
Leger: Bravo! [Claps his hands.
Lhote: Wow. That would make a great film, wouldn’t it, Ricotto?
Canudo: Yeah.
Leger: It just did. [Smiles. In my head, anyway.
Lhote: Canudo is becoming a film theorist, did he tell you?
Chagall: No. Tell me.
Canudo: Yes. I’m working on an experimental film. This is my fourth.
Lhote: Can you act, Chagall?
Leger: It’s obvious he can.
Lhote: [Looks at Canudo. Do you have a part for him?
Canudo: Mmm.. yes.. .I suppose.
Act II, Scene 1: Chagall is Not an Actor
(Inspirational Painting for this Scene is Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers.)
Setting: Interior. La Ruche.
Time: Sunny September Day.
Music plays as Chagall paints - La Poete. Out in the hallway there is noise and chatter. The booming voice of Canudo is heard in the hall.
Canudo: Where is Chagall? [Pounds on doors. Chagall?! [Canudo bursts open Rivera’s studio door. Sees Modi painting Rivera.
Oh, sorry. [Bounds back out.]
Chagall?!
[Lhote, Canudo and Leger bust open Chagall’s door. He turns. Smiles.
Canudo: Where the fuck have you been?
Chagall: Right here. Painting.
Canudo: [Over the top of his answer. Oh, painting, I suppose.
Chagall: [Laughs. Yes.
Canudo: Well, let’s see it…
Leger: Nice.
Lhote: Don’t show Valentine, she’ll become obsessed…
Canudo: Fabulous. What’s it called?
Chagall: I don’t name my paintings. Delauney, Cendrars and Bella… they usually name them.
Lhote: He’s writing.
Leger: And drinking…
Canudo: It’s one of us, from the other night! Name it, Lhote…
Lhote: The Poet. La Poete. And look, the shortest fork I’ve ever seen…
Leger: A pipe, and a little green beast…
Bravo, Chagall…
Canudo: Yes. La Poete. Now, Chagall, get your coat. I am making a film. We’ll see if you can act.
Act II, Scene 2: Fumbling on Set
Setting: Interior. Set of Canudo’s Film Production.
Time: Same Day. Late Afternoon/Early Evening.
Canudo: Row!
Chagall: I’m rowing.
Canudo: In a straight line.
Chagall: Well, I don’t… I’m not… a rower.
Canudo: Cut!
[Walks over to Chagall. He is in a row boat with a straw hat on. The boat is in a large enclosure filled with water and Lhote is at the edge making pretend waves with a paddle.
Chagall: This is not difficult. I want You to row, without turning this way and that, from this end of the pond, to that end of the pond. Got it?
Chagall: Okay. Got it.
Canudo: Good. Splendid. [Walks back behind the camera. Let’s try this again. Lhote! Drag his boat down to that end. And I’d like the waves a little stronger. Okay?
Quiet on the set! Roll ‘em!
[Chagall rows a few strokes. The boat begins to turn. Chagall corrects it, but the boat turns the other way.
Canudo: Cut! [Lhote drags the boat back to the edge of the pretend pond.
[Chagall is shown as if seen from behind the camera. Chagall begins to row. His face is serious. He is trying. His boat begins to turn. He looks up at the camera, smirking, quickly looks back down, as Canudo sighs and looks out from around the camera.
Canudo: Cut! Are you trying to ruin my film? Only Chagall can be an artist? Lhote!
[Lhote is trying not to laugh. He drags the boat back to the edge of the pretend pond.
[Chagall starts out rowing. His facial expression is very serious; he is determined to row correctly. He rows. He rows a little stronger. His face relaxes. He is certain this will be exactly right. He rows harder, the boat turns. He hurries and rows with one opposite paddle. The boat turns in a circle. Lhote bursts out laughing. Chagall puts his face in his hands. One oar slides into the water.
Canudo: Miserable! You are the most miserable actor I have ever worked with! You’ve never even been in a boat, have you?!
Chagall: [Is laughing.
Canudo: Get out! Lhote! Help him out. [A little water splashes Canudo. Valentine?! Get me a towel!
Act II, Scene 3: Forest Fairy Newcomer
Setting: Interior. La Ruche.
Time: Next day. Late afternoon.
A large man, rather hairy, with a young, boyish looking woman, enter the front doors of La Ruche.
Boucher: How long have you been working at the Russian Academy?
Marevna: Oh, I just arrived… just about a month ago. I started… oh, excuse me [she turns and watches Modi and Kisling bump past her and open then doors while Delauney maneuvers a large canvas toward the door. I’d say two weeks… no three.
Boucher: There go a few of the young geniuses* I told you about. Dirt poor, now, but won’t be for long… such innovation, such talent and enthusiasm. Just like a Hive it is… that’s its name = The Hive.
Marevna: Ah, yes…
Boucher: The place was torn down and rebuilt about 10 years ago - for the World Olympics - 1900. I obtained the property then, wanted it a place to help out young, struggling artists. Like you, Marevna… Here, come see. [He knocks twice then opens the studio door of Leger. Paintings sit on easels or hang and balance against them. A small, bedside table sit among stacks of books, paints, jars of linseed oil and brushes.
I suppose, with the place being so close to the slaughterhouse, and all, that it wouldn’t have been worth much as the expensive housing they suggested it become, until I showed them Picasso’s work. Fit well with the plan, since the big show was for the Olympic song and dance, anyway.
I haven’t regretted a day of it since.
Marevna: [Takes in her breath as she looks at several paintings. Beautiful!
Boucher: Did I tell you? Huh? Leger. Fernand Leger. Marevna.
Leger: How do you do?
Marevna: Hello. [She bows her head slightly. Looks at Lhote who sits on the bed against the wall. Touches her lip. Hi!
Lhote: Hi.
Boucher: Let’s go and see if Marc Chagall is home.
[Marevna glances b
ack at Lhote with coyness to her glance. He gets up. As she looks at paintings he follows closely. Then brushes up against her arm. Says in her ear:
Lhote: Nice, huh?
Marevna: Mmm, yes.
[Marevna and Boucher re-enter the 11-sided hallway and climb the stairs to the very top.
[Below them, just inside the door of Leger’s studio:
Leger: She wants you.
Lhote: [Standing at the door, watching her ass walk up the stairs.
I know.
[They both laugh.
Leger: You’re sick.
Lhote: I know. [They both laugh again.
Boucher: The rent, here, is very low, because I’m a nice guy, and a sculptor myself… but Chagall has a benefactor - a collector, offers him a stipend, so he can afford the top floor. As does his neighbor, Diego Rivera.
[Marevna looks into a studio where a woman creeps through the door, a green shawl wrapped around her otherwise nude body.
Renee. [He tips a non-existent hat and she smiles demurely as she shuts the door. I provide the artists, here, with models. They have to share, ofcourse, not made of money. Not a bad living for some girls.
[Kisling and Modi bound back up the stairs and enter a second story studio. The door slams. At the top floor Marevna gasps as she looks at the light coming through the ceiling panels.
Marevna: I can see why the top floor might be desirable.
Boucher: Yes, such a blessing with the natural light from the glass ceiling. [He begins to knock, then stops. You know, perhaps Rivera’s or Modigliani’s… Chagall rarely allows visitors to his studio. Cendrars is just about the only one he lets in. But, I forgive him, he works day and night. And his paintings… ahh… such color… such…
[A door opens. Diego Rivera exits his studio.
Rivera!
Rivera: Good day to you. I’ve been meaning to talk to you…
Boucher: Yes, [her interrupts would it be alright if I show this young woman your studio. A painter, quite talented…
Rivera: Well, um, sure, if you can squeeze in, it’s quite a mess…
Chagall: 12-Sided Hallway Page 2