This one act play was mounted at the Solar Stage Theatre in North York, Ontario, Canada in the spring of 1992.
SCENE I: in the art gallery, before the opening
CHARACTERS: Ukrainian Woman, Frau Theresa, Novice Monk, Father Raoul
Darkness.
A UKRAINIAN WOMAN is cleaning the floor. She mutters.
RAOUL (offstage): Release the hounds!
Dogs bay. Enter FRAU THERESA, stumbling and sweating.
FRAU THERESA (frantic proclaimation): Art -- is like Classical music: everyone pretends to enjoy it so that they wonÕt seem stupid.
(Offstage: howling, barking, &c.)
(To UKRAINIAN WOMAN:) As we might come together to admit that we find Schubert's violin repetitions boring, so too do we poke fun at Abstract Expressionism when no one smart is listening.
UKRAINIAN: I clean now! (Scrubs aggressively at the floor.)
FRAU THERESA: The commoners think that Art is a farce; the commoners -- like you -- think that we hang around discussing philosophy with Aristotlian syllogism; they're under the impression that they've been by a bunch of rhetoric-spewing, pseudointellectual fools -- and they're right!
Enter NOVICE MONK, attempting to silence FRAU THERESA.
UKRAINIAN: I no listen!
FRAU THERESA (desperate): Artists are scared to death that somebody's going to find out that every human being has the capacity to create Art--they make everything complicated so that the commoners will think Art is much much harder to do than any other labour of love--!
Enter FATHER RAOUL.
RAOUL: Repent thy blasphemy, foul heretic!
FRAU THERESA: ÔVoice of Fire' is a just a bunch of stupid stripes!
FRAU THERESA is dragged offstage by the NOVICE MONK.
UKRAINIAN (humbly): Good evening, Your Eminence.
RAOUL (suspicious): ...Good evening, my daughter.
She cleans.
UKRAINIAN (muttering): ...ach, ja...nyet khorosho...clean yes, germs no...(And so on.)
RAOUL: You are a very lucky woman to immigrate to our land.
UKRAINIAN: Yes, Your Eminence; L'arté beautiful city.
RAOUL: We pride ourselves here on Art, Philosophy and the Expression of Noble Pensiveness. Did you know that?
UKRAINIAN: Yes, Your Eminence.
RAOUL: We strive to assist the Artist in their endeavour of sublime profundity through honed expression of the Human Condition.
UKRAINIAN (proudly): City boast highest number of Art Sophists anywhere, who professionally appraise the excretions of some seventy-five thousand Artists.
RAOUL: You have been studying, my daughter.
They kiss their hands and look skyward piously.
UKRAINIAN: That woman, my Lord, what has she done?
RAOUL: Frau Theresa, the Heretic and Slanderer? She had a sort mental collapse. She went crazy when one of her works was censored--then she raved about our holiest relics and spat upon the statue of Saint Starving Sculptor the Martyr.
UKRAINIAN: She is bad woman?
RAOUL: Yes, she is a very bad woman, a very short-sighted woman. (Pause.) Now hurry along, my daughter, the appraisal opens soon. (Exit.)
UKRAINIAN: Yes, Father.
(Pause. UKRAINIAN assumes penitent posture.)
'L'arte is the founding place of the Church of Saint Starving Sculptor the Martyr, which lends its spiritual and critical powers to the nurturing of the Aristic Consciousness.' For this I am thankful, O Saint.
(Pause.)
'Art! That creative torch flaming within certain introspective geniuses, seeking to be vented through the Aristic process of ingesting, saturing, abstracting, minimalising and excreting as Pure Expression devoid of Extraneum. ...Seeking to be meditated upon by the keenest of intellects and the most Zen of hearts--those minds, those hearts, that Art can be found here--in L'arte, city of Art.'
--Book four, paragraph twenty-nine, The Book of Saint Sculptor the Martyr.
(Kisses her hands, looks skyward -- she gathers her things and scurries off.)
SCENE II: in the art gallery, the opening the appraisal of a show
CHARACTERS: Svlad, Edward Edward, Frau Theresa, Nun, Cookie LaMoo, Father Raoul, Novice Monk, Vincent, Christopher Robin
SVLAD, EDWARD EDWARD and FRAU THERESA stand before two paintings covered with black veils. A NUN carries a tray of wine and cheese. A moment.
NUN: Wine?
FRAU THERESA shakes her bruised head solemnly.
NUN: Cheese?
The response is similar. Pause.
Enter COOKIE LaMOO. Pause.
Enter FATHER RAOUL and the NOVICE MONK, the former with a parchment.
COOKIE LaMOO examines the first painting beneath its cover.
COOKIE LaMOO: Ten-thousand, nine-fifty.
All congratulate SVLAD. RAOUL records the number. NOVICE MONK removes the painting and returns.
COOKIE examines the second painting beneath its cover.
COOKIE: Seven.
Pregnant pause.
FRAU THERESA: Ah well, I have succeeded...I have made, um, a statement about the Artists' plight of poverty.
RAOUL records the number. NOVICE MONK takes the painting.
Exeunt MONKS.
Polite conversation begins among the Artistes (SVLAD, EDWARD & FRAU THERESA) who take wine and cheese from the congenial NUN.
Enter VINCENT and CHRISTOPHER ROBIN.
VINCENT (aside to CHRISTOPHER ROBIN): Now Christopher Robin, you must learn how to mingle with the Artistic community. Keep your eyes and ears open and, please, don't embarass me.
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN: No Vincent, I won't.
They take cheese--I think it's brie. VINCENT approaches Artistes.
VINCENT: I was tardy; how did 'Blue Seventy-Four' do?
SVLAD: As anticipated, considering the provocative use of textural-subpatterns versus bifurcated line-forms, hmm?
EDWARD: I believe that was pioneered by Vicky Valensky in her classic 'Egypt Series' or nudes, was it not?
SVLAD (subtly mocking): Do tell us, Vincent.
VINCENT: ...That may well be so.
SVLAD: Our grand Art Sophist Cookie LaMoo does not fawn favourably upon Virtual Valenskism, at least, not with canvas proportions as such here--not since she devalued the 'Foldorol Discourse Series' in her breathtaking appraisal last year, n'est pas?
VINCENT: ...That was most noteworthy indeed.
EDWARD: Indeed.
VINCENT strolls over to COOKIE LaMOO.
Quietly to CHRISTOPHER ROBIN:
VINCENT: Do you see that it's important to be aware of Artistic happenings? You must learn to be immersing yourself in it all the time.
CR: Yes sir.
(To COOKIE) VINCENT: Ah, goodevening Madam LaMoo.
COOKIE: Mm? Who are you?
VINCENT: Vincent ma'am, an admirer of your appraisal techniques. I was particularly taken with your devaluing of the 'Foldorol Discourse Series.' Very succinct thinking, I daresay.
COOKIE: How charming. Go away.
VINCENT: Of course, but before I do, I feel I must tell you that your rigid stance against...textural subpatterns versus line juxtaposed with square canvases...is a particularly -- mature -- virtue I think most Sophists often lack, if you don't mind my saying so.
COOKIE: Are you a complete cuckold?
VINCENT (abashed): Pardon?
(Raising her voice in indignation) COOKIE: Linear hyperbole of repetition delineated by texture in a subtle contrast could only be executed with some kind of Euclidian respect on a canvas of equal sizes! Your Aristic ignorance veritably oozes from your pores, you proletarian gibbon.
VINCENT (distraught): Oh--but I--...(And so forth; Exit.)
Pause.
Exit CHRISTOPHER ROBIN.
Enter MONKS.
MONKS (chanting): ...And Saint Sculptor was presented with a vision of an angel chanting the Principles of Design: 'Thou shalt compose thy works in balance; thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's imagery, or at least not very much; thou shalt not place the focal point in the centre of thy composition; thou shalt use mature and sophisticated analogs of thy visual language to convey a subtle dialogue with thy viewer...' (et al.)
SCENE III: in Vincent's studio, later
CHARACTERS: Vincent, Christopher Robin
Enter VINCENT, followed by CHRISTOPHER ROBIN.
CR: Vincent!
VINCENT: Leave me alone for a while, please, Christopher Robin?
CR: Are you okay?
VINCENT: I'll be fine.
CR: What happened?
VINCENT: That should be my epitaph. (Pause.) I had, a disagreement, with the Sophist.
CR: She was very mad.
VINCENT: You must learn to understand the complex...relationships in the Art World. You've got to watch, and learn how to work with them.
CR: It just seems unfair that she got so mad.
VINCENT: How I envy you, boy! Your innocence! You'll one day understand why it is the way it all is.
CR: So why did she get so mad?
VINCENT (distant): Mad?
CR: Mad. Why did she get so mad?
VINCENT (distant): What do they want? What more do they want from me?
CR: Vincent?
VINCENT: Mm? I've a lot to teach you, yet.
CR: Do you remember when you told me that none of them knew what they were talking about? When you said it was all foolish?
VINCENT: Sometimes, Christopher Robin, I feel like...you're the only one who understands how foolish it can all seem. No, no but it isn't foolish...
CR: Are you okay, Vincent?
VINCENT: Please, clean up the studio, boy. I'll see you to-morrow.
CR: You told me you'd finish telling me what you thought of my painting--you said you'd finish after the show.
VINCENT: Your painting...?
CR: The one that was mostly green. We were talking about it before we had to go to the show.
VINCENT: Your painting...of course. It wasn't resolved. No, I'm afraid it wasn't resolved at all, Christopher Robin. You've got a long way to go before you can ever be an Artist.
CR: But before we left you said it was very good!
VINCENT: I didn't. It was somewhat crude in terms of imagery. Now, clean up the studio and to bed.
Pause.
CR: Vincent?
Hesitation.
VINCENT: ...Yes?
CR: It makes you happy to be an Artist, right?
Another hesitation.
VINCENT: ...Sure.
Darkness on VINCENT.
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN tidies up, and then begins to draw on a canvas. He becomes passionate, but at the peak of his energy he stops, pauses, and then puts away the pencil.
CR: Poor, poor Vincent...(He removes his shoes.) He is fortunate, though, to be so tormented. It's my dream to be tormented. (He slips under a blanket and lies down.) Then I could be an Artist, too. (Lights go down on CR.)
SCENE IV: in the Cafe Per Anum, the next day
CHARACTERS: Svlad, Edward Edward, Frau Theresa, Vincent, Christopher Robin, Starving-Artist Waitress
Seated around a table are the Artistes, sipping at espressoes and holding copies of battered books like 'Profound Thoughts (Second Edition)' and 'Socratic Dialect Made Easy' and 'Advanced Drunkeness.'
Enter VINCENT and CHRISTOPHER ROBIN.
VINCENT: Goodmorning, howdoyoudo?
SVLAD: Goodmorning, howdoyoudo?
VINCENT takes a seat.
EDWARD: Do sit down.
VINCENT: This is my apprentice. (Pause.) What is the matter of your perusal, Svlad?
SVLAD: A deeply theosophical tome on the successful discourse betwixt Artistic output and a physically-manifested psychosomatic existentialist nausea.
SUBTITLE: A religious book about how feeling sick and depressed makes better Art.
VINCENT: Ah, yes.
EDWARD: What are your views, Vincent, on representations inspired ex nauseam?
SUBTITLE: What do you think of pictures inspired by sickness?
VINCENT: Well...my views on that particular facet of the visual media are surely in homage to the dialogues of Plato when I say that they are an expressed and understood futility in the face of the ultimate Form.
SUBTITLE: Well...um...I don't really know what I'm talking about, but if I throw in the name of a famous philosopher they'll probably all nod knowingly...
Artistes nod.
FRAU THERESA: Do you mean the ultimate Form of a divine retching, or the ultimate essence expressed through the penultimate corporeal manifestations of a human's heaves?
SUBTITLE: Do you mean a divine sickness or the most perfect possible mortal sickness?
VINCENT: Well...both, really.
SUBTITLE: ÀQue?
EDWARD: Yes, well. Svlad, last week I was in Gr&mbacher Cathedral...
SVLAD: Exceptional stained-glass.
EDWARD: Of course. And two Doctors of Design slunk in. They used their credentials to authorise a peek into a vaults.
SVLAD: The vaults, you say?
FRAU THERESA: The vaults...
EDWARD: The vaults, indeed. They pestered the poor Novice Monk, who was glistening with sweat and glancing skyward. He finally relented and let them in to see an oil-painting called 'I Wish I Could Fly' by Mikhail Zikolovich.
SVLAD: Do go on.
EDWARD: Well, they stared at it in intellectual poses for a long time. Then the woman asked the man what he thought.
He finally admitted, 'It just looks like dots.'
She slapped him across the face and fled. The Novice hastily went to confess the heresy.
SVLAD: And the scurrilous man?
EDWARD: I hear he's been deported.
The company chuckles. Enter WAITRESS.
VINCENT: Um. Waitress--
WAITRESS: I'm an artist, actually. This is only a temporary thing. I'm observing humanity.
VINCENT: Fine. May I have a cappuccino please?
WAITRESS: Coming right up. (Exit.)
VINCENT: You did very well at the opening last night, Svlad. My congratulations.
SVLAD: Yes.
VINCENT: Did you think you would do as well as you did?
SVLAD: ...Of course. I had full confidence.
I overheard your little, shall we say discussion?, with Sophist LaMoo, hmm? Surely you were not taking my Bukowskian jest about pattern-line juxtaposition seriously, yes?
FRAU THERESA: I was not aware that Bukowski wrote about pattern-line juxtaposition...
SVLAD: Certainly he did, you snivelling illiterate of subtext; Bukowski used vomit and misogyny as metaphors for visual-textural devices.
FRAU THERESA: Ah.
SVLAD: So, dear Vincent, what will you do now that Cookie LaMoo has glimpsed your texture-pattern folly? It could serve as a great hindrance to your ambition, yes?
FRAU THERESA: Your thirst for humiliation is never quite slaked, is it Vincent?
VINCENT: You're speaking rather brashly for one who didn't even break even on 'Blue Seventy-Four.' Of course, it was a rather tired game after the first seventy-three...
SVLAD: Sir, with all due respect, you know nothing about this lady's creationary and expressive process, non?
VINCENT: Yes but, how many blue paintings all basically alike can one do? It's surely insane to be turning out near seventy-five of them!
SVLAD (venomously): She was aiming for even more, Mister Vincent, to meet with a factor of the wavelength of blue light in the electromagnetic spectrum! It was fusion of Artistic and Scientific comtemplations! You are obviously not sensitive enough to appreciate such a lavishly-original concept.
SUBTITLE: Go away.
VINCENT: Of course...I should have realised. Forgive me.
FRAU THERESA: Forgive you? You've sullied my head-space.
SVLAD: You certainly do sow offense wherever you go, yes?
VINCENT: Look, if you'll pardon me I have to be somewhere...(Exit.)
Pause.
EDWARD: He really must learn to take criticism better.
Pause.
SVLAD: So young apprentice...howdoyoudo?
CR: Um, about the same.
SVLAD: And how do you think of Mister Vincents's...abilities, hmm?
FRAU THERESA: His lineage is questionable. His mother was some sort of ghastly illustrator.
SVLAD: And from which long line of whats do you gush from, my boy?
CR: My...my father...was a Newspaper Repairman.
A tense silence.
SVLAD: I see. Not exactly the intellectual environment inherent to being conducive to creativity or copious contemplation, yes?
CR: I think I have to go now. (Exit.)
SCENE V: outside the Cafe Per Anum
CHARACTERS: Christopher Robin, Vincent, Ukrainian Woman, Edward Edward
UKRAINIAN WOMAN is sweeping. Enter VINCENT, pursued by CHRISTOPHER ROBIN.
CR: Vincent, wait.
VINCENT: Not now, Christopher Robin.
CR: Won't you tell me what's going on, Vincent?
VINCENT: I can't now, not now. I don't have time to explain to you things I don't understand myself. I must compose myself. An Artist has a skin of iron. Remember that.
CR: But what did they mean? Why did she paint seventy-five paintings all the same?
VINCENT: Seventy-four, boy--you must learn to pay attention.
CR: Yes yes yes, but why did she do it?
VINCENT: Well Christopher Robin, you see...well, in fact...Um. (To UKRAINIAN WOMAN:) Will you get away?
CR: It's okay Vincent. I understand.
(VINCENT nods, pauses.) VINCENT: ...No, no--by Pablo, you don't! Indeed, I once thought as you did, ah! but no longer. An Artist is constantly enlightening himself. You must learn to be enlightened.
CR: Enlightened, Vincent?
VINCENT: Hm yes, indeed! All of the great Artists were enlightened. You will never be able to paint a single picture unless you know that. You've got to learn to study the dead Artists, boy. (Exit.)
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN sits and draws.
Enter EDWARD EDWARD.
EDWARD: Are you also an aspiring Artist?
CR: Oh no, I just draw pictures.
EDWARD: Was is it you're drawing, then?
CR: I don't know. I'm just drawing.
EDWARD: May I look? This is very interesting...very odd, also. Whence did you take the iconography of your subject matter?
CR: I'm afraid I don't even know what an iconography is.
UKRAINIAN: Ho!
EDWARD: What I mean is, why is it the visual language, the archetypes, look the way they do? This shape, for instance...or this woman.
CR: They come out of my head.
EDWARD: You didn't draw them from historical mentors? What do they mean?
CR: Mean?
EDWARD: Mean.
CR: What do you mean, mean?
EDWARD: How about this? What is this relation allegorising? What is your Artistic issue?
CR: It's just when I was sad.
EDWARD: What are you planning to do with these?
CR: Do?
EDWARD: What is it you're working toward? And wither shall you wander in its wake?
CR: I don't know. I don't know the answer to any of these questions. Why do they matter? I'm not an Artist or anything like that--I draw pictures when I feel to; when I feel to describe things in me, when I feel to purge myself. To move or yell or sing or do something. If I could explain it all I'd write instead of draw. You know, like...like...you know... (Pause.) Don't you ever feel that way?
EDWARD (amused): ...I suppose. What a bizarre way to look at Art. What is your name again?
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN: Christopher Robin.
EDWARD: My name is Edward Edward, and I'd like you to be my apprentice.
CR: Oh, I couldn't do that. I couldn't leave Vincent. Not when he's so upset.
EDWARD: You're sensitive.
They kiss.
CR: I have to go now, Edward. (Exit.)
SCENE VI: somewhere -- drawing pictures
CHARACTER: Christopher Robin
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN: All of my life I've wanted to be an Artist; and I'm still not sure what one is, or what they do...Vincent teaches me the rules for drawing and painting, and they're strict. 'But remember,' he always says before telling me a particularly strict rule; 'they are no rules in Art.'
All the drawings I do are bad.
Vincent tells me that the--informed viewer--wouldn't like to look at the stuff I make. They would turn away and find something challenging to look at. Something that is powerful yet subtle. Something that uses archetypes but is not a cliche. Something that is æsthetically elegant. ...Apparently those sorts of things just make informed viewers spontaneously orgasm all over the place.
'It has taken centuries,' Vincent says; 'for Artists to come to this level of sophistication.' That's true. I haven't got that long.
But drawing pictures is what I am.
I think in pictures, and I feel in pictures. I eat pictures with my eyes. I am a monster who survives on luscious images, sucking out their juice and mixing it with mine. I am deaf and dumb, without a tongue; I am paralysed. I am what I see and make seen.
And if what I see and make seen is wrong, then I am wrong. If the things I make are bad, then I am bad.
If you destroy my pictures with words, you poke out my eyes. If I am blind, I am dead.
Darkness.
SCENE VII: in Vincent's studio, later that day
CHARACTERS: Christopher Robin, Vincent
VINCENT is painting.
Enter CHRISTOPHER ROBIN.
VINCENT: Christopher Robin, where've you been, my boy? I've been creating all morning with no one to mind my mineral spirits!
CR (bewildered): I'm sorry, Vincent.
VINCENT: Ah! Ah! Ah! Nevermind that now! Such triflings can be seen to by an apprentice--yes, my apprentice's apprentice. Hark! Another idea! I'm an exploding fountain of creativity today! Feast your benumbed eyes on this!
CR: Oh!
VINCENT: That's right--pseudo-tactile tesselations of encrypted symbolism!
CR: Mercy!
VINCENT: Yes, yes.
CR: But I thought you thought it all seemed foolish, that it made no sense. I don't understand, Vincent.
VINCENT: I don't know what you're talking about, boy. Say nothing--meditate upon my works and learn! (Pause.) Can you not see it? Eureka! I am an Artist! This is it! Can you not see, Christopher Robin? I've created a sophisticated, mature expression devoid of extraneum or indulgence! My brain hath pooed--and it hath pooed well!
CR: I don't understand, Vincent.
VINCENT (raving): Pah--I'm beyond understanding, I'm successful. Oh, the respect struggling young Artists will have for me! This series which I have deemed to call ALSO SPRACH VINCENT will go down in history! It is fit to be placed among the ranks of some of the greatest works of Philosophy, Literature and Art on the planet, like 'A Sunday Morning's Nihilism' by Theodore Goth, 'The Last Song' by Edward Bear, 'Untitled' by Ronald L. Bloore, 'Two Slightly Shady Characters Stalking Suspiciously Near a Blue Locomotive Being Driven by Freemasons, Illuminati, Templars and Other Secret Conspirators Against Modern Civilisation Number Four' by Rabo Karabekian, 'Three Dots of Tar on an Otherwise Blank Canvas' by Svlad--AH! I am a humble tool of the Artistic dæmon ravaging my soul!
SCENE VIII: in the art gallery, Vincent's opening
CHARACTERS: The company
The MONKS stand ready as COOKIE is examining a painting.
VINCENT and Artistes await. CHRISTOPHER ROBIN is standing by the NUN. Long pause.
COOKIE LaMOO: Forty-five thousand, seven-hundred, three.
MONKS do their business. Exit NOVICE MONK.
Polite chatting commences.
SVLAD: Congratulations, my friend.
VINCENT: Yes.
FRAU THERESA: Most impressive, V.
VINCENT: Thank you, dear Frau Theresa.
COOKIE LaMOO: A formidable command of surface, young man.
VINCENT: You are too kind, Master LaMoo.
COOKIE LaMOO: I want you to be my love slave.
VINCENT: Oh! Fine, fine.
Exit COOKIE, NUN and FRAU THERESA.
SVLAD: Will we see you at the bar?
VINCENT: Count on it, Svladie.
Exit SVLAD.
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN approaches RAOUL.
CR: Um, pardon me Your Grace...
RAOUL: Raoul, my son.
CR: Your Grace Raoul then, but I don't think I understand.
RAOUL: Understand what, my son?
CR (gushing): Art. I mean, why isn't anyone but Sophists allowed to see it? And why does the Church buy it all and locked it up as soon as it's appraised? Why is it the way it all is?
RAOUL: These are very spiritual questions.
CR (ashamed): I know.
RAOUL: Well my son, as there are certain holy scriptures that would not be appreciated by the layfolk, they are kept in the priory library for the eyes of the brothers; there are also works of Art of such complexity that it would be slanderous to even suggest that they were fit for the uneducated and unappreciative. You see, the entire process of being misunderstood can be very trying to an Artist, so we, in the city of L'arte, endeavour to help them as best we can, and to cope with the world. (Steals a swig from a bottle concealed in his vestaments and looks skyward piously.)
CR: Yes Father, but why is Art so...un-understandable, anyway?
RAOUL: It isn't that it's incomprehensible my son, but that it is comprehensible to those who understand what it is they are looking to understand. The ways of access for the simple-minded and uninitiated, like literal images, have been phased out as extraneous, thus letting the pure expression shine through unmitigated. It requires years of study to properly grasp the concept. (Steals another swig.) Abstract colours, shapes and lines can at time touch the human soul more closely than anything else, for they are very much like the wordless language of the mind.
CR: I suppose I see. Thank you, Father Raoul.
RAOUL: I'm glad to be of help, my son. (Exit.)
Pause.
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN fumbles with his pad, then regards the pages sadly.
VINCENT and EDWARD EDWARD await. Pause.
VINCENT: Being enlightened, my esteemed apprentice? Or confessing some artistic sin, yes? (He chuckles.)
CR: Who are you?
VINCENT: I am Vincent the Artist of course, my jesting little cherub; and you are the apprentice who basks in my glorious glow.
CR: I can't see you.
VINCENT: I am an insane genius, I am a prolific creator, I am as one with the like minds that surround me in this Eden of Freedom, L'arte! Everything is so clear, everything is so simple; the world aches to grace my canvas. I am paint!
(Pause. CR continues to stare at his drawings.)
Come with me Christopher Robin. I will take you under my wing and impart my new found wisdom to you.
EDWARD: Come with me, Christopher Robin. Together we'll use your unconventional ideas to start a new artistic movement. You shall truly discover what it means to be an Artist.
Long, thick pause.
CR snaps his pencil in two, and methodically crumples up his drawings.
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN: I don't think I'm cut out to be an Artist...I'm going back home to join my father as a Newspaper Repairman. I'm sorry.
Lights dim. Exeunt VINCENT and EDWARD.
CHRISTOPHER ROBIN slowly lowers into a foetal position, and moves no more.
Enter UKRAINIAN WOMAN carrying a portfolio and humming to herself. She crosses the stage. Exit.
Darkness.
Curtain.
