RED

by John Logan

Red was first performed at the Donmar Warehouse, London on 3 December 2009.

MARK ROTHKO is the Russian-born American painter, who created abstract expressionist art in the twentieth century. Red is set in ROTHKO’s New York studio during the late 1950s (when he was in his late 50s). He is working on a series of large canvasses, commissioned by the architect/designers of the new Seagram Building on Park Avenue. In this monologue, he tells his young assistant, Ken, about his visit to the restaurant where his work will hang.

ROTHKO

(Reliving it.) You go in from 52nd… Then you go up some stairs to the restaurant… You hear the room before you see it. Glasses clinking, silverware, voices, hushed here but building as you get closer, it’s a desperate sound, like forced gaiety at gunpoint… You go in, feel underdressed, feel fat, feel too goddam Jewish for this place. Give your name. Pretty hostess gives you a look that says: ‘I know who you are and I’m not impressed, we get millionaires in here, pal, for all I care you might as well be some schmuck painting marionettes in Tijuana.’ She snaps for the Maitre D’ who snaps for the captain who snaps for the head waiter who brings you through the crowd to your table, heads turning, everyone looking at everyone else all the time, like predators – who are you? what are you worth? do I need to fear you? do I need to acquire you?... Wine guy comes, speaks French, you feel inadequate, you obviously don’t understand, he doesn’t care. You embarrass yourself ordering something expensive to impress the wine guy. He goes, unimpressed. You look around. Everyone else seems to belong here: men with elegant silver hair and women with capes and gloves. Someone else in a uniform brings you the menu. It’s things you never heard of: suckling pig under glass, quail eggs in aspic. You are lost. And then…you can’t help it, you start hearing what people are saying around you… Which is the worst of all…

ROTHKO pulls himself up.

He stands there, unsteady. It’s disquieting: the dripping red paint really does look like blood.

ROTHKO: The voices… It’s the chatter of monkeys and the barking of jackals. It’s not human… And everyone’s clever and everyone’s laughing and everyone’s investing in this or that and everyone’s on this charity board or that and everyone’s jetting off here or there and no one looks at anything and no one thinks about anything and all they do is chatter and bark and eat and the knives and forks click and clack and the words cut and the teeth snap and snarl.

Beat.

He spreads his arms, taking in his murals:

ROTHKO: And in that place – there – will live my paintings for all time.

Beat.

He finally turns to KEN.

ROTHKO: I wonder… Do you think they’ll ever forgive me?