The Artist and the Model
from
The Best American Short Plays 1994–1995
characters
BROMBERG is in his late sixties. But he is a vigorous man, with little slackness; his eyes burn with a fierce, truculent intensity. And yet he is old; his hair is in need of a haircut, his face a shave, his nails a brushing. Oddly, he seems to be in a great hurry, poised for movement.
ANGELICA is a non-speaking participant, not particularly attractive. Nor unattractive. She is Latino or Mediterranean. She is in her twenties or early thirties, with a strong, solid, full-breasted body. Her abundant flesh fairly bursts with her naked womanhood. The role requires a professional model. Her actions are prompted by three considerations: (1) she needs the job; (2) she is acutely aware of BROMBERG’s age and isolation; (3) she is in awe of his talent, his ability to create beautiful things.
scene
BROMBERG’s studio in Tribeca.
time
1994. Winter. Twenty-two minutes after eight o’clock in the morning.
[Lights. BROMBERG is seated on a paint-encrusted, white, straight-backed kitchen chair of the forties, downstage, right; his large, veined hands rest on his knees; between his knees is a darkly varnished cane. A rectangular sketchpad leans against the downstage leg of the chair. Farther to the right upstage is a plant stand on which there is a potted plant, leafy and vibrantly green. A tin watering can is on the floor beside it. On the left, mid-stage, is a model’s platform covered with a worn faded oriental carpet. If there is any discernible expression on BROMBERG’s face, it is one of displeasure, if not anger. He wears slightly paint-splattered, baggy white housepainter’s pants; heavily paint-splattered, ankle-high work shoes; a bleached, clean, pressed denim shirt with sleeves rolled above his elbows—sticks of charcoal, pens, and pencils protrude from his shirt’s breast pocket. Shortly ANGELICA enters. She is late. She has been running. She tries to repress the sound of her breathlessness. She removes, quickly, her coat, scarf, knitted cap. It is cold out, although a bright sun shines through the unseen skylight. BROMBERG’s eyes hold fast to her. He clenches his jaw to prevent himself from speaking. ANGELICA throws her things on an ancient, brown, wicker chair that is left, angled towards platform. A vintage paisley shawl lies across the armchair. Without a pause, ANGELICA removes her street shoes, skirt, cardigan sweater, blouse, white athletic socks, pantyhose, bra, and panties; all are thrown on the armchair or, inadvertently, on the floor. A salvaged wooden box with a dozen or so art books on it is at the side of the armchair, downstage. As soon as she’s undressed, she steps up on the platform, waits to receive instructions. She is unable to return BROMBERG’s fixed, obtrusive stare. She invariably turns away from him to look down at the carpet or across at a wall or at whatever object affords her refuge. Initially BROMBERG’s voice is a low-spoken growl, a mumble, a muttering of words.]
BROMBERG If you remember . . . when I first retained you to model for me . . . months ago . . . I asked if it was possible for you to be here at six o’clock in the morning . . . since I get up at five o’clock in the morning and by six o’clock in the morning I am anxious to start my work.
[A pause.]
You answered by saying it would be impossible for you to arrive before eight o’clock in the morning because . . . you had to take the subway from your apartment in the Bronx . . . down to my studio. You said you were afraid to ride the subway so early in the morning.
[A pause. ANGELICA stands on the platform. Shortly she will instinctively lower her hands in front of her pubic hair.]
I said you could work for me if you arrived here promptly at eight o’clock in the morning; no later; promptly at eight o’clock in the morning. On those days I required . . . your services. You agreed. You agreed knowing full well that when I’m scheduled to work with you . . . I am incapable of doing any other work until you arrive. That means from the hour of six o’clock in the morning until . . . eight o’clock in the morning . . . I am waiting . . . I am waiting for you to arrive.
[A pause. He breathes audibly, as if he has exhausted himself; yet his voice becomes more didactic, firm, angry.]
I don’t imagine you have any idea what that’s like. To wait . . . two hours . . . two whole hours. Substantive. Time. When the body and mind are . . . energized . . . poised to grapple and do battle with the . . . the illusive. In-val-u-able hours that can never be . . . captured, recycled, like soda bottles, beer cans . . . yesterday’s garbage.
[A pause. ANGELICA folds her arms across her chest; she is cold.]
I imagine that at six o’clock in the morning you’re still wrapped in your boyfriend’s arms . . . without a care or frustrated bone in your body. While I wait . . . to work . . . to fill my lungs with mouthfuls of fresh air, oxygen, to be able to . . . to breathe.
[A pause.]
I believe I told you on more than one occasion that when I am not working . . . I have difficulty . . . breathing. This difficulty increases the longer I am unable to work. Tension builds. My heart . . . palpitates, a-rhyth-mic-a-lly. My abdominal muscles . . . cramp. My lungs feel like they’re . . . co-llap-sing. I have to work so I can breathe. So I won’t die . . . of suff-o-ca-tion.
[A pause. He rises, walks to the rear right, leaning on his cane; his disabled leg is stiff, as if tied to a board; he moves it along, not with pain or excessive effort. He stands at rear and looks through an unseen wall window. During the above, ANGELICA runs to armchair, grabs her thigh-length cardigan sweater, puts it on, buttons it, and returns to stand on platform.]
Two hours and twenty-two minutes I waited for you this morning. An intolerable amount of time. For someone who is . . . suffocating. I would send you home, right now! This minute! If I could replace you, find someone else, anyone else, immediately, without delay, so I could work. Finally.
[A pause.]
But since I can’t on such short notice . . . and since I refuse to waste any more time with this . . . this rubbish! Be advised that this is the last day of your employment with me. Be so advised. When you leave these premises at the end of the day, I do not wish to see you again.
[A pause. He walks to plant stand, picks up watering can and waters plant. His voice is a soft, controlled drone, with specified pauses, words frequently spoken reflectively to himself.]
I want you out of my life. Once and for all. I have no need of this . . . agitation. I’ll get someone in here who’s prompt and appreciative and who is a little more fastidious in her toilette. A woman of some class, sophistication. I won’t have to listen to your endless whining, the endless gossip I’ve been subjected to. Relentlessly. Relentlessly. No more late-night horror stories about your . . . liaisons, your . . . debaucheries, your Peter, Peter, Richie, Richie, your hordes of former employers! That . . . That grubby second-rate poseur Ostrovski, that no talent, minusculist pissoir, Magenetti, your pathetic pap-art petomane, Wilberquist. Work for them, why don’t you?
[He turns to her.]
They’re begging you to go back to them, aren’t they? How many times have they phoned you, written to you, waited on your doorstep for you to come home at two, three in the morning!
[Mimics sarcastically.]
Oh, please, my sweet, dear Angelica, please, come back and pose for me! Leave that monster Bromberg, that old, demented, loathsome, egomaniacal cripple! I beg you, Angelica. I can’t paint without you, Angelica. I can’t create without you, Angelica. You’re the best, the most beautiful, the most desirable model in the whole . . .
[Suddenly explodes, wagging cane.]
Go! Get out of here! To hell with you! I can’t work today. You’ve made it impossible! Out! Out! I want you out of here!
[ANGELICA moves to armchair, finds her panties amidst pile of clothes. As she’s about to put them on, BROMBERG shakes his head, eyes tightly closed; quietly.]
No.
[A pause.]
No. No.
[Anguished.]
I . . . I can’t afford to . . . waste . . . anymore . . . time.
[Shakes his head.]
I can’t.
[ANGELICA stares at him. BROMBERG opens his eyes. A breath. Firmly.]
Stay. I have to get something done, something . . . started. For today. Just today. Finish your work. You’ll be paid.
[ANGELICA places her panties in cardigan sweater’s pocket, takes off sweater, steps on platform and assumes pose #1: one that says I have no ill will towards you; I want to help you draw something beautiful. BROMBERG sits on kitchen chair, lays cane on floor; he picks up sketchpad, places it on his lap, turns pages, examining previous drawings—none of them pleases him. He finds a clean page, takes charcoal from shirt pocket and begins sketching ANGELICA. Now and then we hear the stick of charcoal scratching across the sheet of paper. BROMBERG is content. His breathing comes naturally. In a moment he appraises his sketch. He is dissatisfied with it. He turns the page and starts again. A smile breaks on his face.]
So who is it this week? Peter or Richie? Did your mother convince you that an unemployed gas-station attendant is preferable to an apprentice butcher? No gossip today? No little tidbits of blue-collar erotica? How about your girlfriend Gloria? Is she having the baby or has the notorious gigolo, Alphonso the Barber, persuaded her that an aborted fetus is next to Godliness? What about your cousin, the disco king? Did he test positive? Did he ever discover the culprit of his concern?
[He sketches a bit.]
You poor young people nowadays. You don’t know how pathetic you all are. Scrounging in the garbage dumps for momentary pleasures. In a rotting city. A rotting country. Second-rate. Sliding inexorably into mediocrity. The land of no-more opportunity. Shrinking horizons. Guns and condoms hanging from the gnarled, yellow beak of a bald-headed eagle. America, America, thou hast seen thy day of glory and now lie barren and desiccated under the cold, barren sun.
[Concentrates on sketch for a bit.]
I don’t imagine in your vast reading of American history you learned that there was such a thing in the early forties as a World War designated numero duo. It was thanks to that effort of moralistic futility that I’m compelled to drag this warped leg about like a superfluous erection. Oh, don’t tax your fragile psyche and try to make sense of this. It was an event of no consequence. An irony. A glitch. God, to have lived to see how it all turned out. Where it ended. Where we are today and what it was like then. Poor bastards. Lambs led to the slaughter. Parades and Dole pineapple juice. Poor, poor bastards.
[A pause.]
Now here we are, in the cesspool of the nineties, remembering . . . nothing. An event of no consequence.
[Sharply.]
Change pose!
[ANGELICA assumes pose #2: she’s annoyed, doesn’t understand why BROMBERG is talking so much this morning. Her stance is provocative, seductive, an attempt to get him to concentrate on his work. BROMBERG turns page, sketches for a while; we hear the charcoal scratching the page; speaks softly, almost to himself.]
I remember, once during the war, I was standing alone . . . in a bar in Tijuana . . . drinking a Four Roses and ginger ale.
[He laughs, amused by his sophomoric choice of drink.]
I was all of eighteen years. I don’t know where my friends were, probably in a whorehouse. I don’t know why I wasn’t with them. I usually was. I remember . . . looking up from my drink and I saw, sitting beside me, a young woman, no older than myself. We started talking. I said something funny and she laughed. We exchanged stories, experiences, revealed intimate secrets. We had, along the way, a few drinks. We were high but not drunk. Lifted to that height of reality where we were slightly off the ground . . . and sight and sound were . . . brilliantly vivid . . . Incandescent.
[A pause.]
What was her name, that young woman in a bar in Tijuana, during the Second World War? I don’t know. Her hair was ocher, amber, topaz. Her eyes were made of bits of mica, glittering specks of turquoise. Her mouth . . . Pale. Pink. Full. Her teeth, her cheeks . . . I can see her now. I can taste and smell the soft scent of her. The closeness of her.
[A pause.]
There was a jukebox. A dance floor. We danced, on that height of reality that was . . . incandescent. What was her name? I don’t know. But I remember the song . . . we danced to.
[Quietly, he speak-sings the lyrics, emphatically pronouncing a word here and there; a similar period song may be used.]
“Just kiss me once, then kiss me . . . twice, then kiss me . . . once again, it’s been a . . . long . . . long . . . time. Haven’t felt like . . . this . . . my dear . . . since can’t remember when . . .”
[Voice fades out; he tries to sketch; gives it up.]
“When do you have to be back at the base?” I believe she asked me. “Not until tomorrow afternoon,” I lied. “Stay with me.” Did she say that? Yes. She did. “Stay with me.” “I’d like that. Very much,” I replied. Oh, yes. Ohhh, yes, yes, yes. I would like that very much. “The bus to San Diego is leaving in a few minutes,” she said. “I have to say good-bye to my girlfriends,” she said. “I’ll meet you on the bus,” she said. She moved her face closer to mine; her lips barely a breath away. “I’ll be on the bus,” I said, with all the manhood I could muster, getting up and running out . . . getting on the bus that was jammed to the rafters with sailors and civilians and . . .
[A pause; softly.]
Change pose.
[Pose #3: ANGELICA thinks of herself as BROMBERG’s young woman in Tijuana; her pose is as lovely and as simple as she can make it. BROMBERG turns page, sketches.]
My heart is beating so fast at this . . . minute . . . I feel like a fool. Anyway . . . inside the bus, I waited for her, to get on, to join me, thinking, sweating, I should get off, I should find her, I should cry out, “Wait! I’m getting off! Excuse me! Excuse me!” But would you believe that the bus was already moving and she wasn’t on it and I was traveling to San Diego . . . without her? Would you believe . . . that I never saw her again and up until this minute . . .
[A sigh.]
I never told anyone about her. Not wife numero uno, wife numero duo, mistresses and lovers from numero uno to . . . infinity. I told no one. From fear of embarrassment by the in-con-se-quen-ti-ality of that . . . innocuous encounter. In Tijuana. Some fifty years ago. During the war to save democracy. What was her name?
[Shakes his head.]
I don’t know.
[Sketches; laughs softly.]
You do think you’re living a life. Peter, Peter, Richie, Richie.
[He laughs.]
You have no idea. What life could be. What life was. After . . . After the war. Those who survived. We were in the center of the world. Right here. In this cesspool of a city. There was more happening within blocks of this studio, on canvas, than anywhere else in God’s creation. Did you ever hear of a fellow named de Kooning? Pollock? Gorky? Rothko? Smith? Motherwell? My sweet, dear friend, Jimmy Ernst? Of course not! Why should you? You know Oooostrovski! Maaaga-ne-tta! Wilber-petomane-quist! Those fraudulent imitators of neo-moderne bile and excrement!
[Sharply.]
Change pose!
[Pose #4: ANGELICA is quite peeved by BROMBERG’s constant assault on her personal life. Her pose is mean-spirited, aggressive, defiant. BROMBERG sees through it; sharply:]
Change pose!
[Pose #5. She holds a particularly horrific pose. At once BROMBERG responds.]
Change pose!
[ANGELICA gives in. Pose #6: a rather ordinary innocuous one. BROMBERG turns page, sketches, the charcoal scratching the paper.]
But then . . . back then . . . we were a community. What an endearing word that is. Community. How rich one felt being part of . . . a . . . community. Part of a group, a tribe, a band of brigands who congregated . . . together. Every night partying at the Cedar’s or San Remos’s or downstairs at Louie’s. Every day at our ateliers, showing one another what we were working on, talking about, arguing about it, competing, putting down, raising up, but always respecting what was original, what was right, what was good. That, too, was . . . together.
[A pause.]
In a city. In a country: Of endless opportunities. Burgeoning horizons. Supreme confidence. In the first full flush of being numero uno.
[Sketches awhile.]
You had to be around in the sixties to know what I’m talking about. Free. Free at last. The pictures that run through my mind are those of naked, flower-haloed young people, celebrating under the crimson-tinted open sky. Carpe diem.
Of thee I sing.
[A pause.]
What an unforgettable decade. So much happened. Was experienced. That’s when making love was such a dance. Hedonism unbridled. Love on the run. Orgasm apotheosized. Ohhh, it does the heart wonders to reflect on it.
[Tone of voice gradually changes.]
But those are circumstances that young people nowadays have no way of knowing. Believe me, I am sorry for you. Do not mistake my . . . outspokenness for a lack of compassion. For an expression in insensitivity. I truly pity you young people nowadays. A night of making love carries with it the horrendous onus of mortality. One forbidden excursion is potentially an act of suicide. How horrible the times. Guns and condoms in the gnarled, yellow beak of a bald-headed eagle. Oh, the horror of it all.
[A pause.]
I assume you practice safe sex. I assume you have sufficient intelligence to speak frequently on the subject with your Peter, Peter and Richie, Richie and whoever else you might be temporarily co-habitating with.
[Firmly.]
Change pose.
[Pose #7: the pose is in the main ANGELICA “mooning” BROMBERG. BROMBERG barks.]
Change pose!
[Pose #8: she juts her pelvis out towards him in a whorish pose. BROMBERG is intrigued by it; sketches, scratching charcoal on paper.]
There’s so much that’s screwed-up nowadays. It’s an ideal age to grow old. One doesn’t quite regret as much saying goodbye to the slime and disease and bloodletting that’s drowning us. I wouldn’t have liked, for anything, being old in the sixties, but being old in the nineties is something of a blessing.
[He smiles with the thought of it.]
One can stand on the side and observe the pathetic little lives lived by you . . . people. I often wonder what it is you look forward to, what dreams and fantasies you have, what you believe in that makes all the . . . horror of it worthwhile. I can’t for the life of me imagine what it is. Marriage? Does that still exist for you young people? I understand the divorce rate is above fifty percent and that’s not counting the number of husbands and wives who walk out the door, never to be heard from again.
[A pause.]
Family? Is that still a viable option? I would think as the years go by there’ll be less and less of that. I would think we’re witnessing the last vestiges of a worn-out social convention that has overstayed its usefulness. How many single mothers are there nowadays? How many couples live together without benefit of church or state? No, no, family is an impractical goal nowadays. Not very realistic. You’ll probably end up with some jerk, you’ll have his brats, he’ll walk out and some other jerk will probably walk in to take his place.
[Sharply.]
Change pose!
[He stops sketching; stares at ANGELICA, fixedly. Pose #9: ANGELICA has had it; she poses indifferently, repeating poses she’s done previously, anticipating his call for a changed pose and posing anew even before he commands her to do so.]
Did you become impatient? Did you move in with somebody already? Richie, Richie? Peter, Peter? Ostrovski? Maganetta? One of the innumerable suitors who wait on your doorstep every morning? Change pose!
[Pose #10: a fantastical “in flight” pose, arms flung outwards, one leg raised.]
What about your mother? The one person I ever heard you say you had feelings for. Did you just leave her with your young sisters? Is that what she deserves from you? Change pose!
[Pose #11: another far-fetched pose.]
Change pose!
[Pose #12: and another.]
I thought you wanted more out of your life than a pinch on the ass and a quick lay! Change pose!
[Pose #13: and another.]
I thought you were interested in making something of yourself, of giving your life value, of . . .
[ANGELICA has had enough. Furiously, she moves to armchair, dresses quickly. BROMBERG scrambles to pick up his cane; rises, continues, heedlessly.]
. . . of becoming a productive, committed, caring human being!
[Shouts commandingly.]
Change pose!
[ANGELICA pays him no mind. BROMBERG shouts again.]
Change pose! Change pose! I thought you had a passion, passion for books, a passion for painting and music and, and beautiful things! Was that all rot you were giving me? Were you lying, deceiving a man who trusted and believed in you? Is that how you treat people? Is that the extent of your humanitarianism?
[Pants for a beat or two.]
I did not dismiss you! I did not say you could go! I said you would be paid if you worked until the end of the day! The end of the day! Otherwise you don’t get a penny from me! Not a penny! Now get back on there and we’ll . . . we’ll continue . . . we’ll . . . go on . . .
[Loudly; in despair.]
I cannot waste the day! No matter how much I’d enjoy kicking you out of here! I have . . . my work . . . to do! I have to . . . Change pose! Change pose! Change . . .
[He swallows huge mouthfuls of air, watches, helplessly, as ANGELICA finishes dressing. She picks up her coat, scarf, knitted cap and is about to leave. A whisper.]
Angelica.
[She turns to look at him. Softly.]
Where were you last night? I wanted, very much, to talk to you. I felt . . . not tired. I took the subway up to your neighborhood and I . . . From a candy store I phoned you. I thought we’d have a cup of coffee together and . . . talk together. I spoke to your mother. She said you were out. She didn’t know where. So I . . . I waited, on your doorstep. Until morning. Two . . . three . . . in the morning. You didn’t show up.
[Forces a smile.]
I won’t make that mistake again. I had no sleep. For a man my age . . . that’s a great . . . sacrifice.
[ANGELICA moves to him. She puts her arms around his waist and hugs him tightly, pressing her head to his chest. BROMBERG, hands are at his sides, one hand holding his cane. ANGELICA raises her face and kisses him on the mouth, long and hard; passionately. BROMBERG doesn’t move, doesn’t react. ANGELICA backs away from him, her eyes on him. Abruptly, she turns and exits. BROMBERG stands stiffly, his eyes fixed on the offstage door for several beats. Using his cane, he makes his way to stand on the platform, center, facing front. He drops his cane, unbuttons his shirt, takes it off, drops it on top of the cane. He touches his naked chest with outspread hand, runs his hand over his chest, slowly, once, pressing hard, feeling his warm flesh under his fingers. Hands at his sides, he inhales deeply, tasting the oxygen in his lungs. Exhales. He does this once again. Slowly. Deliberately. Clenching the summation of breath in the fibers of his being. Hands at sides, he raises them, slowly, over his head; his fingertips touch. Slowly he brings his hands down to his sides. He does this once again. Each movement felt throughout his body. Lights begin to fade as he continues with his exercises. Hands splayed on his hips, he moves his torso to the left. Then center. Then to the right. Then center. He does this once again. Slowly. Deliberately. He stretches his arms out forward, slowly moves them perpendicular to his body. Etc. Lights fade out.]