The Gallery Trilogy: Three Plays

I

Gallery

Gallery is Ross’s first play, completed at alma mater, Hanover College, in 2007. It later premiered through the generous support of the Tom Evans Emerging Artist grant at the Indy Fringe Festival later that year, at Theatre on the Square’s second stage. The original cast was:

Jackson Bell played by Nick J. Murray

Frank Burnem played by Dane Rogers

Monica Graham played by Erin Cohenour

Martin Burnem played by Ian McCabe

This play is dedicated to Nick, Dane, Erin, and Ian for being the first breath of life and for forever haunting these people with bits of your indelible qualities. You own every real dent on these human soup cans.

Jackson Bell: 27, a fiery young artist, passionate, never censors himself.

Frank Burnem: 30, Jackson’s best friend. An art professor, tentative and kind

Monica Graham: 20s, a savvy art gallery owner, friend of Jackson and Frank

Martin Burnem: Frank’s younger brother, Insensitive and callous.

Scott: The coffee refill guy. (May be portrayed in café scenes if director desires, as character appears in future one-acts of the series.)

Setting

The settings should be young and modest, suggesting that of a bohemian lifestyle, or that of the cliché starving artist.

Time

The Present

SCENE ONE

(In two down spots on either side of stage, stand Frank Burnem and Jackson Bell. They are unaware of each other and address the audience. As they do so, the pace of the scene gradually becomes more urgent.)

FRANK

It’s all about technique…

JACKSON

Passion.

FRANK

Following the formulas.

JACKSON

Breaking the rules.

FRANK

Learning how to do it better.

JACKSON

Telling them why they are wrong.

FRANK

Listening…

JACKSON

Paying no attention.

FRANK

Structure.

JACKSON

Concept.

FRANK

The process.

JACKSON

The product.

FRANK

That they like it…

JACKSON

Or, hate it.

FRANK

Art.

JACKSON

Art.

FRANK

My career.

JACKSON

My passion.

FRANK

A living.

JACKSON

A way of life.

FRANK

What I do.

JACKSON

What I must.

FRANK

Educated. Controlled.

JACKSON

Emotional. Rebellious.

FRANK

Speaking to the audience.

JACKSON

Screaming at the audience.

FRANK

An exchange.

JACKSON

A monologue.

FRANK

For someone.

JACKSON

For myself.

FRANK

Subtle.

JACKSON

Loud.

FRANK

Modest.

JACKSON

Forward.

FRANK

Fearful…

JACKSON

Fearless.

FRANK

Secretive.

JACKSON

Nothing to hide.

FRANK

What I want to be…

JACKSON

Who I am.

FRANK

What I want to say…

JACKSON

How I can say it.

FRANK

Beautiful deception.

JACKSON

The ugly truth.

FRANK/JACKSON

Art.

(Lights out on both men. When lights return, Monica and Frank stand outside of a high rise business complex. Monica checks her watch while Frank paces around.)

MONICA

Late.

FRANK

He’ll be here.

MONICA

No, Frank. Look at us, here we are with…our asses and reputations on the line…And he’s-

FRANK

Doing community service?

MONICA

Late.

FRANK

Something came up.

MONICA

Do you really believe that?

FRANK

No.

MONICA

Then why do you say it?

FRANK

I don’t know. More of a formality than a statement of belief I guess…

MONICA

(Checking her watch.)

Five past…

FRANK

So…What did you tell this guy about our boy?

MONICA

(Releasing something between and laugh and a sigh.)

Not that he’s punctual…

FRANK

And?

MONICA

I said he’s unique.

FRANK

Unique?

MONICA

Well…How would you describe him?

FRANK

Not unique.

MONICA

Why not unique?

FRANK

Everyone knows unique is code among friends for weird, freakish, and even just plain fucked up, so, as a good friend, I wouldn’t call him unique.

MONICA

Or, I could have just meant that he was unique…You read into things too much, Frank.

FRANK

We both know that’s not true.

MONICA

Alright! Fine, fine. I meant weirdo, freak, pretentious….

(Checking her watch.)

Tardy!

FRANK

(Smiling.)

I can’t believe you said unique.

MONICA

(Rolling her eyes to Frank. Checking her watch.)

Damnit, Jackson…

(Looking at him waiting for an answer.)

Frank?

FRANK

Call him?

MONICA

Does he even own a cell phone?

FRANK

No.

MONICA

Then why-

FRANK

Formality.

MONICA

Of course.

(A pause.)

Oh, God! No, NO…Frank!

FRANK

(Laughing at her sudden outburst, mimicking her.)

Monica!

MONICA

You-You’re still having him give that guest lecture, aren’t you?

FRANK

Why not? He’s perfect…um…fine. A lecture on modern art? Currently, It’s modern times. And he’s an artist.

MONICA

Fine. I just don’t usually equate Jackson with someone who’s perfect, or even fine, for the forming of young minds…

FRNAK

Well, When I talk to the guy who runs the class I’ll tell him that.

MONICA

No, no. Don’t let me stop you…

FRANK

Like you could refrain from…

(She cuts him off.)

MONICA

Frank, this is your job. It’s your duty as an academic to bring in people who are professionals…role models…Jackson is…

FRANK

(Coolly.)

 Giving the lecture.

MONICA

Fine! Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

FRANK

Thanks for the warning, but I’m confidently versed on ways of bribing Jackson. He’ll do fine.

MONICA

Well, just hope he shows up on time for you because…

(Jackson runs in wearing paint coated jeans and a ripped shirt. He carries an over-stuffed shoulder bag decorated with various scribbles and patches.)

Glad you could join us Jackson.

JACKSON

Frank, Clock me! Early right?

FRANK

(chuckling.)

Ask Monica…

JACKSON

(Smiling.)

Early?

MONICA

Late. Very late.

JACKSON

But I-

MONICA

Shh! Late. And this…

(She gestures to his clothes.)

Joking right?

JACKSON

Yea, my real clothes are in the bag.

MONICA

(perking up.)

Really?

JACKSON

No.

MONICA

Alright…

(Breathing deeply.)

Breathe…10…9…8…7…Fuck! Buddha or Muhammad, Dr. Phil…whoever thought this shit works was high or drugged or… I-I’m going to my quiet place…

(A breath, another sudden outburst.)

Jackson, the hair, is something living in there?

FRANK

I have a comb.

JACKSON

Great! Do you keep it where your dick used to be?

FRANK

Let me guess: You left yours at work?

JACKSON

Fuck you.

FRANK

Don’t insult my comb…It’s unbreakable.

MONICA

Alright…

(She brushes off Jackson’s clothes, trying to improve his appearance.)

Yea…There’s hope for this…right?

FRANK

Wrong…

(Frank notices Jackson making a face at him.)

What?

JACKSON

Just thinking: The dick-less man…My god, Frank. You could nude model for undergrads! Everyone at that age hates painting dicks…I know I hated painting dicks…

FRANK

Were you jealous? But really. Jack, I couldn’t model for anyone but you. I’m waiting for the dumpster-chic look to take off.

JACKSON

Me-Ow, Frank! Have you been watching Bravo?

MONICA

Girls be nice.

(Taking his bag and rifling through it.)

Ha! Here! Wear this…we can pretend we never knew what was going on under it…

(She begins tying a bandana on his head.)

JACKSON

(He swats it off.)

No. Let’s just go in. If he likes me. He likes me.

FRANK

Poetic. Let’s go in.

MONICA

But-

JACKSON

Monica.

MONICA

I-Fine.

(They begin to enter the building, but are stopped by Jackson’s question.)

JACKSON

So what’s this guy’s name?

MONICA

George Signman. He likes smart art, so…be smart.

JACKSON

That’s going to be hard for me?

FRANK

You keep us wondering, buddy…

JACKSON

Go watch some more fucking Bravo, Frank.

FRANK

That’s all you got?

JACKSON

What? It’s early.

MONICA

No, Late.

JACKSON

Right…

MONICA

Oh-God! Prints! Frank?

FRANK

I don’t have them.

JACKSON

Lost the prints and your dick? Not a good day for you, huh, Frank?

MONICA

Jackson. Please…For the love of God, tell me that you brought some prints…

JACKSON

(Rummaging through his bag, dropping items.)

Nope…Wait…wait…No. Ha!

MONICA

Prints?

JACKSON

Nope…my favorite pen…Thought I lost it.

MONICA

I think I’m going to vomit…

(She begins taking her counted deep breaths again.)

JACKSON

Monica…

(He pulls out a black folder.)

I was just rattling the cage. Prints…right here.

MONICA

(Hugging him.)

Thank you for not being totally incompetent.

JACKSON

Aw, no problem. I even wipe my own ass now.

FRANK

Jackson Bell: Making baby-steps towards greatness…

JACKSON

One day at a time!

MONICA

You two want to hit to toddler before we go in?

JACKSON

Baby-steps, Monica. Not a marathon.

MONICA

Alright, Well, take some baby-steps inside the building.

(Lights fade on area. When they return Jackson stands at a podium in a classroom. He addresses the audience who act as the students of the classroom. Frank leans in a doorway upstage of Jackson as he speaks.)

SCENE TWO

JACKSON

Sometimes I wonder what I can get by with people like you. What won’t you spend hundreds on? What do I need to smear across a canvas for you to say, "No, no, now that’s not art." Maybe I should try facieses…Actually no, no…yes that’s been done. Yes, African art made from shit. I mean really guys…Where are your standards? I don’t care what you buy, that’s not the issue here, I need to eat, I need to pay my bills so fucking hell, buy it. What I care about is where we draw the line. Art was holy. Portraits of kings…beautiful woman, the most beautiful in the fucking world. Christ it used to be provocative. It used to make people think, wonder, stare…It was glory…now it’s fucking soup cans. Soup cans. Shit people. This is my life! My life, I went to school, and put my soul out there and you’re out there buying soup cans and poop. Soup and poop, soup and poop…Rolls off the fucking tongue. Sometimes I think art’s dead. You know how people say everything’s been done? That can’t be true! If everything hasn’t been lived, then everything hasn’t been done. Humanity doesn’t exist for a god or because some monkey decided to scratch its ass standing upright; it exists to create and push forward. To make art! If it’s all been done, break out the rat poison and let me make myself a fucking martini ‘cus I’m done. Look around. The sky in winter is art. An elderly woman is art. Your son is art. I am art. You, you, you and you, art. Blood dripping from a cut and darkness in the furthest depths of a cave…after you turn off the flash light. Art. Soup cans, not art. Soup cans haven’t been lived. They are still in the can…unopened. I am opened. I’m lived, and you are too. Don’t let them sell you something that’s unopened and let them say it’s art! Art is every single one of us, and for someone to say we’re still on the shelf. Well, shit, it’s wrong. Even if I tired I couldn’t stay on the shelf. Doesn’t he think I’ve tired? My first reaction upon exiting the womb wasn’t, Mom I think I am going to choose a career path that almost surely guarantees me I will be working in an apron and pointed paper hat. People don’t choose to jump of the shelf into poverty, cancer, lost love, crushed dreams, long days at work, an angry teenager that used to be your biggest fan, a disappointed father who looks