Fine on the Outside
By
Melissa Ueckert
A chaotically messy small artist’s studio. No windows, the only light sources are generic harsh fluorescents buzzing overhead. This is a place where all concept of time is lost.
Sterile white walls are covered in half-finished sketches and random paint swatches, haphazardly stuck to the wall with masking tape and an assortment of colorful push pins. The tarp-blanketed floors, the walls, and even the ceiling boast a manic array of paint splatters. Every available surface is littered with painting paraphernalia- brushes, cups, palettes, etc. A mountain of empty energy drink cans tellingly looms in a wastebasket by the closed door.
This is a frenzied place, where genius and madness intermingle and visceral creativity reigns supreme.
In the center of the chaos stands a large painting on an easel like a beacon- the only finished work of art to be found. The painting is incredibly graphic in nature, an impressionist portrayal of a nude female form impaled on a wayward piece of wood from the wreckage of a small sailboat on a rocky shore. It’s a macabre sight to behold- wildly uncomfortable to look at, but its prominent focus onstage demands attention.
Two sets of footsteps, the creak of the door handle turning, and -
20-something CLARA steps into the studio, mid-conversation with shrewd PROFESSOR HOLLAND who immediately follows.
CLARA
-and the final layer of stippling gave me some issues, because you know texture’s never been my strong suit, but overall I couldn’t have asked for a better result, I think.
She turns to the painting and heaves a proud, contented sigh. Holland abruptly stops the moment he lays eyes on the painting, visibly shocked and obviously disturbed.
HOLLAND
Clara, what-
CLARA
-This has gotta be the best landscape shading I’ve ever done. Do you see those white caps? Tell me you see the white caps, Holland.
HOLLAND
The… white… the white caps?
CLARA
The waves, Holland. The shading on the waves. You’ve never seen me shade like this before. Not once in almost two years.
HOLLAND
Clara.
CLARA
Holland.
(A beat)
…Professor Holland?
HOLLAND
We can’t show this.
A tense silence overtakes the room as Clara flops between confusion and shock, and Holland stares grimly at the floor.
CLARA
You can’t show my painting.
HOLLAND
You know I can’t.
CLARA
Why?
HOLLAND
You know why.
CLARA
Obviously I don’t. Care to enlighten me?
HOLLAND
It’s the regent’s auction, Clara.
CLARA
I’m aware.
HOLLAND
I asked you to create one original work to be auctioned off at the next board of regent’s dinner. The auction that singlehandedly funds the studio art MFA program. The auction happening Friday. As in, day-after-tomorrow Friday.
CLARA
One original work of my choice. No parameters, no stipulations.
Now visibly agitated, Holland storms up to the painting, gesticulating wildly.
HOLLAND
It’s for the goddamn regent’s auction, Clara! You think some stuffy old man in a tweed dinner jacket will want to hang this in his marble mini-mansion? How freaking delusional do you honestly have to be to think this was an acceptable subject for the intended audience?
CLARA
You asked for a Clara original. As my chair, you should know better than anyone that I don’t make art that isn’t authentic and true to myself. If you wanted fluffy bullshit, you should have asked some undergrad.
HOLLAND
And if you want to keep your studio funding, you’ll have one piece of fluffy bullshit signed, sealed, and delivered in my office in 48 hours.
CLARA
You’re really serious.
HOLLAND
Decidedly so. 48 hours, Clara.
He stares at the painting for a few moments, silently shaking his head, before turning to leave.
CLARA
You never even asked what it’s called.
HOLLAND
48 hours.
CLARA
You don’t care, do you?
A beat. Holland Exits.
Clara slowly approaches the painting and gently runs her finger down the woman’s form, lost in thought. Then suddenly, desperate fury. She grabs an errant cup of red paint. Using her finger, she scribbles across the canvas: Self Portrait Clara Jones, 2018.
The painting is ruined. Without another look, she gathers up a handful of brushes and papers, shoves it all in a ratty backpack, and exits.
END PLAY
