SCENE ONE

(A classroom. A whiteboard with the words "ART ORIGINALITY" written on it and a table are placed SL. JEN, MARIE, and BETH sit around the table. CHARLIE, the teacher, enters with a smock covered in paint. He scans the room.)

CHARLIE
Small class. I mean, it's good this is a small class…larger classes aren't…aren't substantial, aren't any good for art. Now—(He pauses, trying to remember what he was going to say. He looks at the class. BETH smiles, and he smiles back.) Art (he points to the whiteboard) is all about your originality. You'll find that I try to give open-ended assignments because I want you to have room to think of your own ideas, your own paintings. (Beat) Am I going to fast? I can slow down, if you want…no? Good. Uh—

JEN
(raising her hand)
Mr. Smith?

CHARLIE
(uncomfortably)
It's Charlie. (Explaining) I don't like this whole "formal title" thing. It's quite impersonal, don't you think? (He looks at JEN, who avoids eye contact. CHARLIE clears his throat.) Right. Your question?

JEN
Never mind.

CHARLIE
Okay. I guess we'll get started then. (Beat. No one moves.) Painting, I mean. I want you to paint the best feeling…or the worst…or just a feeling…I mean…(he tries to compose himself) paint a feeling you can connect with. Materials are in the closet.

(JEN, MARIE, and BETH exit SL. CHARLIE sighs, and turns away from the audience.)

JEN
(Entering from SL)
Mr—Charlie?

CHARLIE
Yes?

JEN
Where's the black paint?

CHARLIE
Well, ah…I don't believe in it.

JEN
Don't…what?

CHARLIE
I knew I should've begun with this—just bring out the others, will you?

(JEN looks at him strangely, but brings out MARIE and BETH)

CHARLIE
Your classmate here brought up a very good question: where is the black paint? I don't believe in black as a color. My college art teacher told me a handy trick to wipe it out of my vocabulary. He used nonsense words, since he said they were just as meaningless. My personal favorite was moozalarbian. Here, say it with me: Moo…za…lar…bee…an.

BETH
Moozalarbian. (She bites her lip when no one says it with her.)

CHARLIE
(Nervously)
You can finish getting your materials now, I guess.

(The students exit; BETH stays onstage. CHARLIE looks at her.)

CHARLIE
Do you need help?

BETH
I just haven't done this in so long.

CHARLIE
If it makes you feel any better, I haven't taught art since you were probably in elementary school, and that was as an assistant for kindergarteners.

BETH
I'm wondering… how…how is there no such thing as—

CHARLIE
As black paint? Here's how I think of it. There really are two different meanings of 'black': there's what we perceive as the shade 'black', like black and white photography, or a black sharpie. Then there's 'true black', which is the concept of the absence of color, but that can't naturally occur…so black paint doesn't truly exist. (Beat) At least, I don't think it exists. It's really up to you. But that's why there'll never be a jar of black paint in this room.

BETH
I think I get it...you were telling us that you don't have any black paint because no two blacks are the same, like how black velvet is different than black cotton. We have to make our own black. It all goes back to what you wrote on the board—I don't know, maybe I'm overanalyzing.

CHARLIE
No, that's exactly what I was trying to get at. Go on, get your paints. Let's see what you can come up with.

(BETH and CHARLIE exit SR. Lights on NARRATOR, who has been sitting on a stool in the SR corner.)

NARRATOR
I was always drawn to paintings. I'm not talking about the typical seaside landscape or a portrait of some obscure historical figure. I'm talking about paintings, where one stroke could tell me a thousand stories. They fascinated me. Mom loved them, too. She enrolled me in my first art class, three years before she left me and Dad for good.

(Enter BETH (Young) and MOTHER. BETH (Y) is around seven. She holds onto MOTHER's hand tightly. She fiddles with her pigtails.)

BETH (Y)
Can you come in with me?

MOTHER
Oh, sweetie, are you nervous? (BETH nods) Don't be! You have a family of artists on your side.

BETH (Y)
But…I'm not you, and I'm not Grandpa, and I'm not Aunt Nina.

MOTHER
You don't have to be—you'll have your own painting after today.

BETH (Y)
You promise?

MOTHER
I promise. Now, I'll pick you up in an hour, right here, and remember—it's our secret, 'kay?

BETH (Y)
'Kay. (MOTHER starts to leave.) Wait—Mommy?

MOTHER
Yes?

BETH (Y)

My first painting'll be for you.

(MOTHER touches BETH (Y)'s face lovingly. They exit opposite ways.)

NARRATOR
I did give her my first painting: swirls and lines on a bright blue background. She was so proud, but even then, she was careful to repeat that this was "our secret." Secrets were the only way we could keep our life together…but even that fell through. I still remember it, how angry Dad was; how scared I was. How much I missed her for days, months, years. (Beat) How I stopped painting.

Blackout