SCENE NINE

(A park. PAINTER stands slightly SR of center, painting. He faces the audience. BETH sits on a bench set SL; she does not notice PAINTER.)

BETH

It scared me when you left. I was little—only nine, left with Dad who never talked, never asked how my day was, never even made eye contact…(Beat) why'd you do it? Why'd you say "I love you" every night if you knew you that you couldn't love anything other than painting? Honestly, Mom, I don't know what to do anymore!

(PAINTER sneezes. BETH covers her hand with her mouth and glances to her right, noticing PAINTER for the first time.)

BETH
Bless you.

PAINTER

Thank you.

(PAINTER continues painting. BETH is quiet. Finally, she gets the courage to speak.)

BETH

You're the first person I've seen who's painted something abstract here.

PAINTER
I hate landscapes. They don't do anything for me. I'm much more of a paint-what-comes person. Guess that's why it's not my profession. (Beat. PAINTER looks at BETH carefully.) You're a painter too.

BETH

Not really.

PAINTER

Oh, playing with markers, then?

BETH

What?

PAINTER
Your hands. They're very…splotchy.

(BETH looks at her hands. They have paint spots on them.)

BETH

Oh…I had…an art class at school today.

PAINTER

I started that way, you know. Art class. I hated every minute of it. The teacher…what was her name? Mrs. Sfurk? No…it was something like that, though. She'd compare the class to the star painter instead of grading us on our own skill. Alex always got A's…so anyone who matched Alex's level got an A. Guess what Alex painted? Landscapes. Every single time, he'd paint a fucking landscape. They all looked the same. Ugh, that class drove me crazy!

BETH

But if you hated it—

PAINTER

I started up again three years ago, maybe four. I had a phenomenal teacher. He said, "Art comes from you—not me, not your neighbor, but you." I haven't stopped since. But…I think you have, no?

BETH

…Yes. Too much…(She hesitates.) Just too much.

PAINTER

I know what you mean…it's hard to do art, but it's hard to stop, too.

BETH

…I can't.

PAINTER
Can't what? Can't paint, or can't not paint?

BETH
…both. It just hurts, either way. (Beat) Why can't it be simple?

PAINTER
Because then paintings would be boring. (BETH smiles slightly) Look at mine. Every stroke says something. If it was "simple" every stroke would be silent. And honestly, I don't like silence.

BETH

Neither do I. (Beat) I want to paint. I just don't know how to make it less…real.

PAINTER

(Standing)

Take my place.

BETH
What?

PAINTER

(handing her the palette and brush, then reaching for a blank canvass on the ground)

I just heard you say "I want to paint." So paint. Don't think. You'll be surprised at what you can come up with when you're just painting emotions.

(BETH takes the brush and palette, then begins to paint)

NARRATOR

I don't know what compelled me to take the brush. He was, after all, a complete stranger…but it was oddly comforting that someone I didn't know understood. So I took his advice, and painted without thinking. And when I looked at my final painting, I saw swirls and lines on a bright blue background.

Fade to black

End