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Jerry Saltz Michael Reid Rubenstein: What I am about to write IS NOT A PUTDOWN of your art. You write, that “everything you see is priced under $950…” I am NOT sayiong you are a bad artist but I looked at some of those brush painting things: They are overpriced at that figure. There is no originality in the work; no spirit; no idea; no touch; risk; or whatever. I am sure many many people would not pay a dime for MY WORK! I would not pay fopr yours. Again, no disrespect intended; YOU posted it and made the offer; I thought maybe I’d buy something so I looked, is all … ♥ Js Tuesday 12:30 PM

2 figures on stage in totally make believe situation

JERRY PEPPERZ hello Michael i noticed you withdrew your offer

MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN why are you acknowledging me if you think i have no originality no spirit no ideas no touch risk whatever?

JERRY PEPPERZ oh come on Michael hasn’t your skin grown tough enough by now to withstand a little criticism you want to run with the big guys you got to learn to play hardball (smiles smugly)

MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN a little criticism huh Jerry you’re a published big time nyc art critic nominated for prestigious awards advisor to celebrated exhibitions visiting critic at many esteemed universities friends with renown celebrities photographed with powerful dignitaries who the hell am i to utter a whisper in your direction (smells looks away)

JERRY PEPPERZ now come on Michael i was just doing my job no need to take it so personally like i wrote What i am about to write IS NOT A PUTDOWN of your art (picks hair from shoulder flicks it)

MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN Jerry you got a way with words (pause) i’m just a stupid-ass painter who doesn’t stand a chance against a shrewd critic like you i think i’ll just keep zipped up and quiet (makes eye contact)

JERRY PEPPERZ but i asked you when i re-friended you on FB to be more vociferous and participatory i guess i didn’t realize how valueless your artwork is please forgive me (sniffs finger)

MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN didn’t do your homework huh Jerry? i keep asking myself why you didn’t send me a private message why you needed to take an earnest exchange of ideas and openly deprecate me heck you’ve never even seen my work in person your casual remarks dispute my entire life’s work credibility authenticity what you think you were being clever or cute Jerry you know how to be vicious i realize you don’t become a famous critic by being nice to people critics gain popularity because they’re bastards with razor-sharp slandering tongues you want to hear what i think i’ll tell you you’re a balding insecure little man who enjoys beating up on small time artists (is it all right with you if i call myself an artist) like me you know how to take a person’s complete career and trash it with a few choice words you can be rather mean Jerry (grinds teeth)

JERRY PEPPERZ i apologized now let’s not turn this into a regrettable incident (rubs hands together)

MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN at least i’m doing something Jerry instead of sitting on my butt condemning others i wonder if my work were hanging in Larry Gagosian’s Gallery and collected by Charles Saatchi how fast you’d change your tune you’re nothing more than a puppet of the rich and if you try to sue me for these remarks you’ll get nothing since you made darn sure my paintings are undeserving with your haughty dismissal

JERRY PEPPERZ would you excuse me i’m late for a lunch date with Alec Baldwin this little repartee will have to end bye Michael (turns looks down checks cell phone)

MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN Jerry can anything good or positive come out of this or does your mind not work that way i mean you’re a revered critic i need you in my corner

JERRY PEPPERZ you really think i’m an asshole don’t you (looks down rechecks cell phone)

MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN like i mentioned Jerry i’m just a stupid-ass painter not a judge or brilliant critic what i think is irrelevant what you did was cruel sadistic abusive

JERRY PEPPERZ get over it let it go just drop it Michael i really need to run Alec doesn’t like to be kept waiting he’s buying (grabs coat walks like he needs to go to bathroom fast stage right then suddenly reappears) don’t let me find out i underestimated you who do you think you are i’ll thoroughly destroy you (exits immediately)

MICHAEL REID RUBENSTEIN (shakes head) sheesh

Blank.  Nothingness.  Empty is the feeling we all try to escape; and we usually do quite easily.  We can escape it by going for a car ride.  We can escape it by just thinking alone.  Yet every once in a while some of us let our minds go to blank.  We let our thoughts drain to the point of nothingness and we lay still for a moment.

Some people think nothingness is depressing.  It’s like if they feel nothingness that they themselves are nothing and therefore worthless.  Blank.  There’s obviously no use in being blank.  Or is there?  If you’re blank, doesn’t that make a lot of room to fill in?  Hmm…It does.  What was a painting before the artist put brush to paper?  Blank.  The artist then determines the quality of the painting.  You are the artist.  So stop using a paint-less brush and put structure on the canvas, some foundation and then some color.  Then you can create your own colorfully filled self.  It’s not half bad looking at it like that, is it?

If you’re not depressed from the blank in your life; you are more than likely embracing the nothingness because you have to much paint on the brush.  Too much stress.  So wrapped up in your own little world that you just can’t see the big picture; so you go blank and enjoy it.

Life is a canvas.  Paint your own picture.  There’s always a way out to get a good look at it.

I need more paint.

by Jarrod Michael Stibolt

JOEY tall tan lanky physique long thick brown hair in braid striking good looks yet self-unaware

SHANNON athletic build attractive brunette accomplished poet so good she doesn’t need to prove it emotional sensitive tough

ANNE Joni Mitchell good looks bohemian self-effacing impulsive submissive kinky

ACT 1 scene 1

a deserted chic indie reception area somewhere present 8:30 PM

JIMMY (singling out Anne) you’re so beautiful i want you so bad

ANNE oh yeah you’re sweet to say that

JIMMY i mean it you symbolize hope inspiration in me

ANNE hope? oh god

Anne looks away runs fingers through her hair

JIMMY hear that song over the speakers?

ANNE yeah

JIMMY it’s “Home” Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes very cool check out rough trade east version on youtube

ANNE yeah right

Anne blows air out her nose looks away in Shannon’s direction

SHANNON (singling out Joey) do you read?

JOEY yeah some

SHANNON what are you currently reading?

JOEY uh a text about economic international relations

SHANNON hmmm interesting do you ever read literature or poetry?

JOEY nah not much

SHANNON like movies?

JOEY yeah sure some

SHANNON what’s you’re favorite movies?

JOEY “The Devil Wore Prada” “Eddie” “I’m Not There” i don’t know there are tons of movies i enjoy

SHANNON interesting

JOEY i need to ask Jimmy something excuse me

Joey walks across area to Jimmy

JOEY that western shirt looks so cool on you

JIMMY thanks yeah it’s a hip shirt what up dude?

JOEY oh god Shannon is hitting on me she’s way too full of herself way too available

JIMMY hmmm nice toned body bet she’s a tiger in the hay

JOEY not interested

JIMMY me neither but i could be persuaded honestly i’m blown away with Anne

Anne approaches Shannon

ANNE Jimmy is a conceited jerk he thinks he’s so cool Shannon you look so beautiful this evening your hair complexion

SHANNON funny I felt so blah all day what did Jimmy say to you? he’s not my type but not so bad if only he had Joey’s looks Joey’s shy sweetness look at Joey over there his eyes lips he’s so sexy I think I’m falling in love and yet i recognize falling in love requires a huge territory of untried tolerance

Anne’s fingers stealthily pocket Shannon’s tortoise-shell comb while Shannon observes Joey fawning over Jimmie across room

ACT 2

refer to ACT 1 scene 1

truth is this life is too difficult for me the violence hatred turf wars tribalism laws judgments practices rules permits history i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world i’m sorry am i repeating myself i apologize i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world god please protect teach me strength courage fairness compassion wisdom love i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world

buy divinity purchase devotion earn reward points own 4 bedroom loft with roof garden deck porch pool parking in paradise’s gated community pay for exclusive membership into sainthood become part of inner circle influence determine fate destiny of everything step up to the plate sign on the line immortalize yourself feel the privileges of eternal holiness i’m living inside a nightmare inside a nightmare inside a nightmare hello? i am dizzy in my own self-deceptions lost in my own self-deceptions alone in my own self-deceptions there was a time once but that time is gone there was a place once but that place has vanished there was a life once but that life is spent remember when things were different truth is i’m weak skittish anxious alienated paranoid scared to death pagan idiot stop

breath deeply push stale air out imagine kinder more respectful loving world please god do your stuff angels throw your weight around clean up this mess planets align stars shine ancient spirits raise your voices magic work there are words when spoken can change everything words rooted to spiritual nerves if voiced in  particular order secret passwords capable of setting off persuasions in the mind threads to the heart if a person can figure out which words what order tone of voice rate of pronunciation time of day then that person can summon powers of the supernatural Isis goddess of celestial sway of words whisper secret earth water fire air reveal your alchemy winter spring summer autumn teach about passages patterns sublime eastern western sun fickle moody moon unveil your heavenly equation north south east west  beat the drums blow winds show the path to healing path of the heart blood dirt hair sex bare the mystery of your trance dance the ghost dance sacred woman with ovaries cycles flow smell beautiful girl eyes sweetness strange awkward skinny scruffy boy great bear spirit bird jumping fish wise turtle where are you why is there no one to back me? jean paul sartre what was your last thought before you died? was it nausea? nothingness? or a wish?

He was very good with his spear, which he had fashioned carefully from a fallen tree — a groaning fall he had heard personally one gloomy night long ago, when there had been flashing lights and a terrible battle atop the clouds. It had groaned very heavily, the tree, as they listened, huddled in their cave, and had then loudly thumped upon the dampening earth. And it had been he who first walked bravely out, after all the defeated cloud warriors stopped pissing over the land, and searched through the leaves and twigs for it.

When he finally found it, he had grown still. It was in a clearing, surrounded by smoky grass and the crispy ash skeletons of flowers. The sight of it, of this great fall, had seeded into his mind even as the clouds whitened above and parted to reveal their blue mother. He slowly approached — not in fear, but as one may approach a tiny star if it were to fall to the earth — beguiled and working his eyes over the whole trunk. The seared end had only crumbled away when he finally touched it, but as he ran his right hand over the deep grooves and nets of wrinkles, his open mouth had slowly turned into a glorious smile. This was when his wife ran into the clearing.

He never had noticed one bit, of course, how she looked from him to this tree he was beaming proudly upon. Never noticed the jealous sideways twitch of the mouth. “They are all asking what it is,” she said from behind him, hand perched over pelvis. The oldest among them had decreed as they huddled last night that it may have been one of the giant warriors above, felled in war.

“It is a new tree for us,” he replied, and then turning only slightly, said, “Run and tell my brother to bring me my tools.” That was all, and he turned back to his new tree, his mind ripening with thoughts about which *ways* to cut, which directions, what lengths and widths. Many of these thoughts were running into him — the prayers of the tree — it was having a deep conversation with him about the best ways to use it, how it wanted to be used. At that time, of course, he never noticed how his wife had turned and stomped away angrily.

.

Now, yes, he was very good with that same spear he had carved all those years ago. Those days he’d used it to hunt, to find enough food for the whole family, and those days there surely had been a lot of food for everyone, from his spear. After they all left him, however, mumbling something he did not understand about him going too far, unreachable, he had pondered for a long time what use the spear could be for, now. It was like this, sitting by himself at the fire in deep thought, that he had remembered about fish. Until then, it was only the children, who had a lot of time to waste on their hands, that tried to catch fish from the sea. They would run into the cave proudly on days they had been lucky, displaying a small little thing to everyone, and their mothers would praise them. It was not a bad thing for a child — he had done it himself when he was tiny — it helped to make you a better hunter. Men could also fish, of course, but it would never feed everyone. It was a very difficult process — you had to stand for a very long time, and, if you were quick and lucky enough, you may be able to grab one long enough so it did not slip away. This was what he had been remembering, when he suddenly wondered, at that lonely fire, if it may be possible to hunt fish with his spear. The next day, he began to try it, and then again the next. Now, then, he was an expert fisherman, and deadly with his spear, the same spear from the wonderful tree so many years ago. He could catch far more fish than he would by simply standing there with his hands, and while it was no wild boar, it would be enough for just him. And he could paint, too.

This was still relatively new to him, but fascinating, relaxing. He had taught himself how to make his paints, from some funny looking earths found a little higher in the nearby mountain. Being an examiner of all things, one day, while on his treks, he had carried some of the earths back with him to his cave, to peruse. He tried a few things with them, like adding water, or some juices from some plants. Perhaps he could harden the materials somehow, he had thought, and fashion an instrument stronger than the stone tied to the end of his spear. Something that would not turn blunt so often. He had tried this several nights — perhaps even years — with the strange earths and various other things he found from all over. He would try all night, mixing and moulding, churning, till he would nod off to sleep. He would wake with his body covered in several colors, different shapes each time, but never a material strong enough. It was then, on such a night, nodding off now, starting awake again, and then continuing his work, that the futility of it wore upon him. A feeling he had never before felt crept into his mind, sneaking in like a mother rat and its young ones. He began to remember the family that had left him, remember his wife. How she had looked. His children, grown fine men and women the last time he had seen them. He remembered fights and arguments, and he recalled his great unkindness to them. He had never meant any of it, of course — he had only said all those things because he’d thought that was the most effective way to shut them up and leave him to his devices. Well, it had been very effective indeed. The unknown, indescribable feeling crept even deeper that night, from his mind and into his chest, growing itself. He cried, in pain, not knowing what was happening to him. But soon, realizing he was behaving like a small child, he became very, very angry, and he picked up the lump of mud he had been working with in his hands, and flung it with terrific rage at the cave wall.

It had seemed as though the fire suddenly bloomed in the cave, and his tears stopped. He stared at what was on the wall. There were people in there now, from his mud. The same wonder he had felt before — when he had come across that great tree in the clearing — began to fill up inside his head, squeezing the dark, unknown feeling down, then filling up his heart and completely destroying it. He pulled his transfixed legs, and slowly approached the cave wall — not in fear, but as one may approach a tiny star if it were to fall to the earth — and ran his fingers around the people, around the shapes. As he did this, they began to tell him their stories, and he listened, and began crying again — but this time in joy — to everything they had to say. They were the same stories — the stories of his past, the people of his past. These were the light specks of children that had been at their cave, who ran here and there, bringing little silver fishes to their mothers. Here were the old people, sitting as close as they could to the red fire and reminding each other of the giants in the sky. This one — she was just as his wife had been, standing in the blue breeze in her flapping deep green clothes and staring right back at him!

The next day, forgetting completely about fishing, he had run to the hill for more of the strange muds. Gathering as much as he could, he took them back to his cave, and had then tried hard to remember exactly how he had mixed them the previous night. After only a few attempts, he felt he had got it right, and he scooped some of his new — paint — into his fist. Then he turned around at threw it as hard as he could at the cave wall.

.

He laughed, now, at his silliness that first time. It had been so disappointing, that his throw did not result in any new people, or stories, this time. The splatters of mud did not speak to him as the ones from the previous night had. He’d sat, crestfallen at the fire. But he had not given up, and slowly, he had learned. He knew now, of course, that you could carefully sculpt the stories, but when he had first realized this, it had taken a long time to master. He’d had to focus for a long time on the old painting, tracing the shapes gently with his fingers, then go to his new piece and recreate the motions. It took a long time, of course, and he tried and failed again and again, but it had never become dull, or frustrating. In fact, for a number of those initial days, he had completely forgotten about eating. Only when he was finally pleased with his first real likeness, did the pangs of hunger set in. Thus it was, then, that as he sat at the cave, biting hungrily into some fish, that both the paintings, old and new, spoke to him, sending him more of their prayers. He began to wonder what may happen, if instead of copying the old painting, he tried to make something new. He thought very hard, as he ate, about it — about what he could paint — and then he had realized. He knew about hunting. He could paint a picture of one of his old hunts, and … and … he could even try to make a bison!

.

And he had. His cave was now full of all sorts of things. Bison. Fish. People, dancing. He thought about this happily, now, as he walked up the mountain for more paints. His catch in the morning had been plentiful — he could spend at least three days with his paints without worrying for food. He looked up into the marvelous blue sky and burst into song, scaring birds away and making all the animals look at him in wonder. Then, he tripped, and fell on his face. A natural hunter, he immediately rose, and turned to see what was happening. Then he froze. It was a … stick. But not a stick like any he had seen. He had never seen silver trees. Slowly, he picked himself up, and as he dusted himself off, began to realize where he was. It was a huge clearing, with smoky grass and the crispy ash skeletons of flowers. He looked around him, but there was no fallen tree as there had been that night long ago, when the cloud warriors had been battling with flashes and huge drums, the defeated ones pissing all over the earth in fear. There was only this stick — this strangest silver stick. He stared at the stick for a long time, walking around it, to see from all directions. He held firmly to his excellent fishing spear, but eventually realized this was not an animal. He squatted then, still peering at the thing. There was a shiny, very thin vine flowing from it’s nose, and at the end of that vine, some kind of strange curved tooth from some animal he had never seen. Even the tooth was shiny. Finally, after staring for a long time, he got up, and slowly approached — not as one may approach a tiny star if it were to fall to the earth — but in fear. Then he quickly snatched it from the ground. The stick did not fight back, although the thin vine did try to attack him with its tooth for a short while. He was able to subdue it however. He thought for a moment, still staring at it. The stick frightened him to death, because he did not know what it was, or where it had come from — he had been by this place many times for strange earths, but he had never seen the tree it could have come from growing anywhere nearby. Being, however, an examiner of all things, he tucked the stick under his arm, and walked on up the mountain, for more paints.

When he returned, he was not sure what to do. Half his mind begged to paint a new picture he had thought of, of a fearsome shark he had once speared. He had never really speared a shark, of course, but after a few paintings he had realized that it was fine to paint even dreams. If somebody ever came over to visit, he could take their shoulders in his hand and show them this great shark he had once caught, simply with his trusty fishing spear. They would think he must be a great man, then, they surely would. But the other half of his mind wanted to study the new stick.

Finally, he sat, with a plate of smoked fish, and studied the thing. There was something about it that he didn’t like, he could tell. He was starting to realize that this stick had not simply fallen off a tree — a man had carved this — but how crazy had this man been? He reached over and picked it up. It was quite long, and thin, except at the bottom, which had a strange, soft kind of bark. There was a round plate with holes near that bark, with a small branch growing out of it. It made absolutely no sense. He tried to unfasten the plate, but was unsuccessful. Well, anyway, who would want to eat from a plate with holes, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes. And what is the point of the little branch? He smelled it, a little, and then tasted it. It was something like the smell and taste of stones, but much more sour, he found, making a face. Finally, he bent it a little, and it was very bendable. “Hah,” he laughed to himself, and pulled his sturdy fishing spear into his other hand. “Well, you are certainly not a very good fishing spear,” he told the strange stick. He cast the thing aside.

But he stared at it for a little longer. At this point he wanted to simply know why it was that he did not seem to like it very much. Why did it incur this … sense of disgust in him? Then he found the ridge in the soft bark. It was coming off, but not, clearly, out of any careful design or sculpting. Suspiciously, he began to study the length of the rod, and there he found several places where the finish was grooved into, torn into, from misuse. He even saw, then, that the color of the stick, in some parts, was peeling off. Below the tiny flakes of silver was the sickly yellow color of the actual stick itself, its true nature. And then of course, there was the plate with bloody holes in it. Laughing, he finally stood up and kicked the damn thing aside. “Shiny as you may be,” he mocked it, “whoever it was that made you has taken no care in it, and no care of you. Why should I, then, worry with you? I am a man who takes great care in making. I create, you understand, spending time and effort, and great care? I make all of the things I use for making all of even more things I make for my use. Witness,” he said, gesturing to his excellent spear, “how smooth she is? How carefully honed and kept sharp.” He turned, and gestured again, this time to his wall. “Witness — I even make all my own paints. I walk up, every afternoon after fishing with my spear, to the plain on the mountain to gather the colored earths. These paints here — ” he said, gesturing again, ” — my paints — will never come off those walls. Not in a thousand years!” Still laughing, he turned around to his wall, took some paints into his hand, and walked over to do his piece about how he had bravely speared the fearsome shark.

.

He never took the strange stick fishing with him. But we must excuse him for, after all, he was only a caveman who happened upon a state of the art fishing rod.