With theatre festival season in full swing in Dublin, I have unfortunately not been able to see any theatre this week. Due to the fact of my many jobs and not enough finance, so instead of being a dramaturg this week I became an artist. Not really, but I decided to share my gallery experience, which I call drama-lery, a game I invented years ago.
Below is drama-lery, venturing around a gallery and narrating possible scenarios about the art. Like all dramaturg’s, their duty is to help translate art into real life for a better understanding of their position within the world. Some people have cited that the made up stories below are true, and they would be right…
I have named each piece ‘Art’ and numbered them according to appearance. Excuse the photography, I just became too swept away in the artistic environment, and summersaulted as I was taking the pictures. I give the real name of each piece and the new drama name I have assigned to each one. There is no real rhyme or reason just a strange imagination and spare time, it forces a theatre mind to go slightly wild when it has free time.
ART 1.
REAL TITLE: Spinario, Amorino, Véineas Cromta.
DRAMA TITLE: The Lads.
(Each sculpture is named from left to right, Alan, Bert, and Calvin)
Bert: Time to hit the town lads, we are in for a night of debauchery.
Alan: Be ready now… (looks up at Bert) just have to pick something out of my foot first.
Calvin: What is on your foot, (looks up at Bert), oh yeah I just need to look at the ground dramatically, oh look there is an ant on the ground, how fascinating.
Bert: Come on lads, it is really getting on, it’s like my penis is distracting you or something.
Alan: Man, where is your clothes?
Calvin: We won’t get in anywhere if you are waving your dick around place.
Bert: Won’t we?
(awkward silence)
Bert: You do realise we are all in the nip.
ART 2
REAL TITLE: Mass in a Connemara Cabin
DRAMA TITLE: My first Mass
There are mutters heard throughout the house as the priest enters the room. As he steps up on the chair, I mean the alter, he pauses for a moment.
The priest says the following in his head to himself.
PRIEST: Candles lit, wine is ready, bible at hand, where the fuck is my bible! It’s behind me, need to stop panicking, can’t channel God’s word if I am panicking to fuck.
Sorry lord for swearing.
Everyone seems eager, well dressed, apart from ginger Joe positioning himself for another fart. He should really see someone about that. He would make a warthog wilt with those farts.
Focus you’re a priest.
Sorry Lord for swearing.
Bless yourself, right hand up, not the left that’s the evil hand. Or is it the other way around? Maybe I could just do both at the same time, maybe start a new religious trend. That is Bishop material right there. Father Gerry would have to sit back and give me the Bishop title, he may feed the homeless, but I just thought of a new gesture for mass! Ha!
Sorry Lord for swearing.
Did I swear? Well I am just talking to myself, does it really count as swearing if it is too yourself? Buddhists say you can think what ever you ever you want as long as you don’t act on those thoughts.
You are a Catholic, get it together!
Sorry Lord for shite-ing on.
ART 3
REAL TITLE: A Family.
DRAMA TITLE: A Family
(In a futuristic/ absurdist style of theatre)
Bang, clap. I drag the grey covers off my incredibly long neck.
Squish, blurt. My body is awake to a new grey day. With my old grey family.
Where are the clothes?
We don’t have clothes because that is societies method of corporal prisons.
My elongated necked husband is not keen on leaving the prisons behind and slumps his head in despair.
That is not despair you are awakened. You are welcome.
Clothes will not define me, he will not define me.
WHERE IS MY COFFEE.
The holy grail of capitalism, and the best cure for this hangover.
I am hungover on life not liquor .
You are liquor. You over there little human.
Bark, clap, slap, boom.
Little innocent, little human.
Where did you come from, uranus? My anus.
Well not my anus, although that probably would of been easier.
Bang, ouch. You have a giant head.
Arghh, no. Mammary gland parasite.
Blup, slup, may have gone too far.
Blap blap, slap, pap.
Fine, time for work.
ART 4
REAL TITLE: Parody of Raphael’s School of Athens
DRAMA TITLE: Dick’s Head of the Society
Stage note: No one will be named, the voices will be assigned according to the spectator. And there is not enough middle aged white male names on this planet for this painting. The context of the dialogue makes it easy to assume which voice is associated with each character.
-Playing my flute, what a lark. Look at me larking.
-That is some sized hat. You could fit my whole belly in that hat. Can I buy it from you?
-Why thank you, and no.
-Karate chop into the crotch. Out of my way you human giraffe. I need to press my giant cuffs.
-Oh sweet, sweet man, you can at least ask me out for dinner first.
-(drunkenly) where did those steps come from. What idiot put those steps there. This is why I never come to these parties, because (hiccup) yeah. No one will listen to me. When I find my leg you are all dead. Might just take a nap here.
-Someone get him up, he will leave a stain on the ground he is so dirty. How undignified.
-Look a dog! He looks like my wig in the morning.
-What is the point.
-Ha, now the dog is sniffing the other dog’s bum.
-I hate you.
-(laughing) Now there is another dog.
–Singing, Sitting in the chair, without a care, then a hear a squirrel.
-That is a terrible song, all you are doing is dramatic rhyming.
–Singing, You are just jealous because all of my…
-You won’t be able to think of anything that rhymes with jealous.
-Yes I can.
-Go on.
-…Nelous.
-That isn’t a word.
-It could be.
-I just wanted one decent night in, that is all I wanted and all I end up in a room with puke and dog hair. Where did the dogs even come from? I will just sit here and wait for it to end, while judging everyone over my oddly shaped glasses. Someone has stained my table cloth! This is too far. They will all pay, now I will not just judge but ignorantly grunt and sigh at everyone in a passive aggressive tone that cannot be ignored.
-Flute, look at me larking!
-Just because you say flute doesn’t mean you are playing the flute.
-You are just jealous because my flute is bigger than your flute.
Silence
– My flute is eight inches.
Silence
– Just saying.
ART 5
REAL TITLE: The Conjuror
DRAMA TITLE: Brian May: The Real Story
Brian May and his friendly owl spend days on end thinking about years gone by, not when he was in Queen but when he was a wizard.
No one believes Brian because people are conceited and can’t see past his wild matted hair and beard, and he does not make matters better for himself by carrying a giant stick, that he has named his wand.
Brian tirelessly tries to convince his little grandson (or grand daughter, she is a very neutral looking character in this piece), about his wonderful days of being a wizard. Full of cauldrons, potions, and when stunning coats were in a abundance. Only Brian will know of the magic he possesses, the emotional electricity that runs through your body when a spell has been complete to perfection. Unless you are a badger, he has told all the badgers, even shouted it to them down into their dens.
I guess we will never know.
Brian: (to the little girl) You keep on missing it you little shit!
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And that was drama-lery, if you are stuck for money and entertainment why not try it at home. Well you couldn’t really try it at home that was just a slip of a colloquialism there, you would definitely need a gallery for this activity.
Apologies again for the photography, I was trying to take the pictures on the sly even though there wasn’t a flash on my phone, therefore I couldn’t hurt the picture or the picture’s soul. Do you hear me security man from the second floor, I DIDN’T HURT THE PICTURE.
Or better still this is Art depicting Art.
Thank you for reading these words and pictures.
All rights reserved to Katie Poushpom, k.e.poushpom
The Madwoman in the Theatre. 