"Prop State" pt 2

Scene: Noon, jungle


Henri Rousseau, brush in hand, fingers soft in kid gloves, boots muddy from the peat, brushes the sweat from under the rim of his hat. He carries with him a book of poems by Swedenborg and a dirty bundle of schematics that he has begun to draw. The sky has opened up after the morning rain, and it is difficult to see, from the brightness hemorrhaging the particulate air.

Henri Rousseau:

I remember you...I have left my children, my half born, my stillness. Could we have a picnic here, among the pines? Could there be sacrifice, banishment from empire, soothsaying and entrails, faceplates shattered by warring clans? Could there be the frontispieces of mantels, broken church doors, succulent fruit and vegetables?

Could there be nothing less than the total despair of the stadium, the dull buzz of the crowd gone mad for blood? I remember you, I think.

I remember you from your paintings.

Your lines were drawn in hues of grey, soft colors of the factory floor, the servant’s quarters. Was there nothing more between us but shades?

There is a factory ahead! The trees are filled with birds, kept at bay by the arms of schoolchildren. The factory is dark now, but only a few years ago, strode across this valley, this river-welt, with fantastic steps. The factory is dark now.
I wrote my novel on blackened paper, I forced on my amnesiac brother a recognition, I balanced the ardor of millions, I opened my window onto the world-as-window. The factory is dark now.

Guide 1: (far away) The factory is no longer dark; it has been bought!

Rousseau: The factory is dark now, but has been bought.

Scene: Noon, factory

Alfred Jarry sits at a desk in a wood paneled management office in the dark ribs of the factory. His eyes are half-closed, his fingers at his temples. He has adopted this somewhat iconic pose to further im- press the shareholders, who will appear at the factory shortly. He is positioned so as to be silhouetted by the strong midday light, presenting an image that is comforting and self-aware. The bicycle he rode to the factory leans against the office wall, its frame speckled with mud from the road. The furniture is not the drab angles one would expect, but are sharply drawn, colored, and facing each other with the respect that comes from knowing one’s place in history. The factory, for now, is silent.