Constantin Brâncuși Memorial House, Hobița. Summer of 1989.
On the veranda, a group of tourists listen to the MUSEUM GUIDE. She holds copies of Brâncuși’s picture.
JOHN stands apart from the tourists, gazing at the wooden logs—improvised benches—the stones around the courtyard.
He doesn’t seem to pay attention to the MUSEUM GUIDE.
MUSEUM GUIDE (didactic, quickly): This is a copy of a photo made early last century, of the house where the family of Nicolae Brâncuși lived—he was a woodcarver. Nicolae’s wife, Maria, was a wool spinner.
In 1876, their son was born—Constantin. Inside the house, you will see a laviță like the one the five children would sleep on with their parents.
From an early age, Brâncuși showed a talent for sculpture. In school, he secretly carved the school bench with a little knife. He was caught by the teacher who punished him by locking him in a bird cage. He was not released until his parents intervened.
When he was eleven, he ran away from school, and at thirteen, he went to Târgu Jiu, where he got a job as a dishwasher.
His mother brought him home, but—at fourteen—Brâncuși left again! This time to Craiova, where he worked for some cloth dyers.
In 1898, he enrolled in the National School of Fine Arts in Bucharest, where he stood out with two works—
(She shows a photo to the tourists.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: L’Ecorché.
(Another photo.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: The bust of Alexandru Davila.
(A moment.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: In 1904, he decides to go to Paris. He journeys on foot, exiting Romania from Bahna-Vârciorova, a border post on the Danube River.
(JOHN moves closer.)
JOHN: He stopped in Vienna. Then he had typhoid—then he stayed in Munich awhile, worked, then continued to France by taking a train to Paris.
MUSEUM GUIDE (respectful, but annoyed): Yes?
Do you know that exactly, sir?
We, here, know that he walked by foot.
They teach us that in school.
JOHN: It’s not important.
MUSEUM GUIDE: Of course it is!
When you say Brâncuși, you say this: he walked to Paris!
I have worked here over ten years!
Do you realize who else made such a journey—on foot!?
It’s a fact—unique—which must be said!
He—a simple peasant—
Arriving in Paris—
The greatest sculptor—
JOHN: Do you have any pictures for sale? Reproductions of the house?
MUSEUM GUIDE: We have postcards of his sculptures. The ones from Târgu Jiu: The Table of Silence, The Gate of the Kiss, The Infinite Column—
(The tourists have taken advantage of JOHN’s interruption and are dispersing.)
(JOHN looks through the postcards.)
(The MUSEUM GUIDE attempts to return to her presentation.)
MUSEUM GUIDE (regarding images on the postcards): They’re a collection of three works dedicated to the memory of the Romanian soldiers who died in the First World War. During the fighting along the Jiu Gorge in southern Romania. The collection was finished in 1937—
JOHN: Can I have them?
(She gives up on her presentation.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: Of course.
Here you are!
I see the visitors are going inside the house.
You can join them if you like.
JOHN: Yeah?
Thanks.
I wanted to. Are you sure . . . ?
MUSEUM GUIDE: Why not?
Watch out for the threshold.
(Some tourists exit the house. JOHN enters it.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: In the old days, houses were built with a low ceiling. Was it because the locals—and the Oltenians in general—were shorter and built their houses to their size? Or did they build it like this to retain heat in the winter?
JOHN: Could be either or . . .
MUSEUM GUIDE: Above the laviță—there’s a rope to hang clothes. It’s called “culme.”
(Silence.)
(The MUSEUM GUIDE pulls out and sorts miniatures of the house, cups, postcards, other souvenirs. Tourists come and buy from her as she continues.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: He made a sobă and a peasant stovetop in his Paris studio. Wooden chairs, low table, like in the Oltenian countryside—he didn’t forget where he came from!
And he enchanted women instantly.
He had them close their eyes, and then he’d say, “Open your mouth!”
And he’d place in their mouth a green onion shoot, covered in homemade cheese that he made himself.
Then he’d ask—“Guess what it is?”
(No one guesses.)
MUSEUM GUIDE (proud): No one could guess!
(Silence.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: Did you hear me?
(JOHN is lying on the laviță.)
JOHN: Yes—I just laid down for a while. Is that okay?
(The MUSEUM GUIDE moves from her souvenirs to the threshold.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: On the laviță?
Yes . . . okay . . . sometimes a person . . . sure! It’s allowed!
JOHN: Do you have a lot of visitors here?
MUSEUM GUIDE: Mostly Romanians. Where are you from?
JOHN: The US.
MUSEUM GUIDE: Yes? Did you know that Brâncuși had many exhibits in America? Even during his lifetime. He was selling well.
(JOHN sits up.)
JOHN: Can one sleep here?
MUSEUM GUIDE: Here, in Hobița? There are probably more places in Târgu Jiu—
JOHN: No—here. In the house.
If I pay—
MUSEUM GUIDE: Vai de mine!
How can one sleep in a museum!?
What if someone finds out—
No one has ever asked such a—
It’s not possible.
JOHN: I won’t touch anything! I’ll just stay here until tomorrow morning. I promise you. No one will ever find out.
MUSEUM GUIDE: No one will ever find out?
They would find out immediately.
Don’t even think about it!
And where? Don’t you see? There’s just a wooden laviță.
JOHN: Please. It’s important.
MUSEUM GUIDE: I’ve never heard such a thing.
I thought you were a serious person.
It’s not possible!
JOHN: I am a serious person.
Please.
(He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a hundred dollars.)
JOHN: For you.
(A moment.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: Give me a passport, an official document—something.
I can’t leave you here overnight.
I’ve heard of foreigners with all sorts of strange habits, but . . . sleeping in a museum!?
This isn’t even the house he was born in—
Did you even listen to my talk!?
JOHN: It doesn’t matter!
(He puts the hundred dollars in his passport and hands it to her.)
JOHN: Look.
Here’s my passport.
(The MUSEUM GUIDE flips through it.)
MUSEUM GUIDE: Look. This is it: I am done for today.
I am leaving. Locking the door, the gate, everything.
No matter what, do not turn on any light!
It can be seen from far away.
And don’t tell anyone!
I don’t know you. I don’t know anything!
(Putting the passport and money in her purse, she exits.)
(JOHN is alone.)
(Night falls.)
(JOHN flicks a lighter. Gazes at the pictures on the wall, the exhibited loom. The gas lamp, the clay oven.)
(He starts to sit on the laviță, but—)
(There’s a scrawny figure on it, with a shaved head and green skin, sitting in lotus position. MILAREPA.)
(Scared, JOHN steps back, flicking the lighter on and off.)
JOHN: What—who—how did you come in!?
MILAREPA: How did you?
JOHN: I—paid—
I have an understanding with—
(He remembers his promise to the MUSEUM GUIDE.)
JOHN: I—waited for the museum guide to leave.
I snuck in.
I broke the lock and came in.
(A moment.)
JOHN: Are you . . . is this a joke for tourists?
I heard at the Dracula Museum, they hired an impersonator who gets out of a coffin and—
MILAREPA: No way!
JOHN: Then . . . who—
MILAREPA: I am the one who needs nothing and cannot be moved by anything.
I am Milarepa.
JOHN: . . . Milarepa?
MILAREPA: Anyone who says my name will live in the light.
JOHN (remembering): Milarepa . . . wasn’t he a Tibetan wise man?
Around the year 1100 . . .
He was a sorcerer or something—he was looking for wisdom.
Living in caves, eating only nettles until his skin turned green . . .
I don’t get it.
Why is Milarepa . . .
MILAREPA: . . . in your father’s village?
(A moment.)
JOHN: How did you . . .
(A moment.)
JOHN: Then you know that my mother died without telling me.
And some letters were found. In archives. About a sculptor, Brâncuși. Stating that he was my father.
MILAREPA: The one who looks for truth with a pure heart—
no obstacle can stop him.
JOHN: Did you also know that I hate him?
Not right now.
But for years and years . . .
I didn’t know who he was . . .
I started going to art collectors and museums to see his sculptures. To understand.
MILAREPA: You don’t have to hate him.
But if you hated him, you must suffer for that hatred until it turns into love.
Are you ready?
JOHN: Ready . . . ?
MILAREPA: To suffer for your hatred.
JOHN: I don’t understand what you want. From what I read, you’re considered a sort of . . . master, a sort of teacher . . .
(A moment.)
JOHN: I don’t believe in such nonsense.
MILAREPA: Why not?
JOHN: I don’t have time to think about—
MILAREPA: Now you do.
Take a deep breath.
(JOHN takes a deep breath.)
JOHN: And you too . . . ?
MILAREPA: And me too.
(They breathe.)
(And breathe.)
(And—)
(Blackout.)
SCENE 2
Brâncuși’s studio in Paris.
Wood, clay, metal. Everything is handmade, white. So much light.
A woolen blanket on the bed, an Oltenian stovetop and oven. Sculptures in various stages. Tools, dust, a shelf with books. A white curtain separating the kitchen.
The sound of a key in the door.
MARTHE enters, carrying groceries. She quietly removes food from the bags, placing them on the table.
JOHN, barefoot and bare-chested, wears long johns as he moves through a Sun Salutation.
Tibetan music.
Under the pressure of his surroundings, JOHN transforms into Brâncuși.
MARTHE: Bonjour! I was about to leave the cornulețe by the door and leave. I thought you were sleeping.
(JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI stops, confused.)
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: Hm? Did you forget something?
MARTHE: What do you mean, “Did you forget something?” Were you sleeping or what?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: Almost—asleep—I think . . .
MARTHE: Well, I’ll come back when you’re fully awake.
. . . were you drinking with Modi again?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: With Modi . . . ?
No . . .
You are . . . Marthe?
MARTHE: Okay, back to sleep. I’ll warm up some cornulețe.
(MARTHE exits to the kitchen.)
(JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI walks around the studio, dazed. He peers at the sculptures and stones. Picks up an object. Turns it in his palms.)
(He takes a long look at a poster with the motto: “CREATE LIKE A GOD, COMMAND LIKE A KING, WORK LIKE A DOG.”)
MARTHE (off-stage): Where’s Modigliani gallivanting about now? I haven’t seen him in a week.
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: Modigliani? How would I know?
(He pauses by the bookshelf, looks at the titles. He picks up a book filled with bookmarks. The Life of Milarepa.)
(He rifles through it.)
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: Ever hear of Milarepa?
MARTHE (off-stage): The Tibetan wise man, right? I always wanted to ask you about him—was he really talking to the dead and casting spells?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: So they say.
But before he was a hermit.
MARTHE (off-stage): He left home at an early age, like you. See, I remember.
(MODIGLIANI enters.)
MODIGLIANI: I am honored to see that art is reborn! Bonjour, Maître!
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: ?
MODIGLIANI: Give me a chisel and a hammer and I will become a sculptor! Did you finish The Bird?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: No.
(MARTHE pops out from the kitchen.)
MARTHE: Look who it is, Modigliani! We were just talking about—
MODIGLIANI: Ah! I kiss your little hands, duduie Marthe!
(He kisses her cheeks.)
MARTHE (amused): Where have you been gallivanting, you bastard? Oh, do you also want some warm cornulețe? Or coffee? Tea?
MODIGLIANI: I don’t want to disturb you two lovebirds. Are you working today? Maybe a coffee, black, or maybe—
(MARTHE motions that she understands and returns behind the curtain. JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI is still deep in Milarepa’s biography.)
MODIGLIANI (to JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI): Helloooo?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: What?
MODIGLIANI: Have you seen Rodin today? You know my opinion—I don’t give a fuck about what he calls art!
(He poses himself like Rodin’s sculpture, The Kiss.)
MODIGLIANI (regards the biography): Hey, stop that! Let’s embrace, like Rodin’s eternal Kiss!
(He spits, laughs.)
MODIGLIANI: Ptiu!
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: All sorts of artists are lost at his studio—it’s become a factory—an assembly line!—after The Kiss.
Glad I left!
Fleshy beefsteak works . . .
I’ll never make those as long as I live!
MODIGLIANI (laughing): Filling the world with languorous figurines!
Maître, truly the real mission of an artist is to explore the unknown depths of matter!
In this emotion, it is . . . how shall I say . . .
an emotion greater than when you . . .
discover . . .
a woman!
(He looks towards the curtain. MARTHE’s humming comes through. Another moment, and then JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI, as if remembering—)
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: Whole weeks pass until I hear the stone speaking.
It’s an energy.
A heavenly vibration.
Sculpture shouldn’t imitate anything. It should be a truth—a primal truth!
MODIGLIANI (regarding a sculpture): See! That’s why you two understand each other!
MODIGLIANI (teasingly): But you’re aware that I work even faster than you. That’s right, limestone’s easier to sculpt than your bronze and stone—
We free the form and we free the soul!! Tell me—is that ecstasy?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: Ecstasy.
Hm.
Deep and repeated meditation can lead to ecstasy . . . yes.
(MODIGLIANI takes the book.)
MODIGLIANI: Forget your hermit! Come with me to the café. You know where! We’ll party tonight! Lots of people will be there—some of ours, some Americans—
I will gift you some hashish.
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI (amused): Haven’t you had enough of noisy crowds and girls?
MODIGLIANI: Never!!
Let’s throw ourselves into the oceans of the unknown!
Let’s set thinking on fire and leave only the pure emotions!
I’m inviting you to a hashish party!
Period!!
(to MARTHE) And you too, bewitching muse!!
(MARTHE enters with a tray of coffee.)
MARTHE: Oh my god, you clown!
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI (countryish): Bre, you’re really loony!
MODIGLIANI: Bre? Bre? Je comprends pas “loony” non plus. So come with me and forget about sermons, peizane!!
(Knock knock. JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI opens the door. EDWARD STEICHEN enters.)
MODIGLIANI (sipping coffee): Look who’s here! Steichen in person!
(STEICHEN and JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI shake hands.)
STEICHEN: Good morning to you. Am I disturbing you?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: Come in. We’re having an . . . absurd discussion.
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI (more to himself): From another world . . .
MODIGLIANI (to STEICHEN): Not at all! I was just telling this wild genius of sculpture that we should have a drinking session tonight—
STEICHEN (to JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI): Are you coming?
(No time to answer. MODIGLIANI places the coffee cup on the table.)
MODIGLIANI: If he doesn’t come, I’ll get really mad! Let’s be clear! And now, saying this, I leave you alone, because someone is waiting for me . . . my muses . . . ! See you tonight!
(He takes his hat, walks towards the door, kisses MARTHE on the cheek.)
MODIGLIANI: A tout!
(JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI and STEICHEN wave goodbye. MARTHE disappears behind the curtain.)
STEICHEN: I brought the money for The Bird. Is it ready?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI (hesitant): It’s difficult to part with her . . .
I think I packed her well enough . . . so she doesn’t get scratched on the road.
(He looks around, opens several drawers. He finds the one with the package but finds it difficult to hand it over to STEICHEN.)
STEICHEN: Don’t worry about the exhibition in New York! We’ll all be there, and Duchamp will take care of everything as needed.
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: If the light doesn’t fall well—
If it doesn’t show the luster of the bronze, the transparency of the stone—
You know what I mean—
Any object depends on how the sunrise or sunset looks over it—
STEICHEN: We will take care of it.
Are you going to give me The Bird?
I’m leaving tomorrow. I wanted to take some photos of it here, in the studio . . .
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: You know what? I’m coming to New York in two weeks, aren’t I? Isn’t it better if I bring it myself?
STEICHEN (kindly): You’re concerned I won’t take care of it during the trip . . .
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI (avoidant): Well, seeing as I’m still coming to the exhibition . . . I already sent the other ones. Duchamp wrote to me that they arrived all right. You don’t mind, do you? You can leave the money now.
(STEICHEN takes out several hundred dollars from his pocket.)
STEICHEN: Of course, as you wish. Here’s the money.
(JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI counts the payment, puts it in his pocket.)
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI: Merci. Then it’s understood.
STEICHEN: See you tonight, at Modigliani’s party? You’re coming, right?
JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI (taking him to the exit): Yes, I’m coming . . . I think.
(JOHN-BRÂNCUȘI looks around, still perplexed. He exits.)
