I remember first seeing this painting (http://tinyurl.com/5ru86) at the Met in the late 1980’s when I began using that grand old dame of a museum as my personal shelter from the elements of New York City: the rain, the cold, the dearth of public bathrooms, my own gut-crunching poverty and post-adolescent fear of the world.
It was my first Jacob Lawrence, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I wouldn’t know the name "Jacob Lawrence" as such until almost a decade later when a scrubby fringe theatre in Seattle commissioned me to write a play about the man. (I would be fortunate enough to interview him in person twice, learning first hand what was already common knowledge in the art world: that he was one of the smartest, most open and-- possibly most important-- kindest artists living. It was Jake Lawrence himself that told me the story of the kid who grew up in the pool hall, which I use below. The detail of someone who could see the table in his mind from surface level was typically "Lawrencian". To my mind, his paintings, especially the series work, mark one of the most significant crossroads of image and narrative to percolate up in the 20th Century. I was back in living in New York City for the second time in my life when I heard he had passed away.)
But back then at the Met in the late 80’s all I knew was how cool this picture was: its splayed players, tables, balls and lamps arrayed in a crowded jazzy composition that somehow captured the cool vibrancy of any true pool hall. Plus, you can’t help but love the touch of the zig-zaggy cigarette smoke: you know instantly that the painter has blended a love of the game and its players with the driest sense of humor. I could go on and on. It’s been hanging over my monitor at work for weeks now and I never tire of glancing at it.
A couple months ago I was invited, as one of a very spiffy list of playwrights, to submit a short play based on a famous painting. I already had one written, based on Emanuel Gottlieb Leutze’s iconic "George Washington Crossing the Delaware", and I fired it off, but deep down I knew this wasn’t enough. I had to write something based on a Lawrence, "Pool Parlor", to be exact. And so here it is. Try to imagine it out loud and not pegged to a page. It’s theatre for crying out loud!
Pool Parlor
(a short play inspired by Jacob Lawrence's 1942 painting
by the same title)
VOICES:
SHARK
MARK
CUE
LOW
HIGH
BLACK
(This piece can be performed in myriad of ways: as a oratorio, with actors simply facing out and speaking, or with abstract movement, or a fairly literal enactment could be done of the figures in the painting. It's all up to the director and the performers.)
CUE: Crack!
LOW: Clickclickclick
HIGH: Click
BLACK: Click
MARK: Dang.
SHARK: Dang is right. Shoot all the gunshot breaks in the world, don't mean diddly less ya sink something.
MARK: Dang.
SHARK: It's about. . .
CUE: Squeaksqueak. . . tip.
LOW: Click. . .
BLACK: Click.
SHARK: This game.
HIGH: Click.
LOW: Drop.
SHARK: The possible. It's about--
CUE: Squeaksqueak. . . Tip.
LOW: Clickclick. . . drop.
MARK: Yeah, yeah, I dig.
CUE: Tip.
LOW: Click. . .
HIGHT: Click. . .
SHARK: Oh, you dig, do you?
LOW: Clickclick. . . drop.
MARK: It's like. What's that thing?
CUE: Squeaksqueak. . . Tip.
MARK: What's that word?
LOW: Clickclick. . . drop.
HIGH: Click. . .
SHARK: Word?
MARK: Carving. Nah, that ain't it. It's close but . . .
SHARK: Close don't sink the stone.
CUE: Squeaksqueak. . . Tip.
LOW: Click. . .
HIGH: Click. . .
MARK: Nothing.
SHARK: Sculpting.
MARK: Sculpting?
CUE: Tip.
SHARK: Sculpting the possibilities.
HIGH: Click.
LOW: Click . .
HIGH: Click. . .
LOW: Click . .
HIGH: Click. . .
BLACK: Click.
HIGH: Drop.
SHARK: That's what this is. Sculpting the possible. Perfect example. You wanna believe you can cut past that five, but you can't.
MARK: Shoot.
CUE: Tip.
SHARK: Not possible.
LOW: Click . .
MARK: Dang!
BLACK: Click.
HIGH: Click. . .
CUE: Squeaksqueak. . . tip.
LOW: Click. . .
BLACK: Click.
SHARK: You remember Jake?
HIGH: Click.
LOW: Drop.
MARK: Jack?
CUE: Squeaksqueak. . .
SHARK: Open you ears, boy. Jake. Lil' Jake?
CUE: Tip.
LOW: Click click.
MARK: You mean lil' Jackie.
HIGH: Click.
BLACK: Click.
LOW: Drop.
SHARK: I know who I mean. Last name, Toussaint.
MARK: Jackie Toussaint. That's right.
CUE: Squeaksqueak.
SHARK: Lil' Jake grew up in this pool hall. He crawled on these floors 'fore he walked. Soon as his peeked up over the edge he was watching them balls bounce around. Watchin' 'em collide from eye level. And that's how he saw the table for the rest of his life. He was the best I ever knew.
CUE: Tip.
LOW: Click.
MARK: Hmmph.
SHARK: But not the greatest.
LOW: Drop.
SHARK: 'Cuz it's all in your mind. The greatest pool player ever lived never set foot in a pool hall.
CUE: Squeaksqueak.
SHARK: Forget practicing. Ain't about getting better. It's about getting right. Letting go of everything keeping that ball from that pocket.
I heard once, there's more different ways for them balls to lay out on the table than there are stars in the sky.
MARK: Shoot.
SHARK: Eight in the side.
CUE: Squeaksqueak. . . tip.
LOW: Click.
BLACK: Click . . . Drop.
MARK: Dang.
SHARK: Stars in the sky.
(Fade to black.
End of play.)