DORA DOLOROSA - the WEEPING WOMAN: Dora Maar ______
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DORA DOLOROSA - THE WEEPING WOMAN: Dora Maar ____________________________________________________________________ "All his portraits of me are lies. They're Picassos - Not one is Dora Maar" - Dora Maar " the Muses are women… Women's spirit is profoundly sunk in nature, and it is through her that man will sound the depths of silence and of the fecund night" - Simone de Beauvoir A monologue set in a café in Paris, late 1940s and forever after SET and PROPS small round café table, two chairs, one coffee cup and saucer, silver sugar bowl with cubes of sugar, milk jug, linen napkin, small plate, sharp knife, water glass and a bottle of Evian Water, and an orange, a blood orange. CHARACTERS : THE WEEPING WOMAN - Dora Marr - herself Others actors in the historical drama - mentioned but do not appear The Lazy Woman - Fernande Olivier - the spoon The Dying Woman - Marcelle Humbert /Eve - napkin The Sitting Woman - Olga Koklova- sugar bowl The Sleeping woman - Marie Therese Walter - small plate The Laughing Woman - Francoise Gilot - (the absent other coffee cup/saucer) The Pottery Woman - Jaqueline Roque - milk jug The Painter - Picasso The poet - Paul Eluard / The poet's wife - Nusch Eluard The Photographer - Man Ray The Director- Jean Renoir The Actor - Jean Louis Barrault The Patron- Gertrude Stein The Doctor/ Psychoanalyst - Jacques Lacan The General - Franco The Dictator - Hitler The Big Painting - Guernica COSTUME DORA MAAR WEARS A FORTIES FULL SKIRTED BLACK DRESS AND BOLERO DECORATED WITH RED ROSES AND BRAIDED IN BLACK AND WHITE, A GORGEOUS QUIRKY RED FELT HAT, BLACK HIGH ANKLE STRAP SHOES WITH PEEP TOES, GREEN GLOVES EMBOIDERED WITH RED ROSES. SHE HAS LONG DARK HAIR DRESSED SPANISH STYLE, RED LIPSTICK AND LONG MANICURED RED NAILS DORA ENTERS (POSSIBLY BY BICYCLE!) SITS AT THE TABLE FACING THE STREET AND THE AUDIENCE AND SLOWLY TAKES OFF HER GLOVES AND WITH THE WRONG END OF THE ORDINARY KNIFE DOES THE GAME WITH HER OUTSTRETCHED LEFT HAND AT FIRST SLOWLY GRADUALLY GETTING FASTER AND FASTER UNTIL SHE HITS HER FINGERS BUT THERE IS NO BLOOD BECAUSE SHE IS USING THE HANDLE OF THE KNIFE. Stage Set for tragedy No blood - see just a game! Then it was for real, or was it? A story was made of it and told by The Painter who kept the memory. It was the gloves he wanted - pour un souvenir - with the blood stains intact, impressed on them - he wanted to keep the gloves, not the hands, not the woman or the tears she would weep later on. The tears were his - not an invention, rather a loan that became an acquisition. They came from her eyes and they were cried for him, for herself, for the state of the world then. He utilized and appropriated them, made her pain his signature, created and recreated in paint. So here I am, or rather here she is- The Weeping Woman, as the Painter saw me. A motif, an exemplar, an obsession. La Femme qui pleure- La Dame Aux Larmes! The Weeping Woman - with dead child, with handkerchief, with hands like scissors, in striped bodice with handkerchief and mantilla, biting handkerchief while wiping tears, with eyes like boats, with cup and saucer eyes, saucers spilling tears, with eyes like fish, with eyes like drains pouring tears, with eyes doubly shrouded, veiled by her handkerchief, with eyes on stalks and looping knotted tears, with tears like swinging pendulums, with handkerchief twisted like a snail, with eyes lit up like beacons to lead ships to founder on rocky shores on dark nights. Crying a river of tears- in purple, in green, in orange, in red, in black. Picture the weeping woman, the imploring woman, who wrings her hands and cries, the Painter did; over and over again. SHE CUTS THE ORANGE IN HALF, CUTS OFF A SECTION AND EATS IT Was I was ripe for distortion? For fragmenting for chopping up into pieces? - So easily pulled apart and reconfigured - crying out for it, you might say- now. Not then. I was not some somnambulant teenager - a sleepwalker waiting to be animated by him -Not like the one before me, The Sleeping Woman. I was myself, all of a piece when I met him and I met him. I set out to meet him. I created a performance of myself that I knew would enthrall him. He did not discover me - I put myself in his path - on a collision course - he could not overlook, not notice, not get around me - he would have to meet me and take me on. I was there for the taking yes, but I put myself there. I knew all about him. I had watched him with the Photographer. I had watched him present himself to have his photograph made. He focused those dark coal eyes and stared down the Photographer who focused his lens on him. Then, I photographed him. I was the behind the camera with my eyes trained on him, so that the light kissed him before my lips had. I was an emulsion ready to receive the image. The Painter begged my photograph from the Photographer, even gave him a painting in exchange for me. I kept the photographs I took of him. Developing them in the dark, in my heart. SHE MOMENTARILY ALMOST ABSENT- MINDEDLY RESUMES THE GAME It’s a game of love and death, a game of chance and a game of skill - don't let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. The knife moves with one hand, this hand, the other stays still, does not flinch, awaits the blow that is coming towards it. Do I watch the still hand or focus on the moving hand? Part of me is the target, the rest of me holds the weapon, drives the knife, harder and harder, faster and faster. Was this The Meeting? True, the Poet introduced us, but not here, at this café. Around the corner, at a film screening - a press preview, the Painter was a friend of the Director, I had taken the photographs on set. The Poet was a mutual friend of all of us. His wife was my best friend. The Painter extended his hand - enchante mademoiselle, he said and lowered those eyes and went to kiss my hand, which I withdrew. I replied - Me plasir, Soy de Argentin a- he was taken aback to, to hear Spanish- Buenas tardes maestro - I grew up in Buenos Aires and I already knew a lot, about him and Spain. I was no ingénue. That was an encounter. The true meeting, was when he opened the door to me at his studio - I had found it for him- it used to belong to the Actor - I had photographed his company in rehearsal and I knew it was vacant. The Painter needed a bigger studio. I was at the door wearing a red scarf, he presented himself as a Greek god and I fell - for it. Sphink to his Minotaur. He liked to say he only painted women he had slept with. He made an exception for The Patron, but she was an exceptional woman herself! The Sitting Woman wanted to recognize her face and wear a mantilla. As if there was a choice we were all L'Espagnole! The Sleeping Woman wasn't interested in painting and said they never looked like her; and weeping or not, they didn't look like me but I didn't care, they were always the Painter's, and for him the likeness was psychological, not physical, not spiritual. A model sits, stands or lies - either way, holds the pose while the artist cuts, slices, paints, sculpts, depresses the button, releases the trigger. Whatever the means employed the result is the same - she is the target. Caught, held, in that moment, immortalized. Ensnared in what was seen by the artist. Seated in a chair contained by the arms, in a cage. The knife thrower aims the knife. If she's lucky he misses her and takes aim and throws again- she is blindfolded and must not move. She must have such faith, such trust that he will miss her every time. Behind her blindfold are her eyes, always hidden like her fear. What colour are my eyes? You never really know the true colour of your own eyes. I have, apparently - bright eyes and an attentive gaze, blue green eyes, pale eyes so fixed it sometimes disquiets, eyes glimmering like jewels, streaks of blue sky cross my black eyes, bronze green eyes, monkey's eyes and a mouth like a torn flower. For The Painter they were always dark and full of tears. I was always weeping, he said, women are suffering machines. He was always drawing, doodling, scribbling on tablecloths, menus, magazines, newspapers; drawing faces and burning eyes in them with his cigarette. I took out my knife and cut them out and rolled them up and put them in my bag to keep. I kept everything he touched, pebbles and shells he found and carved with his knife and gave to me as offerings. Mementos to shore up my future. All in my hands - keepsakes for safe keeping. Take my hands Let Jealousy Dangle its proud claws And absence ready its needles One day the woman leaves, moves on - if she is lucky. The first one, the Lazy Woman was not, but being lazy she did not mind. The next one, the Dying Woman was even unluckier, she died. Then there was the dancer who sat still, The Sitting Woman who stopped dancing but refused to leave, but was left nonetheless.