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人　 物(最新版)

马克·罗斯柯　美国画家（现代派绘画大师），五十余岁，或更老些。(陈明昊饰 )

坎  他的新助手，二十余岁(刘端端饰)

Ken is alone. He is at a stove or burner, gently heating and stirring liquid in a large pot. This mixture will be the base layer for a new blank canvas. A small painting, wrapped in a brown paper, is tucked unobtrusively in a corner. He talks on the phone as he stirs.

KEN. ROTHKO. (On phone.) ... That’s easy for you to say, you don’t know him (He glances to the wrapped painting.) ... I’ll show it to him if I think the moment’s right. He knows I’m a painter; he’s got to be expecting it, right? ... No, no, it depends on his mood ... Don’t tell me what to do! You’re just like him ...

(He hears the sounds of Rothko entering outside. On phone.)

He’s here. I’ll tell you how it goes. Pray for me.

(He hangs up. Rothko enters with some supplies for the base layer. He does not notice the wrapped painting.) Good morning.

ROTHKO. KEN. Morning. I got the other maroon ... I’ll take over, you finish the canvas.

(Rothko goes to the pot and takes over stirring. He adds some new maroon pigment to the mixture. Like concocting a witch’s brew, he also stirs in glue, chemicals, chalk, raw eggs, and other powdered pigments. Ken works on tightening and stapling a blank canvas. It is square, about six feet by six feet or larger.)

I went by the Seagram building last night, it’s coming along.

KEN. ROTHKO. How’s the restaurant?

ROTHKO. KEN. Still under construction, but they took me around, got a sense of it.

KEN. ROTHKO. And?

ROTHKO. KEN. Too much natural light, as always, but it’ll work. You’ll be able to see the murals from the main dining room ... I made some sketches; I’ll find them for you.

KEN. ROTHKO. You ever worry it’s not the right place for them?

ROTHKO. KEN. How can it not be the right place for them when they are being created specifically for that place? Sometimes your logic baffles me.

(Rothko goes to the phonograph and flips through the records. Ken glances again to his wrapped painting. Is this the time to bring it up? No. He doesn’t have the nerve quite yet. Rothko picks a classical record and puts it on. The he returns to stirring the mixture. Beat.)

KEN. ROTHKO. So I read Nietzsche. Birth of Tragedy, like you said.

ROTHKO. KEN. Like I said?

KEN. ROTHKO. You said if I wanted to know about Jackson Pollock I had to read The Birth of Tragedy.

ROTHKO. KEN. I said that?

KEN. ROTHKO. Yeah.

ROTHKO. KEN. I don’t remember. It’s very like something I would say.

KEN. ROTHKO. So what about Pollock?

ROTHKO. KEN. First tell me what you make of the book.

KEN. ROTHKO. Interesting.

ROTHKO. KEN. That’s like saying “red.” Don’t be enigmatic; you’re too young to be enigmatic.

KEN. ROTHKO. I think I know why you wanted me to read it.

ROTHKO. KEN. Why?

KEN. ROTHKO. Because you see yourself as Apollo and you see him as Dionysus.

ROTHKO. KEN. Don’t be so pedestrian. Think more.

(Rothko adds turpentine to the mixture, checks the consistency by letting it run off his paint stirrer. He wants it to think, like a glaze. Ken stops working.)

KEN. ROTHKO Dionysus is the god of wine and excess; of movement and transformation. This is Pollock: wild, rebellious, drunk, and unrestrained. The raw experience itself ... Apollo is the god of order, method, and boundaries. This is Rothko: intellectual, rabbinical, sober, and restrained. The raw experience leavened by contemplation... He splatters paint. You study it... He’s Dionysus and you’re Apollo.

ROTHKO. KEN. Exactly right but for entirely missing the point.

KEN. ROTHKO. How so?

ROTHKO. KEN. You miss the tragedy. The point is always the tragedy.

KEN. ROTHKO. For you.

ROTHKO. KEN. You think human beings can be divided up so neatly into character types? You think the multifarious complexities and nuances of the psyche — evolving through countless generations, perverted and demented through social neurosis and personal anguish, molded by faith and lack of faith —can really be so goddamn simple? Pollock is Emotion and Rothko is Intellect? You embarrass yourself ... Think more.

(Ken this as he continues to work on the canvas. Rothko continues to stir the paint, occasionally glancing at Ken. Ken stops.)

KEN. ROTHKO. Maybe it’s like one of your paintings.

ROTHKO. KEN. Most things are. How?

KEN. ROTHKO. Dark and light, order and chaos, existing at the same time in the same plain, pulsing back and forth ... We pulse too; we’re subjects of both Apollo and Dionysus, not one or the other. We ebb and flow, like the colors in your pictures, the ecstasy of the Dionysian at war with the restraint of the Apollonian.

ROTHKO. KEN. Not at war.

KEN. ROTHKO. Not at war?

ROTHKO. KEN. It’s not really conflict. More like symbiosis.

KEN. ROTHKO. They need each other. Dionysus’ passion is focused — is made bearable — by Apollo’s will to form. In fact the only way we can endure the sheer ferocity of Dionysus’ emotion is because we have the control and intelligence of Apollo, otherwise the emotion would overwhelm us ... So back and forth we go, myth to myth, pulsating.

ROTHKO. KEN. And the perfect life would be perfectly balanced between the two, everlastingly on the fulcrum. But our tragedy is that we can never achieve that balance. We exist — all of us, for all time — in a state of perpetual dissonance... We long for the raw truth of emotion, but can only endure it with the cool lie of reason... We seek to capture the ephemeral, the miraculous, and put it onto canvas, stopping time but, like an entomologist pinning a butterfly, it dies when we try... We’re foolish that way, we human beings... We try to make the red black.

KEN. ROTHKO. But the black is always there, like the mantel in Matisse.

ROTHKO. KEN. Like the snow outside the window. It never goes away. Once glimpsed, we can’t help being preoccupied with it for the intimations of our mortality are (he gestures: everywhere)... But still we go on, clinging to that tiny bit of hope — that red — that makes the rest endurable.

KEN. ROTHKO. Or just less unendurable.

ROTHKO. KEN. That’s my friend Jackson Pollock. Finally it was just unendurable.

KEN. ROTHKO. What do you mean?

ROTHKO. KEN. His suicide.

KEN. ROTHKO. He didn’t commit suicide.

ROTHKO. KEN. Didn’t he?

(Ken thinks about this as he continues to tighten the canvas. Rothko isn’t satisfied with the music. He puts on a different classical record. He listens for a moment and then returns to stirring the mixture.)

KEN. ROTHKO. Jackson Pollock died in a car accident.

ROTHKO. KEN. A man spends years getting drunk, day after day, hammered. Then he gets into an Oldsmobile convertible and races around this little country roads like a lunatic. You tell me what that is if not a lazy suicide... Believe me, when I commit suicide there won’t be any doubt about it. No mysterious crumpled car in a ditch, did he or didn’t he, it gives me a headache it’s so boring.

KEN. ROTHKO. “When” you commit suicide?

ROTHKO. KEN. What?

KEN. ROTHKO. You said “When I commit suicide”

ROTHKO. KEN. No I didn’t.

KEN. ROTHKO. You did.

ROTHKO. KEN. You misheard... Let me tell you one thing about your hero, that man really confronted his tragedy. He was valiant in the face of it, he endured as long as he could, then he tried to recede from life, but how could he? He was Jackson Pollock.

KEN. ROTHKO. What was his tragedy?

ROTHKO. KEN. He became famous.

KEN. ROTHKO. Don’t be glib.

ROTHKO. KEN. His muse evacuated. He grew tired of his form. He grew tired of himself. He lost faith in his viewers... Take your pick... He no longer believed there were any real human beings out there to look at pictures.

KEN. ROTHKO. How does that happen to a man?

ROTHKO. KEN. better you should ask how occasionally it doesn’t happen.

KEN. ROTHKO. I mean he’s an artist, he’s in Life magazine, he’s young, he’s famous, he has money —

ROTHKO. KEN.That’s exactly it. Here’s a schmuck from Wyoming who can paint. Suddenly he’s a commodity. He’s “Jackson Pollock.” Lemme tell you, kid, that Oldsmobile convertible really did kill him. Not because it crashed, because it existed. Why the fuck did Jackson Pollock have an Oldsmobile convertible?

KEN. ROTHKO. So artists should starve?

ROTHKO. KEN. Yes, artists should starve. Except me.

(Ken smiles. He has completed working on the canvas)

KEN. ROTHKO. Take a look.

(Rothko moves to the canvas, stands over it, carefully studying it, walking around it. He is looking for flaws in the canvas, as:)

ROTHKO. KEN. You would have loved Jackson. He was a downtown guy, a real Bohemian. No baker’s hours for him, believe you me. Every night the drinking and the talking and the fighting and the dancing and the staying up late; like everyone’s romantic idea of what an artist ought to be: the anti-Rothko ... At his worst you still loved him, though; you loved him because he loved art so much ... He thought it mattered. He thought painting mattered ... Does not the poignancy stop your heart? ... How could this story not end in tragedy?

(Beat.)

Goya said, “We have Art that we may not perish from Truth.” ... Pollock saw some truth. Then he didn’t have art to protect him anymore ... Who could survive that?

(Beat. Rothko emerges from his thoughts. He nods to Ken. They lift the canvas from the floor, lean it up against a sawhorse, easel, or wall. Rothko studies it minutely. He delicately picks lint from the canvas. he gently blows remnants of dust away. He continues to study the canvas as:)

I was walking up to my house last week and this couple was passing. Lady looks in the window, says: “I wonder who owns all the Rothkos.” ... Just like that I’m a noun. A Rothko.

KEN. ROTHKO. A commodity.

ROTHKO. KEN. An overmantel.

KEN. ROTHKO. A what?

(Rothko continues to study the blank canvas for flaws, for discoloration, for imperfection. He moves closer, he backs all the way up, he moves closer again, tilting his head back and forth, adjudicating, as:)

ROTHKO. KEN. The overmantels. Those paintings doomed to become decoration. You know, over the fireplace in the penthouse. They say to you, “I need something to work with the sofa, you understand. Or something bright and cheery for the breakfast nook, which is orange, do you have anything in orange? Or burnt umber? Or sea-foam green? Here’s a paint chip from the Sherwin-Williams. And could you cut it down to fit the sideboard?”... Or even worse, “Darling, I simply must have one because my neighbor has one, that social-climbing bitch, in fact if she has one, I need three!”... Or even worse, “I must have one because the New York Times tells me I should have one — or someone told me the New York Times tells me I should have one because who has time to read anymore.” ... “Oh, don’t make me look at it! I never look at it! It’s so depressing!”... “All those fuzzy rectangles, my kid could do that in kindergarten, it’s nothing but a scam, this guy’s a fraud”... Still, they buy it... It’s an investment ... It’s screwing the neighbors ... It’s buying class... It’s buying taste ... It goes with the lamp ... It’s cheaper than a Pollock... It’s interior decoration ... It’s anything but what it is.

(Beat. Rothko seems to have accepted the canvas.)

Okey-dokey. Let’s prime the canvas.

They work together now. They have done this many times, it is a well-practiced ritual. They pour the paint/glue mixture from the stove — the base layer for the canvas — into two large buckets. The mixture is a thin liquid, almost a glaze, of dark plum. They bring the buckets to either side of the six-foot square canvas. They make sure the canvas is secure. They prepare housepainting brushes. Rothko rubs his rhythmically across his hand, warming and limbering the bristles. Ken waits. Ready. Rothko stares intently at the blank canvas. A long beat as he rubs his brush back and forth across his hand, thinking. Ken watches him, poised. Then Rothko goes to the phonograph, flips through the stack of records, finds the one he wants, and puts it onto the phonograph. He lowers the needle. He listens. He lifts the needle again. Finally finds the exact place in the record he is looking for. HE lowers the needle. Spirited classical music plays. He returns to the canvas. He nods to Ken. Ready? Ready. They dip their brushes. They are on opposite sides of the canvas. Ken crouches; he will do the lower half of the canvas. Rothko stands tall; he will do the upper half of the canvas. Ken waits for Rothko to begin. Rothko waits for the music. With theatrical panache, Rothko waits for the exact moment the music thunders most dramatically and then — he begins to paint— he moves very quickly — using strong, broad strokes he sweeps across the top of the canvas as quickly as possible — big, horizontal gestures — moving the same for the bottom half of the painting — Some of Rothko’s paint drips and splashes down on Ken — It is like choreography, they move in sync, they move toward each other and then cross, Rothko lurching back awkwardly as he continues to paint — The thin, watery paint splatters and splashes as they dip their brushes and assault the canvas — It is hard, fast thrilling work — The music swells — And then they are done. The white canvas is now an even, flat plain of dark plum. Rothko steps back, exhausted, panting for air. Ken sits heavily on the floor, also exhausted. Beat. Rothko lights a cigarette. Then he turns off the phonograph. Ken rises and cleans himself with a towel. Then he changes his painted-stained shirt. He begins to straighten up: hauling the buckets away, wiping up the floor; cleaning the brushes. Rothko minutely studies the now-primed canvas. Then he steps back and back, studies the canvas from across the studio. Musing.)

So ... so ... so ... it’ll do ... Maybe it’ll do ... Possibly adequate ... What do you think?

KEN. ROTHKO. You mean me? You want me to answer?

ROTHKO. KEN. Who else?

KEN. ROTHKO. It’s a ... a good ground, a good base layer. Nice and even.

ROTHKO. KEN. We’ll see when it dries. Then I can start to paint.

KEN. ROTHKO. You really care what I think?

ROTHKO. KEN. Not at all. (Ken smiles, continues to clean up. Then he stops abruptly. Something about the freshly primed canvas strikes him. He stares at it. Surprisingly, tears come to his eyes. The emotion is unexpected.) What?

KEN. ROTHKO. Nothing ...

ROTHKO. KEN. What is it?

KEN. ROTHKO. It’s strange ... I’m remembering something ... The, um, color ... is ...

ROTHKO. KEN. What?

KEN. ROTHKO. Doesn’t matter.

ROTHKO. KEN. What?

KEN. ROTHKO. Dried blood ... When the blood dried it got darker. On the carpet.

ROTHKO. KEN. Which carpet?

KEN. ROTHKO. Where my parents died.

(Ken tries to shake off the thought. He moves away. But then he stops again. He can’t shake the emotion. The canvas draws him back.)

It’s exactly the color. When the blood dried it got darker, that surprised me. I remember being surprised by that ...

(Rothko is intrigued)

ROTHKO. KEN. What happened to your parents?

KEN. ROTHKO. I don’t want to talk about it.

ROTHKO. KEN. Yes you do.

KEN. ROTHKO. They were murdered.

ROTHKO. KEN. Did you say murdered?

KEN. ROTHKO. Mm.

ROTHKO. KEN. How old were you?

KEN. ROTHKO. Seven. This was back in Iowa.

ROTHKO. KEN. What happened?

KEN. ROTHKO. I honestly don’t remember it too well.

ROTHKO. KEN. Sure you do.

(Ken stares forward, lost in thought. Beat.)

What do you see?

(Ken shakes his head.) What do you see? (Beat.)

KEN. ROTHKO. (Reliving it) I woke up... and the first thing I saw was the snow outside my window. I was glad it snowed because it was Saturday and I could go sledding. My Dad would take me sledding, me and my sister, But... but... I didn’t smell anything. That was weird. normally my Mom would be up making breakfast. It was really quiet. I put on my slippers — they were those Neolite ones that look like moccasins. Go into the hall... Now it’s really quiet... And it’s cold. There’s a window open somewhere... Then I see my sister, she’s just standing in the hallway, staring into my parent’s room. The door’s open. My sister ... she’s standing in a puddle of pee. Just staring. Her eyes... I go to the door and look in and see the snows first. Outside the window, so much snow, maybe I’ll still go sledding. And then the blood. The bed’s stained with it. And the wall. They’re on the bed... It was a knife... Apparently it was a knife, I found out later.

(Beat.)

Burglars, I found out. At least two of them ... But right now I don’t know what to do. I just see ... I ... Don’t want my sister to see anymore. My little sister ... I turn around and push her out and shut the door. The door handle ... With blood ... Is red.

(Beat.)

That’s all.

ROTHKO. KEN. What happened then?

KEN. ROTHKO. You mean after that? Um ... Nothing really. We went to the neighbors. They called the police.

ROTHKO. KEN. What happened to you two?

KEN. ROTHKO. State took us. Foster homes. People were nice, actually. They kept us together. But they shuffled us around a lot. we were rootless… She’s married to a CPA now.

ROTHKO. KEN. Rootless?

KEN. ROTHKO. Never belonged ... Never had a place.

ROTHKO. KEN. Did they find the guys who did it?

KEN. ROTHKO. No. I paint pictures of them sometimes. (Beat.)

ROTHKO. KEN. You paint pictures of the men who killed your parents?

KEN. ROTHKO. Mm. What I imagine them to look like.

ROTHKO. KEN. Which is what? (Beat.)

KEN. ROTHKO. Normal.

(Beat. Rothko considers comforting Ken in some way, but doesn’t. He moves away, lights a cigarette.)

ROTHKO. KEN. When I was a kid in Russia, I saw the Cossacks cutting people up and tossing them into pits ... At least I think I remember that, maybe someone told me about it, or I’m just being dramatic, hard to say.

(Ken is relieved that Rothko has changed the subject. He continues cleaning up.)

KEN. ROTHKO. How old were you when you came here?

ROTHKO. KEN. Ten. We went to Portland, lived in the ghetto alongside all the other thinky, talky Jews. I was Marcus Rothkowitz then.

KEN. ROTHKO. (Surprised.) You changed your name?

ROTHKO. KEN. My first dealer said he had too many Jewish painters on the books. So Marcus Rothkowitz becomes Mark Rothko. Now nobody knows I’m a Jew!

(Ken smiles. He continues to clean up. Pause.)

KEN. ROTHKO. Can I ask you something?

ROTHKO. KEN. Can I stop you?

KEN. ROTHKO. Are you really scared of black?

ROTHKO. KEN. No, I’m really scared of the absence of light.

KEN. ROTHKO. Like going blind?

ROTHKO. KEN. Like going dead.

KEN. ROTHKO. And you equate the color black with death.

ROTHKO. KEN. Doesn’t everyone?

KEN. ROTHKO. I’m asking you. (Rothko likes that Ken is pushing back)

ROTHKO. KEN. Yes, I equate the color black with the diminution of the life force.

KEN. ROTHKO. Black means decay and darkness?

ROTHKO. KEN. Doesn’t it?

KEN. ROTHKO. Because black is the lack of red, if you will.

ROTHKO. KEN. Because black is the opposite of red. Not on the spectrum, but in reality.

KEN. ROTHKO. I’m talking about in painting.

ROTHKO. KEN. Then talk about painting.

KEN. ROTHKO. In your pictures the bold colors are the Dionysian element, kept in check by the strict geometric shapes, the Apollonian element. The bright colors are your passion, your will to survive — your “life force.” But if black swallows those bright colors then you lose that excess and extravagance, and what do you have left?

ROTHKO. KEN. Go on. I’m fascinated by me.

KEN. ROTHKO. (Undeterred.) Lose those colors and you have order with no content. You have mathematics with no numbers ... Nothing but empty, arid boxes.

ROTHKO. KEN. And trust me, as you get older those colors are harder to sustain. The palate fades and we races to catch it before it’s gone.

KEN. ROTHKO. But ... (He stops.)

ROTHKO. KEN. What?

KEN. ROTHKO. Never mind.

ROTHKO. KEN. What?

KEN. ROTHKO. You’ll get mad.

ROTHKO. KEN. Me?

KEN. ROTHKO. You will.

ROTHKO. KEN. And?

KEN. ROTHKO. I just think ... It’s kind of sentimental to equate black with death. That seems an antiquated notion. Sort of romantic.

ROTHKO. KEN. Romantic?

KEN. ROTHKO. I mean ... not honest.

ROTHKO. KEN. Really?

KEN. ROTHKO. In reality we both know black’s a tool, just like ochre or magenta. It has no effect. Seeing it as malevolent is a weird sort of chromatic anthropomorphizing.

ROTHKO. KEN. You think so? What about equating white with death; like snow?

KEN. ROTHKO. That’s different. That’s just a personal reaction. I’m not building a whole artistic sensibility around it.

ROTHKO. KEN. Maybe you should. (They are growing heated.)

KEN. ROTHKO. I don’t think—

ROTHKO. KEN. Use your own life, why not?

KEN. ROTHKO. It’s not that I —

ROTHKO. KEN. Unless you’re scared of it.

KEN. ROTHKO. I’m not scared.

ROTHKO. KEN. Go into all that white.

KEN. ROTHKO. I’m not scared. It’s just self-indulgent

ROTHKO. KEN. If you say so.

KEN. ROTHKO. Not all art has to be psychodrama.

ROTHKO. KEN. Doesn’t it?

KEN. ROTHKO. No.

ROTHKO. KEN. You paint pictures of the men who killed your parents.

KEN. ROTHKO. That’s not all I paint.

ROTHKO. KEN. Maybe it should be. Then maybe you’d understand what black is.

KEN. ROTHKO. Back to that.

ROTHKO. KEN. Always.

KEN. ROTHKO. At least equating white with death isn’t so predictable.

ROTHKO. KEN. I’m predictable now.

KEN. ROTHKO. Kind of.

ROTHKO. KEN. Dishonest and predictable.

KEN. ROTHKO. Come on, a painter gets older and the color black starts to infuse his work, therefore, the cliché declension goes, he’s depressed, he’s fearing death. he’s losing touch, he’s losing relevance, he’s saying goodbye.

ROTHKO. KEN. That’s a cliché except for when it’s not.

KEN. ROTHKO. But it’s not true.

ROTHKO. KEN. So now you know Truth?

KEN. ROTHKO. Look at Van Gogh; his last pictures are all color. He goes out and paints the most ecstatic yellows and blues know to man — then shoots himself ... Or Matisse, his last works were nothing but great shocks of primary colors.

ROTHKO. KEN. You admire those colors.

KEN. ROTHKO. Absolutely.

ROTHKO. KEN. Why?

KEN. ROTHKO. Well, Matisse ... he was dying, he knew he was dying, but he was still Matisse. When he got too ill to hold a paintbrush he used scissors, cutting up paper and making collages. He never gave up. On his deathbed he was still organizing the color patterns on the ceiling. He had to be who he was.

ROTHKO. KEN. And you think I’m the romantic. Can’t you do any Better than that?

(He continues, angry and derisive.)

Matisse the Dying Hero, struggling with his last puny grasp to create that final masterpiece ... And Jackson Pollock the Beautiful Doomed Youth, dying like Chatterton in his classic Pieta-pose ... And Van Gogh, of course van Gogh, trotted out on all occasions, the ubiquitous symbol for everything, van Gogh the Misunderstood Martyr — You insult these men by reducing them to your own adolescent stereotypes. Grapple with them, yes. Argue with them, always. But don’t think you understand them. Don’t think you have captured time with them and you might get a moment of insight into their pain ... Until then, allow them their grandeur in silence.

(Rothko returns to studying his central painting.)

Silence is so accurate.

(Pause. Rothko seems oblivious to Ken. Ken continues to clean up for a moment. Then he stops, looks at his own painting, wrapped in brown paper. Then he looks at Rothko. Ken unobtrusively picks up his painting and exits briefly. He returns without the painting.)

KEN. ROTHKO. We need some coffee. Mind if I go out?

ROTHKO. KEN. Go on.

(Ken gets some money from the coffee can in which they keep petty cash. He starts to go. Rothko stops him.) Wait. (Rothko looks at him.)

In the National gallery in London there’s a picture by Rembrandt called Belshazzar’s Feast... It’s an Old Testament story from Daniel: Belshazzar, King of Babylon, is giving a fest and he blasphemes, so a divine hand appears and writes some Hebrew words on the wall as a warning... In the painting these words pulsate from the dark canvas like something miraculous. Rembrandt’s Hebrew was atrocious, as you can imagine, but he wrote “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.” ... “You have been weighed in the balance and have been found wanting.” (Beat.) That’s what black is to me ... What is it to you? (Beat.)