Candy Galore here, catching her breath.
Crime caper in California delayed my Valentine’s Day celebration with M. He so looks forward to them. Promised to make it up to him.
Caught the red eye flight and drove to Ridgefield with my copy of John Logan’s two character play RED, about the artist Mark Rothlko. Saw it on Broadway a few years back. Alfred Molina should have won the Tony for his bravura performance as Rothko. Nailed it. Hot stuff.
Plan was to perform a dramatic reading of my favorite moments from this play. I, of course, would act the Rothko part; M. would read Ken, Rothko’s young assistant (for which Eddie Redmayne did win the Tony.)
After downing a bottle of Pol Roger, M. and I channeled our most actor-ly selves. We read with great passion (or it could it have been the champagne speaking). Pretty spectacular.
Rothko and Ken engage in an explosive, rapid fire exchange about what the color red means:
“…the emotion of red at sunrise….heart beat…passion…Red wine. Red roses. Red beets. Lipstick. Tulips. Peppers. Arterial Blood. Rust on the bike on the lawn. Apples. Tomatoes. Dresden firestorm at night. The sun in Rousseau, the flag in Delacroix, the robe in El Greco. A rabbit’s nose. An albino’s eyes. A parakeet. Florentine marble. Atomic flash. Nick yourself shaving, blood on the Barbasol. The ruby slippers. Technicolor. That phone to the Kremlin on the President’s desk. Russian flag. Nazi flag. Chinese flag. Pomegranates. Red light district. Red tape. Rouge. Lava. Lobsters. Scorpions. Stop sign. Sports car. A blush. Viscera. Flame. Dead Fauvists. Traffic lights. Titian hair. Slash your wrists. Blood in the sink. Santa Claus. Satan….” (RED by John Logan, published by Oberon Modern Plays, 2012)
“So M.,” I whispered, “what does ‘red’ mean to you?”
“Ritter Sport Marzipan, Candy,” he said, while opening a second bottle of Pol Roger.
“Ooooh, yeah!” I said. Whatta guy, I thought.
“And you?” he asked.
The booze, the emotions, the energy… all converged at that moment. ” Rum… Raaay…Haze…”
After a brief intermission, my head cleared, and I finished my thought: “Rum, Raisins and Hazelnuts, Sweetie.”
Then we both stared quietly at a print of Barnett Newman’s Vir Heroicus Sublimis (translation: Man, Heroic and Sublime). The original hangs in MOMA. Gaze at it long enough and the canvas begins to vibrate. Really. No substances required. Although I would recommend a Ritter Sport red foiled bar to heighten the experience.