Art is a Privilege

The wound keep it open. All the hurt keep it close. Work on it over and over. Give nothing, nothing, away. Like a house with dirty windows let out nothing, not even light.

Let it out! 

The young woman cries.

Let it go. 

But I…I…I… 

Open that window! 

And spring into the morning air.

Letting it out, Louise releases herself into a head tattooed quickly with tapestry; where she works on it, over and over, giving nothing, nothing, away. 

This queen must create her court…

A crowd gathers at the windows; beautiful brocades screaming to the pedestrians passing by: Let us out! Open up! Help us! Let us go! Please! Please! they plead. So polite in their distress.

Like guards in a gallery.

Louise joins the crowd, separating a distraught Mary Ann from her anguished mother, third floor, second across. Opening a window she blows the child into the balcony shrouding herself in pain and despair. Hi there! So glad you could make it; smiling, waving; laughing outrageously…

Cracks in a façade of sorrow. 

What a wonderful show. 

This is marvellous! 

When shall we see you? 

But they won’t let me go! 

Marcus clambers up a drainpipe.

That’s it. Save me!

The beautiful people look glumly down. 

Wow! Marcus is knocking on the glass, staring through his face into fear and helplessness. Let me in! Let me in! He laughs at the frigid horror. This is amazing! Come up you lot… 

We are waiting for Louise. They wait at the door, their faces carefully composed, ready for welcome. There you are! An exchange of exclamations, then kisses, pro-functionally but profuse, like birds pecking seed. They’re wonderful! Beth, Fay, the tiny Lady Agatha squeezes into the hall past the chatelaine’s impish delight. Got you! The door shuts with a clattering laugh: Hahaha!

The curtains remain still, silent, drawn. I’m up here everybody.