Short Imagined Monologues
Send your short imagined monologues to firstname.lastname@example.org.
The Artist Plays Basketball.
Thank you for stopping by while I have a little “me time” out here on the court, away from my studio, though time in my studio is “me time” also, just a different kind, like my morning coffee is “me time,” and my afternoon tea, and lunch, too, because I always take lunch, I’m not in a union but I try to perform being in a union, taking lunch for an hour of me time, because artists should be unionized, don’t you think? And I’m trying to be the change I seek in the world, taking lunch and playing basketball.
And thank you for congratulating me for “getting the ball in the hoop,” not that we should claim any special authority for “getting the ball in the hoop,” that’s so results-oriented, and my studio—when I’m in my studio—is about process, not results, not expecting success, not expecting anything, really, not doing anything, just sitting there—that’s when I’ve really got it. Anyway, what I’m working on, my current project, right here, while I collect the ball against the fence, that shot was close, though shooting the ball is such a harsh idea, I’d like to challenge it—what I’m working on here is a kind of post-studio practice, and I’d like to involve the community in some way, though not like the other day, when I had to chase away those neighborhood kids when they tried to steal my keys and wallet off the ground, but in a different way. Though maybe if I videotaped myself, chasing away those kids? And if the audience couldn’t tell if it was totally real or staged? A skinny white guy in hip-nerd glasses, flapping my arms like a startled chicken or perhaps a thoughtful chicken, at an African-American teenager who is, from a place of understandable economic desperation, flipping through my wallet? Or maybe just doing so ironically? How would that sound, like as a grant application?
That one was close, too, not totally in the hoop, sure, but near it in some important way, and this discussion makes me think that what I’m really trying to do—there’s that kid again, we should keep an eye on him, but ironically, and with a sense of guilt about gentrification—what I’m really trying to do is re-contextualize the idea that I’m trying to “get the ball in the hoop,” or that I should be trying to “get the ball in the hoop,” I really don’t want to be oppressed by that expectation, unless of course you would pay via cash or money order for me get the ball in the hoop, in which case I’ll gladly direct you to my gallery.
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