American Playhouse (1981–…): Season 5, Episode 19 - Sunday in the Park with George - full transcript

"White."

A blank page or canvas.

The challenge:

Bring order to the whole

Through design.

Composition.

Balance.

Light.

And harmony.

Now I want you
to look out at the water.

- I feel foolish.
- Why?



I hate this thing.

Then why wear it?

Why wear it?
Everyone's wearing them.

Everyone?

- You know they are.
- Stand still, please.

I read they're even
wearing them in America.

They are fighting Indians in America.
And you cannot read.

I can read—

A little.

Why did we have to get up so early?

- The light.
- Oh.

- What's the matter?
- I hate this tree!

- I thought you were drawing me.
- I am, I am.

Just stand still.



I wish we could go sailing.

Wouldn't go this
early in the day, though.

Could you drop your head a little, please?

Dot—

If you wish to be a good model,
you must learn to concentrate.

Hold the pose.

Look out at the water.

Thank you.

Where is that tree?

Nurse! Nurse!

My God! She's everywhere.

- Nurse!
- What is it, Madame?

The tree, the tree... Where is our tree?

- What tree?
- The tree we always sit near.

Someone has moved it.

No one has moved it, Madame.

- It's right over there. Come along.
- Do not push me.

- I am not pushing, I am helping.
- You are pushing,

and I do not need any help.

- Yes, Madame.
- And this is not our tree!

Yes, Madame.

- I do not envy the nurse.
- She can read.

They were talking
about you at La Coupole.

- Oh?
- Hmm.

Saying strange things.

They have so little to speak of,
they must speak of me?

Were you at the zoo, George?

Drawing the monkey cage?
- Not the monkey cage.

They said they saw you.

The monkeys, Dot.
Not the cage.

Is this true?

Why draw monkeys?

- Nurse, what is that?
- What, Madame?

That! Off in the distance.

They are making way for the exposition.

What exposition?

The International Exposition.

They're going to build a tower.

Another exposition...

They say it is going to be the
tallest structure in the world.

More foreigners.
I am sick of foreigners.

More boats.

More trees.

George.

Why is it you always
get to sit in the shade,

While I have to stand in the sun?

George?

Hello, George?

There is someone in this dress!

A trickle of sweat.

The back of the head.

He always does this.

Now the foot is dead.

Sunday in the park with George.

One more S—

The collar is damp,

Beginning to pinch.

The bustle's slipping—

I won't budge one inch.

Who was at the zoo, George?

Who was at the zoo?

The monkeys and who, George?

The monkeys and who?

Don't move, please.

Artists are bizarre. Fixed. Cold.

That's you, George,
you're bizarre. Fixed. Cold.

I like that in a man.
Fixed. Cold.

God, it's hot out here.

Well, there are worse things
than staring at the water on a Sunday.

There are worse things
than staring at the water

as you're posing for a picture
being painted by your lover

in the middle of the summer
on an island in the river on a Sunday.

The petticoat's wet,

Which adds to the weight.

The sun is blinding.

All right, concentrate.
- Eyes open, please.

Sunday in the park with George...

Look out at the water, not at me.

Sunday in the park with George.

Concentrate...

Concentrate...

Well, if you want bread,
and respect, and attention,

Not to say connection,
modeling's no profession.

If you want instead, when you're dead,

Some more public or
more permanent expression

Of affection

You want a painter, poet,
sculptor, preferably:

Marble, granite, bronze—durable.

Something nice with swans
that's durable

Forever.

All it has to be is good.

And George, you're good.

You're really good.

George's stroke is tender.

George's touch is pure.

Your eyes, George...

I love your eyes, George.

I love your beard, George.

I love your size, George.

But most, George, of all...

But most of all,

I love your painting...

I think I'm fainting...

The tip of a stay.

Right under the tit.

No, don't give in, just

Lift the arm a bit.

Don't lift the arm, please.

Sunday in the park with George.

The bustle high, please.

Not even a nod.

As if I were trees.

The ground could open,

He would still say "please."

Never know with you, George.

Who could know with you?

The others I knew, George.

Before we get through,
I'll get to you, too.

God, I am so hot!

Well, there are worse things
than staring at the water on a Sunday.

There are worse things
than staring at the water

As you're posing for a picture
after sleeping on the ferry

After getting up at seven
to come over to an island

In the middle of a river
half an hour from the city

On a Sunday.

On a Sunday

In the park with—

Don't move the mouth!

George!

I'm getting tired.

The sun is too strong today.

Almost finished.

I'd rather be in the studio, George.

I know.

They're out early today.

It is Sunday, Madame.

That is what I mean, Nurse.

Young boys out swimming
so early on a Sunday?

Well, it is awfully warm.

- Hand me my parasol.
- I am, Madame.

- Oh, no.
- What?

- Oh, look. Look who's over there.
- So?

So? When he's around,
you know who's likely to follow.

You have moved your arm.

George, I think they're spying on
you. I really do.

Are you going to hold your head still?

- You're here awfully early today.
- Ja. So are you.

- And working on a Sunday.
- Ja...

It's a beautiful day.

It is too hot.

Do you think?

Where is my fan?

I have to go back now.

- Nurse, my fan!
- You did not bring it today, Madame.

Of course I brought it!

Perhaps we will see each other later?

- Perhaps.
- There it is, over there.

That is my fan.

Well, I can use it, can I not?
It was just lying there.

What is all that commotion?

Oh, dear.

Oh, my.

Oh, my dear.

It has no presence.

No passion.

No life.

It's neither pastoral nor lyrical.

You don't suppose
that it's satirical?

Just density without intensity.

No life.

Boys with their clothes off.

I must paint a factory next!

It's so mechanical.

Methodical.

It might be in some dreary
socialistic periodical.

Good.

So drab, so cold.

And so controlled.

No life.

His touch is too deliberate, somehow.

The dog!

These things get hung.

And then they're gone.

Of course, he's young.

But getting on.

All mind, no heart.

No life in his art.

No life in his life.

No

Life.

There's that famous artist.

What's his name?

What is his name?

I can never remember their names.

- George! Out very early today.
- Hello, Jules.

A lovely day.

I couldn't be out sketching
today —it's too sunny.

Have you seen the painting yet?

Yes. I was just going to say.
Boys bathing—what a curious subject.

- We must speak.
- I loved the dog.

I am pleased there was
an independent exhibition.

We must speak.

- Enjoy the weather.
- Yes. Good day.

That dress!

I hate them.

- Jules is a fine painter.
- I don't care. I hate them.

- Franz!
- We are waiting!

Ja. Madame, Monsieur.
At your service.

Thank you.

- I began to do it.
- What?

- Concentrate, like you said.
- You did very well.

- Did I really?
- Yes. I will meet you back at the studio.

You're not coming?

Not now.

Dot. We'll go to
the Follies tonight.

- Bon jour.
- Bon jour, Monsieur.

- Lovely morning, ladies.
- Yes.

- I have my pad and crayons today.

- Oh, that would be lovely—
- Not today!

- Why not today?
- Too warm.

Yes it is warm, but it won't take long.
You may go about your business—

Some other day, Monsieur.

It's George, Mother.

I guess we will all be back.

George taught me all
about concentration.

"The art of being still," he said.

I guess I didn't learn it soon enough.

George likes to be alone.

Sometimes he will work
all night long painting.

We fought about that. I need sleep.

I love to dream.

George doesn't need as much
sleep as everyone else.

And he never tells me his dreams.

George has many secrets.

Order.

Design.

Composition.

Tone.

Form.

Symmetry.

Balance.

More red.

And a little more red.

Blue blue blue blue.

Even, even.

Good.

More red.

More blue.

More beer.

More light!

Color and light.

There's only color and light.

Yellow and white.

Just blue and yellow and white.

Look at the air, Miss—

See what I mean?

No, look over there, Miss—

That's done with green.

Conjoined with orange...

Nothing seems to fit me right.

The less I wear,
the more comfortable I feel.

More rouge.

George is very special.

Maybe I'm just not
special enough for him.

If my legs were longer.

If my bust was smaller.

If my hands were graceful.

If my waist was thinner.

If my hips were flatter.

If my voice was warm.

If I could concentrate.

I'd be in the Follies.

I'd be in a cabaret.

Gentlemen in tall silk hats
with linen spats

Would wait with flowers.

I could make them wait for hours.

Giddy young aristocrats
with fancy flats

Who'd drink my health,
and I would be as hard as nails.

And they'd only want me more.

If I was a Folly girl.

Nah, I wouldn't like it much.

Married men and stupid boys,

And too much smoke,
and all that noise,

And all that color and light.

Aren't you proper today, Miss?

Your parasol so properly cocked,

Your bustle so perfectly upright.

No doubt your chin rests at just
the proper angle from your chest.

And you, Sir. Your hat so black.

So black to you, perhaps.
So red to me.

None of the others worked at night.

So composed for a Sunday.

How do you work without
the right, bright, white light?

How do you fathom George?

Red red red red,
red red orange, red red orange,

Orange pick up blue,
pick up red, pick up orange

From the blue-green blue-green
blue-green circle on the violet diagonal—

Di-ag-ag-ag-ag-ag-o-nal-nal—

yellow comma yellow comma...

Blue blue blue blue,
blue still sitting,

Red that perfume,
blue all night,

Blue-green the window shut,
dut dut dut,

Dot Dot sitting, Dot Dot waiting,
Dot Dot getting fat fat fat.

More yellow!
Dot Dot waiting to go out out out.

But no no no, George,
finish the hat, finish the hat,

Have to finish the hat first

It's hot in here!

Sunday!

Color and light!

- There's only color and light.
- But how George looks. He could look forever.

As if he sees you and
he doesn't, all at once.

- Purple and white.
- What is he thinking when he looks like that?

But what does he see?
Sometimes not even blinking.

Look at this glade, girls—
your cool blue spot.

His eyes, so dark and shiny.

No, stay in the shade, girls.

- It's getting hot.
- Some think cold and black.

It's getting orange.

But it's warm inside his eyes.

Hotter.

And it's soft inside his eyes.

And he burns you with his eyes.

Look at her looking.

And you're studied like the light.

Forever with that mirror.

What does she see?

The round face.

The tiny pout.

The soft mouth.

The creamy skin.

- And you look inside the eyes.
- The pink lips, the red cheeks.

- And you catch him here and there.
- The wide eyes.

- Studying the round face.
- But he's never really there.

The tiny pout. Seeing all of the
parts and none of the whole.

So you want him even more.

But the way she catches light.

- And you drown inside his eyes.
- And the color of her hair.

- I could look at him
- I could look at her

Forever

It's going well.

Should I wear my red dress or blue?

Red.

Aren't you going to clean up?

Why?

The Follies, George.

I have to finish the hat.

Damn.

Follies.

Will she yell or stay silent?

Go without me or sulk in the corner?

Will she be in the bed,
when the hat and the grass

And the parasol have
finally found their way?

Too green.
Do I care?

Too blue.
Yes.

Too soft.

What should I do?

Well.

Red.

The water looks different on Sunday.

It is the same water
you boat on all week.

It looks different from the park.

You prefer watching the boats
to the people promenading?

People all dressed up in their
Sunday best, pretending.

Sunday's just another day.
I wear what I always wear—

- Then I don't have to worry.
- Worry?

They leave me alone dressed like this.

No one comes near.

- Look who's over there.
- Dot!

- Who is she with?
- It looks like Louis the baker.

Well, how did Dot
get to be with Louis?

She knows how to make dough rise!

There is that woman.

- Who is she with?
- It looks like the baker.

Moving up, I suppose.

The artist is more handsome.

You cannot eat paintings, my dear—
not when there's bread in the oven.

They say he's working
on an enormous canvas.

I heard somewhere
he's painting little specks.

You heard it from me!
A large canvas of specks. Really.

- Look at him. Drawing a slovenly boatman.
- I think he's trying to play with light.

- What next?
- A monkey cage, they say.

Sunday hypocrites.
That's what they are.

Muttering and murmuring
about this one and that one.

I'll take my old dog
for company any day.

A dog knows his place.

Respects your privacy.
Makes no demands.

- Right, Spot?
- Right.

- They say that George has another woman.
- I'm not surprised.

They say that George
only lives with tramps.

I'm not surprised.

They say he prowls through
the streets in his top hat after midnight—

- No!
- And stands there staring up at the lamps.

- I'm not surprised.
- Artists are so crazy.

Those girls are noisy.

Yes, Madame.

- That man is famous.
- Yes, Madame.

- That man is filthy.
- Your son seems to find him interesting.

That man's deluded.

Artists are so crazy.

Artists are so peculiar.

Monkeys!

Overprivileged women complaining,

Silly little simpering shopgirls,

Condescending artists "observing",

"Perceiving".

Well, screw them!

Artists are so crazy.

- Secretive.
- High and mighty.

- Interesting.
- Unfeeling.

What do you do with
these drawings, anyway?

That's George.

There's a move on to include
his work in the next group show.

Never!

I agree.

I agree.

He draws anyone.

Old boatman.

Peculiar man.

Like his father, I said.

I said so first.

"Lesson number eight:

"Pronouns."

Pronouns.

"What is a pronoun?"

"A pronoun is the word"

"Used in the place of a noun."

"Do you recall what a noun is?"

Well certainly, I recall.

"Example: Charles has a book."

"Marie wants Charles' book."

Not Marie again.

"Marie wants his book."

"Fill in the blanks.
Charles ran with Marie's ball."

"Charles ran with..."

H -

E -

R -

ball.

Get the ball back, Marie.

- Children should not go unattended.
- She is very young to be alone.

I do not like what
I see today, Nurse.

- What do you see?
- Lack of discipline.

Not the right direction at all.

Fools rowing.
Call that recreation?

Almost finished.

Get away from that dog!

That was hardly necessary.

How do you know what's necessary?

Who are you, with your
fancy pad and crayons?

You call that work?

You smug goddam holier-than-thou

shitty little men in your fancy clothes—

Born with pens and pencils, not pricks!

You don't know!

Well, what are you going to do,
now that you've got no one to draw?

Don't talk to him.

I am drawing his dog.

- His dog!
- Honestly...

- I have already sketched you ladies.
- What?

- You have?
- I don't believe you.

- But when?
- A few Sundays ago.

- But we never sat for you.
- I studied you from afar.

No!

- Where were you?
- I want to see.

- Someday you shall.
- When?!

Good day.

He did not so much as ask.

No respect for a person's privacy.

I would not sit for him anyway.

Probably that's why he didn't ask.

Good afternoon.

Hello.

Lesson number eight?

Yes.

Pronouns.

My writing's improving.
I even keep notes

In the back of the book.

Good for you.

How's your painting coming along?

Slowly.

Do you find you're getting
more work done

now that you have fewer
distractions in the studio?

It has been quiet there.

-Dot, I made your favorite...
- Good day.

Creampuffs.

If the head was smaller.
If the tail were longer.

If he faced the water.
If the paws were hidden.

If the neck was darker.
If the back was curved.

More like the parasol.

More shade.

More tail.
More grass.

Would you like some more grass?

Thanks! The week has been rough!

When you're stuck for
life on a garbage scow—

Only 40 feet long from
stern to prow,

And a crackpot in the bow—

The planks are rough,

And the wind is rough,
and the master's drunk and mean and...

With the fish and scum
and planks and ballast,

The nose gets numb
and the paws get calloused.

And with splinters in your ass,
you look forward to the grass on Sunday.

The day off!

The grass needs to be thicker.
Perhaps a few weeds.

With some ants, if you would.
I love fresh ants.

Roaming around on Sunday,

Poking among the roots and rocks.

Nose to the ground on Sunday,

Studying all the shoes and socks.
Everything's worth it Sunday...

The day off.

Bits of pastry.
Piece of chicken.

Here's a handkerchief
that somebody was sick in.

There's a thistle.
That's a shallot.

That's a dripping from
the loony with the palette.

Out for the day on Sunday,
off of my lady's lap at last.

Yapping away on Sunday.

Helps you forget the week just past.

Everything's worth it Sunday.

The day off.

Stuck all week on a lady's lap,

Nothing to do but yawn and nap,

Can you blame me if I yap?

Nope.

There's only so much
attention a dog can take.

Being alone on Sunday,
rolling around in mud and dirt.

Begging a bone on Sunday,

settling for a spoiled dessert.

- Everything's worth it— Sunday.
- The day off.

- Something fuzzy.
- Something furry.

Something pink that
someone tore off in a hurry.

What's the muddle

In the middle?

That's the puddle
where the poodle did a piddle.

Taking the day on Sunday,
now that the dreary week is dead.

Getting away on Sunday
brightens the dreary week ahead.

Everyone's on display on Sunday.

The day off!

Bonnet flapping,
bustle sliding,

Like a rocking horse
that nobody's been riding.

There's a daisy, and some clover,

And that interesting
fellow looking over.

Nurse!

One day is much like any other,

Listening to her snap and drone.

Still, Sunday with
someone's dotty mother

is better than Sunday with your own.

Mothers may drone, mothers may whine—

tending to his, though,
is perfectly fine.

It pays for the nurse
that is tending to mine.

On Sunday.

My day off.

This is just ridiculous.

- Why shouldn't we fish?
- No one'll notice us anyway.

- Look!
- Where?

Soldiers!

- Alone!
- What did I tell you?

Well, they'll never
talk to us if we fish.

It's a beautiful day for fishing.

What do you think?

I like the one in the light hat.

- Frieda! Frieda!
- Oh, no!

- Not now, Louise.
- I want to play.

Go away, Louise.
We are not working today.

Let's go throw stones at the ducks.

Louise! Do not throw
stones at the ducks!

Why not?

You know why not, and
you know this is our day off.

So, go find your mother and throw
some stones at her, why don't you?

Franz!

- I'm telling.
- Good! Go!

Relax.

Ja... relax.

Second bottle...

Ah, she looks for me.

He is bursting to go.

- Near the fountain.
- I could let him.

- How to manage it?
- No.

You know, Franz, I believe
that artist is drawing us.

- Who?
- Monsieur's friend.

Monsieur would never
think to draw us.

We are only people he
looks down upon.

I should have been an artist.

I was never intended for work.

Artists work, Franz.
I believe they work very hard.

Work!

We work

We serve their food,
we carve their meat,

We tend to their house,
we polish their silverware.

The food we serve,
we also eat.

For them, we rush,

Wash, and brush,
wipe and wax—

Franz, relax.

While he "creates,"
we scrape their plates

And dust their knickknacks,
hundreds to the shelf.

Work is what you do
for others.

Liebchen.
Art is what you do for yourself.

Working on Sunday again?

- You should give yourself a day off.
- Why?

You must need time to replenish.

Or does your well never run dry?

Drawing my servants?

Certainly, George, you could
find more colorful subjects.

Who should I be sketching?

How about that pretty
friend of yours?

Why did I see her arm-in-arm
with the baker today?

She is a pretty subject.

Yes.

Your life needs spice, George.

Go to some parties. That's where
you'll meet prospective buyers.

Have some fun. The work
is bound to reflect—

You don't like my work,
do you Jules?

- I did once.
- You find it too tight.

People are talking about your work.

- You have your admirers—
- I am using a different brushstroke.

Always changing!
Why keep changing?

Because I do not
paint for your approval.

And I suppose that is
why I like you.

Good to see you, George.

Jules.

I would like you to come to the
studio some time, see the new work.

For my approval?

No, for your opinion.

Very well.

You and me, pal,
we're the loonies.

Did you know that?
Bet you didn't know that.

'Cause we tell them the truth!

Who you drawing?

Who the hell do you
think you're drawing?

Me?
You don't know me!

Go on drawing.

Since you're drawing only
what you want to see, anyway!

One eye, no illusion—
that you get with two:

One for what is true,
one for what suits you.

Draw your wrong conclusion—
All you artists do.

I see what is true.

Sitting there, looking
everyone up and down.

Studying every move like
you see something different—

Like your eyes know more.

You and me, pal,
we're society's fault!

Taking the day on Sunday,

After another week is dead.
- Nurse!

Getting away on Sunday.
Brightens the dreary week ahead.

Nurse!

Leaving the city pressure behind you.

Off where the air is fresher,

Where green, blue blind you.

Hello, George.

Where did you go, George?

I know you're near, George.

I caught your eyes, George.

I want your ear, George.

I've a surprise, George.

Everybody loves Louis.
Louis's simple and kind.

Everybody loves Louis.
Louis's lovable.

Seems we never know, do we,
who we're going to find?

And Louis the baker

Is not what I had in mind.

But, Louis's really an artist.
Louis's cakes are an art.

Louis isn't the smartest.
Louis's popular.

Everybody loves Louis.
Louis bakes from the heart.

The bread, George.

I mean, the bread, George.

And then in bed, George.

I mean, he kneads me—

I mean, like dough, George.

Hello, George!

Louis's always so pleasant.
Louis's always so fair.

Louis makes you feel present.
Louis's generous.

That's the thing about Louis.

Louis always is there.

Louis's thoughts are not hard to follow.

Louis's art is not hard to swallow.

Not that Louis's perfection—
that's what makes him ideal.

Hardly anything worth objection:

Louis drinks a bit,
Louis blinks a bit.

Louis makes a connection—

That's the thing that you feel.

We lose things.

And then we choose things.

And there are Louis's,

And there are Georges—

Well

Louis's

And George.

But George has George,

And I need

Someone!

Louis!

Everybody loves Louis,

Him as well as his cakes.

Everybody loves Louis—

Me included, George.

Not afraid to be gooey,
Louis sells what he makes.

Everybody gets along with him.

That's the trouble—

Nothing's wrong with him.

Louis has to bake his way,
George can only bake his.

Louis it is!

Paris looks nothin' like the paintings.

I know.

I don't see any passion, do you?

None.

The French are so placid.

I don't think they
have much style, either.

What's all the carryin' on back home?

Delicious pastries, though.

Excellent.

Lookin' at the boats over there,
makes me think of our return voyage.

I long to be back home.

You do?

How soon could we leave?

You're that anxious to leave?
But, Peaches, we just arrived!

I know.

I don't like it here either.

We'll go right back to the hotel, and
I'll book passage for the end of the week.

We'll go to the galleries this afternoon,
and be on our way home.

I am so relieved!

I am gonna miss
these pastries, though.

We'll take a baker with us, too.

Wonderful.

You really should try
using that pole.

It won't make any difference.

What's wrong?

Just sit there.

May we be of some service, Madame?

- Mademoiselle.
- She has a fish.

- He knows.
- Allow me.

It tugged so...

There's no sign of fish here.

Oh, me!

My name is Celeste.

This is my friend—

Celeste.

Do you have a name?

I beg your pardon.

Napoleon.

- Some people think I should change it.
- No.

And your friend?

Yes. He is my friend.

He's very quiet.

Yes, actually he is.

He lost his hearing
during combat exercises.

What a shame.

He can't speak, either.

- How dreadful!
- We've become very close, though.

So I see.

Mademoiselles

I and my friend,

We are but soldiers!

Passing the time,

In between wars
for weeks at an end.

- Both of them are perfect.
- You can have the other.

- I don't want the other.
- I don't want the other either.

And after a week
spent mostly indoors

With nothing but soldiers,

Ladies, I and my friend

Trust we will not offend,

Which we'd never intend,

- By suggesting we spend
- Oh, spend!

- This magnificent Sunday
- Oh, Sunday.

With you and your friend.

The one on the right's
an awful bore.

He's been in a war.

We may get a meal,
and we might get more.

It's certainly fine for Sunday.

It's certainly fine for Sunday.

It's certainly fine for Sunday.

Mademoiselles...

You and me, pal.

Second bottle.

She looks for me.

Bonnet flapping.

Yapping.

Ruff!
Chicken.

Pastry.

Yes, she looks for me.

Good.

Let her look for me,
to tell me why she left me—

As I always knew she would.

I had thought she understood.

They have never understood
and no reason that they should.

But if anybody could.

Finishing the hat.

How you have to finish the hat.

How you watch the rest of
the world from a window

While you finish the hat.

Mapping out a sky.

What you feel like, planning a sky.

What you feel when voices
that come through the window go

Until they distance and die,

Until there's nothing but sky.

And how you're always
turning back too late

From the grass or the stick
or the dog or the light.

How the kind of woman
willing to wait's

Not the kind that you
want to find waiting

To return you to the night.

Dizzy from the height.

Coming from the hat.

Studying the hat.

Entering the world of the hat.

Reaching through the world
of the hat like a window,

Back to this one from that.

Studying a face.

Stepping back to look at a face

Leaves a little space in the way,
like a window.

But to see—

It's the only way to see.

And when the woman
that you wanted goes,

You can say to yourself,
"Well, I give what I give."

But the woman who won't
wait for you knows that

However you live,
there's a part of you

Always standing by,
Mapping out the sky,

Finishing a hat.

Starting on a hat.

Finishing a hat.

Look, I made a hat.

Where there never was a hat.

Excusez, Masseur.

We are lost.

Let me try, Daddy.

We -

Are alien here.

Unable to find -

Passage off island.

Why don't you just walk into the water
until your lungs fill up and you die?

Well.

I detest these people.

Isn't that the baker?

Why, yes it is!

Where is that tree? Nurse!

Nurse!

You're almost finished.

If I do not change my mind again.

- And you?
- Two more months.

- You cannot change your mind.
- Nor do I want to.

Is it going to be exhibited?

I'm not sure.

Jules is coming over to look at it.
Any minute, in fact.

I hope you don't mind my coming.

What is it that you want, Dot?

George, I would
like my painting.

Your painting?

- The one of me powdering.
- I did not know that it was yours.

- Well, you said once I could have it.
- In my sleep?

I want something to remember you by.

You don't have enough now?

I want the painting, too.

I understand you and Louis
are getting married.

Yes.

He must love you very much
to take you in that condition.

He does.

I did not think that you
would go through with it.

I did not think that was
what you really wanted.

Oh, I don't think I can
have what I really want.

Louis's what I think I need.

Yes, Louis will take you
to the Follies, correct?!

- George?
- Back here, Jules.

- I will go.
- Don't leave, please!

There you are.
I brought Yvonne along.

- May I take a peek?
- I'll wait in the other room.

I hope we are not interrupting you.

It's so large!

How can you get any perspective?
And this light.

Stand here.

Extraordinary!

Excuse me.

Talk of painting bores me.

It is hard to escape it
when you're with an artist.

I do not know how you can walk up
all those steps in your condition.

I remember when I had Louise,

I could never be on my feet
for long periods of time—

Certainly could never
navigate steps.

Did someone carry you around?

Why are you so cool to me?

Maybe I don't like you.

Whatever have I done
to make you feel that way?

"Whatever have I done?"
Perhaps it is the way you speak.

What are you really doing here?

You know why we are here.
So that Jules can look at George's work.

I do not understand
why George invites you.

He knows you don't
like his painting.

That is not entirely true.

Jules has great respect for George.

And he has encouraged him
since they were in school.

That's not what I hear.

Jules is jealous of George now.

Well.

Jealousy is a form of
flattery, is it not?

I have been jealous
of you on occasion.

When I have seen George
drawing you in the park.

Jules has rarely sketched me.

You are his wife.

Too flat. Too angular.

Modeling is hard work.

You wouldn't like it anyway.

It is worth it, don't you think?

Sometimes.

Has your life changed much,
now that you are with the baker?

I suppose.

He enjoys caring for me.

You are very lucky.

I suppose Jules cares,
but there are times when he just–

Does not know
Louise and I are there.

George always seems so
oblivious to everyone.

Jules says that is what is
wrong with his painting:

Too obsessive.

You have to have a life.
Don't you agree?

George.

I do not know what to say.

What is this?

What is the dominant color?
The flower on the hat?

- Is this a school exam, George?
- What is that color?

Violet.

See?

Red and blue.

- Your eye made the violet.
- So?

So, your eye is perceiving
both red and blue and violet.

Only eleven colors—no black—divided,

Not mixed on the palette,
mixed by the eye.

- Can't you see the shimmering?
- George, I ca—

Science, Jules.
Fixed laws for color, like music.

You are a painter, not a scientist!

- You can't even see these faces!
- I am not painting faces.

George! I have touted
your work in the past,

You are embarrassing me.

People are talking about—

Why should I paint like
you or anybody else?

I'm trying to get through
to something new.

Something that is my own.

And I am trying to understand.

And I want you to understand.

Look at the canvas, Jules.

- Really look at it.
- George, let us get to the point.

You've invited me here, because

you want me to try to get
this included in the next group show.

It will be finished soon.

I want it to be seen.

Jules, I am sorry to interrupt,
but you know we must be going.

- We have another engagement.
- Yes.

Thank you, George.

Yes.

Thank you.

Thank you.
Thank you for coming.

I will give the
matter some thought.

He does not like you.

He does not understand
or appreciate you.

He can only see you as
everyone else does.

Afraid to take you apart and put
you back together again for himself.

But we will not let
anyone deter us, will we?

George!

Excuse me. Speaking with
Jules about the painting.

George, you asked me to stay
and then forget I'm even here.

I do not believe he even looked
at the painting, though.

- George, I have something to tell you.
- Yes. Now, about "your" painting.

I may be going away.

To America.

Alone?

Of course not, with Louis.
He has work.

When?

After the baby arrives.

You will not like it there.

- How do you know?
- I have read about America.

Why are you telling me this?

First, you ask for a painting
that is not yours,

Then you tell me this.

I have work to do.

Yes, George, run to your work.

Hide behind your painting.

I've come to tell you that I'm leaving
because I thought you might care to know.

Foolish of me because
you care about nothing!

I care about many things.

Things.

Not people.

People, too. I cannot divide
my feelings up as neatly as you.

And I am not hiding
behind my canvas—

- What you care for is yourself.
- I care for this painting.

- You will be in this painting—
- I am something you can use.

- I had thought you understood.
- It's because I understand that I left...

- That I am leaving.
- There's nothing I can say, is there?

Yes, George, there is.
You could tell me not to go!

Say it to me.
Tell me not to go!

Tell me that you're hurt,
tell me you're relieved,

Tell me that you're bored—
Anything!

But don't assume I know.

Tell me what you feel.

What I feel?

You know exactly how I feel.

Why do you insist
you must hear the words,

When you know
I cannot give you words?

Not the ones you need.

There's nothing to say.
I cannot be what you want.

- What do you want, George?
- I needed you, and you left.

- There was no room for me—
- You will not accept who I am.

I am what I do—

Which you knew,
which you always knew,

Which I thought
you were a part of!

No, you are complete, George.

You are your own.

We do not belong together.

You are complete, George.
You all alone.

I am unfinished,

I am diminished,
with or without you.

We do not belong together,

And we should have
belonged together.

What made it so right together

Is what made it all wrong.

No one is you, George—
There we agree.

But others will do, George.

No one is you,
and no one can be.

But no one is me, George,
no one is me.

We do not belong together.

And we'll never belong...

You have a mission,
a mission to see.

Now I have one, too, George.

And we should have belonged

Together.

I have to move on.

I remember when
you were a little boy.

You would rise up early on a
Sunday morning and go for a swim.

I do not know how to swim.

The boys would come
by the house to get you.

I've always been
petrified of the water.

And your father would walk you
all to the banks of the Seine.

Father was never faithful to us.

And he would give you
boys careful instruction,

Telling you just
how far to swim out.

- And he certainly never instructed.
- Now, look across there—

In the distance,
all those beautiful trees

Cut down for a foolish tower.

I do not think there
were ever trees there.

How I loved the view from here.

Changing.

I'm quite certain that
was an open field.

It keeps changing.

I used to play there as a child.

I see towers
where there were trees.

Going,

All the stillness,

The solitude,

Georgie.

Sundays,
disappearing

All the time,

When things were beautiful.

All things are beautiful,

Mother.

All trees, all towers, beautiful.

That tower—beautiful,
Mother, see?

A perfect tree.

Pretty isn't beautiful,
Mother.

Pretty is what changes.

What the eye arranges

- Is what is beautiful
- Fading...

I'm changing.
You're changing.

- It keeps fading...
- I'll draw us now before we fade,

It keeps melting
before our eyes.

You watch while
I revise the world.

Changing...
As we sit here.

Quick, draw it all,

Georgie!

Sundays.

Disappearing,
as we look.

Look!

You make it beautiful.

Oh, Georgie,
how I long for the old view.

I was glad to be free of him.

Friends can be confining.

He never understood my moods.

She only thought of herself.

It felt as if I had this burden at my side.

She never really cared for me.

- We had very different tastes.
- She had no taste.

Yes, she did seem
rather pushy.

Oh, very! And he was so odd.

He's not odd!

No. I didn't really mean odd.

You better hope I don't get my
hands on you, you little toad.

- Stop that!
- Are we ever gonna get home?!

You're blocking my light.

- Marie and I came to watch.
- Marie?

You know I do not like anyone
staring over my shoulder.

Yes.

I know.

George, we're about
to leave for America.

I've come to ask for the
painting of me powdering again.

I would like to take it with me.

I have repainted it.

- What?
- Another model.

- You knew I wanted it.
- Perhaps if you had remained still—

Perhaps if you would
look up from your pad!

What is wrong with you, George?

Can you not even look
at your own child?

She is not my child.
Louis is her father.

Louis is not her father.

Louis is her father now.

Louis will be a loving
and attentive father.

I cannot because I cannot
look up from my pad.

Dot.

I am sorry.

- I worry about you, George.
- Could you turn slightly toward me, please?

- No future in dreaming.
- Drop the head a little, please.

I worry about you
and that woman, too.

- I have another woman in my life now.
- They are all the same woman.

Variations on a theme.

- You always drifted as a child.
- Shadows are too heavy

You were always in
some other place,

Seeing something
no one else could see.

Softer light.

We tried to get through
to you, George. Really, we did.

Connect, George. Connect.

Are you certain
you really wish to do this?

Of course.
We just have to find a quiet spot.

I've wanted to do it
outside for a long time.

Franz would kill you.

- Is he in the park?
- I am not certain.

Oh, well. Perhaps some
other day would be better.

Some other day?
Always some other day.

Perhaps you do not really wish to...

I do, I do!

I love tall grass.

Ja. Tall grass.

You would not toy with my
affections, would you?

- No, certainly not.
- I see a quiet spot over there.

Over there?
But there are people in that grove.

Bonjour.

Do you suppose there's a violation
being perpetrated by that man?

What?

There is something in the air today.

Being alone is nothing new for me.

Look! Look who is watching us.

Sunday is such a bore.
I would almost rather be in the shop.

Do you like your work?
I hate mine.

I don't care if she never
speaks to me again.

She won't.

Franz!

- Franz, have you seen Louise?
-Nein, Madame.

But I thought Freida was
going to care for her today.

- But it's Sunday.
- What of it?

It's our day off!

But I have lost
my little girl!

Let's go say hello to Celeste.

But I do not wish to speak with her.

Come, it'll be fun.

Louise!

Where have you
been, young lady?

- With Freida!
- There, you see?

- Freida?
- And with Father.

Your father is in the studio.

No, he's not. He's with Freida.

I saw them.

Where?

Over there... tonguing!

How dare you–

What do you want?

What have you done?

Remember, George.

Order.

Design.

Tension.

Balance.

Harmony.

Sunday,

By the blue,

Purple yellow red water,

On the green
purple yellow red grass,

Let us pass

Through our perfect park,

Pausing on a Sunday

By the cool
blue triangular water,

On the soft
green elliptical grass,

As we pass

Through arrangements of shadows,

Towards the verticals of trees

Forever.

By the blue
purple yellow red water,

On the green
orange violet mass.

Of the grass.

In our perfect park,

Made of flecks of light

And dark,

And parasols.

People strolling through the trees.

Of a small suburban park.

On an island in the river.

On an ordinary Sunday.

Sunday.

Sunday.

It's hot up here.

It's hot and it's monotonous.

I want my glasses.

This is not my good profile.

No one can even see my profile.

I hate this dress.

The soldiers have forgotten us.

The boatman schwitzes.

I am completely out of proportion.

These helmets weigh a lot on us.

This tree is blocking my view.

I can't see anything.

Why are they complaining?
It could have been raining.

I hate these people.

It's hot up here

A lot up here.

It's hot up here forever.

A lot of fun,
it's not up here.

It's hot up here,
no matter what.

There's not a breath
of air up here,

And they're up here

Forever.

It's not my fault
I got up here.

I'll rot up here,
I am so hot up here.

Darling,

Don't clutch mother's
hand quite so tightly!

Thank you.

It's hot up here.

At least you have a parasol.

Well, look who's talking,
sitting in the shade.

I trust my cigar is
not bothering you.

Unfortunately, it never goes out.

You have excellent concentration.

It's good to be together again.

- See? I told you they were odd.
- Don't slouch.

- He took my glasses!
- You've been eating something sticky.

- I put on rouge today, too.
- Don't you ever take a bath?

- Nurse! Hand me my fan.
- I can't.

- At least the brat is with her mother.
- I heard that!

- Do you like tall grass?
- Jules!

- Bunch of animals...
- I hate these people.

It's hot up here,
and strange up here.

No change up here forever.

How still it is,
how odd it is.

And, God, it is so hot!

I like the one in the light hat.

Hello, George.

I do not wish to be remembered

Like this, George.

With them, George.

My hem, George—

Three inches off the ground—

And then this monkey
and these people, George.

They'll argue till they fade

And whisper things and grunt.

But thank you for the shade,

And putting me in front.

Yes, thank you, George, for that.

And for the hat.

It's hot up here.

It's hot and it's monotonous.

I want my glasses!

- This is not my good profile.
- I hate this dress.

It's hot up here.

- The soldiers have forgotten us.
- It's hot and it's monotonous.

He took my glasses.
I want my glasses!

- It's good to be together again.
- This is not my good profile.

And furthermore, finding
you're fading is very degrading.

And, God, I am so hot!

Well, there are worse things
than sweating by a river on a Sunday.

There are worse things
than sweating by a river

When you're sweating in a picture
that was painted by a genius

- And you know that you're immortal
- And you'll always be remembered

- Even if they never see you
- And you're listening to drivel

- And you're part of your companion
- And your glasses have been stolen

- And you're bored beyond endurance
- And the baby has no diapers

- And you're slouching
- I am not!

- And you're out of all proportion
- And I hate these people!

You never get

a breeze up here.

- And she's up here forever.
- And he's up here forever.

You cannot run amok up here.

You're stuck up here
in this gavotte.

Perspectives don't
make sense up here.

It's tense up here forever.

The outward show
of bliss up here

Is disappearing dot by dot.

And it's hot!

Thirty-one.

It is hard to believe.

Yes.

It seems like only yesterday
we were posing for him.

We never posed for him.

We certainly we did.
We're in a painting.

- Well, it isn't so he—
- Will you two just be quiet?

I hardly knew the man.

I would spend my Sundays here,
and I would see him sketching,

so I was surprised
when he stopped showing up.

Of course, I didn't
notice right away

But one day, I realized
something was different.

Like a flash of light,
right through me.

The way that man would stare
at you when he sketched.

I knew he was no longer.

I'm going to be a painter
when I grow up!

If you live.

Honestly...

Keep your mouth shut.

It is my mouth,
and I shall do as I please.

Quiet!

George was a gentleman.

Soft-spoken.

And he was a far superior
artist to Monsieur.

He had beautiful eyes.

Beautiful eyes?

Well, eyes that
captured beauty.

He chose his subjects well.

I was in Charleston when I heard.

At first, I was surprised at the news—

Almost relieved, in fact.

Perhaps I knew
this is how it would end.

Perhaps we both knew.

A parent wants to die first.

But George was always off and running,

and I was never able
to keep up with him.

No one knew he was ill
until the very last days.

I offered to care for him,
but he would let no one near.

Not even her.

George had great
promise as a painter.

It really is a shame his career
was ended so abruptly.

He had an unusual flair
for color and light,

And his work was not as
mechanical as some have suggested.

I liked George.

He was dedicated to his work—
seldom did anything but work—

And I am proud to have
counted him among my friends.

George stopped me
once in the park.

It was the only time
I had ever spoken to him,

outside of the company of Jules.

He stared at my jacket
for a few moments,

then muttered something
about beautiful colors,

and then just walked on.

I rather fancied George.

Well, most of the women did!

They all wanted him

and hated him at the same time.

They wanted to be painted,
splashed on some fancy salon wall.

But they hated him, too.

Hated him because he only spoke
when he absolutely had to.

Most of all, they hated him

because they knew he
would always be around.

Ladies and gentlemen

In 1983, I was commissioned
by this museum to create

an art piece commemorating
Georges Seurat's painting

'A Sunday Afternoon on the
Island of La Grande Jatte'

My latest Chromolume
stands before you now,

the seventh in a continuing series.

Because I have a special
association to this painting,

the museum director,
Robert Greenberg,

suggested I assemble
a short presentation

to precede the activation
of my latest invention.

I have brought my grandmother
along to give me a hand.

My grandmother, Marie.

I was born in Paris, France,

98 years ago.

My grandson, George.

I was born in Lodi, New Jersey,
32 years ago.

My mother was married
to Louis, a baker.

They left France when
I was an infant

to travel to Charleston,
South Carolina.

Georges Seurat.

Born December 2

01:36:44,864 --> 01:36:50,576
It was through his mother
that the future artist

was introduced to the
lower-class Parisian parks.

Seurat received a classical
training at the Beaux Arts.

Like his father, he was
not an easy man to know.

He lived in an age when science was
gaining influence over Romantic principles.

He worked very hard.

His first painting, at the age of 24,

'Bathing at Asnières'
was rejected by the Salon,

but was shown by the
Group of Independent Artists.

They hung it over
the refreshment stand.

Wasn't that awful?

On Ascension Day, 1884
he began to work on his second painting,

'A Sunday Afternoon on the
Island of La Grande Jatte'

He was to work two
years on this painting.

He always knew where he was going
before he picked up a paint brush.

He denied conventional perspective
and conventional space.

He was unconventional
in his lifestyle as well.

So was I!

You know, I was a Floradora Girl
for a short time—

Marie.

When I left Charleston and
before I was married my first—

Marie, the-the film is running.

They hung it over
the refreshment stand.

Having studied scientific findings on color,
he developed a new style of painting.

He found by painting tiny
particles, color next to color,

that at a certain distance the eye
would fuse the specks optically,

giving them greater intensity
than any mixed pigments.

He wanted to paint with color.

He wanted to paint with colored lights.

Beams of colored light, he hoped.

It was shown at the Eighth and
the last Impressionist Exhibition.

Monet, Renoir, and Sisley withdrew
their submissions because of his painting.

They placed it in a small room

off to the side of the main hall,

too dark for the painting
to truly be seen.

The painting was ridiculed by most.

But there were also a handful
of believers in his work.

He went on to paint six more

major paintings

before his sudden death at the age of 31.

He never sold a painting
in his lifetime.

On this occasion, I present
my latest Chromolume—

Number seven—

which pays homage to 'La Grande Jatte'

and to my grandmother, Marie.

The score for this presentation
has been composed by Naomi Eisen.

George begins to activate the—

Don't read that part, Grandmother.

Don't read this?

Shit.

Robert Greenberg?

Yes, just a minute George!

It's the regulator, George.

My apologies, ladies and gentlemen.

For precise synchronization
of all the visual elements,

I've installed a new state-of-the-art
Japanese microcomputer,

which controls the voltage regulator.

I think that the surge from
the musical equipment

has created an electrical short.

Unfortunately,
no electricity, no art.

If you just give us a moment,

we can bypass the regulator and
then we'll be back in business.

I'm very sorry,
ladies and gentlemen.

We seem to be having a little
electrical difficulty.

There's no juice!

You must realize
this is the first time

we've had a collaboration
like this at the museum,

and it has offered some
extraordinary challenges to us here.

Now, I do hope to see all of
you at the reception and dinner,

following this presentation.
It will be right down the hall,

in the main gallery,
where the painting hangs.

And we have a very
special treat for you.

As I'm sure you have noticed,
in order to raise additional funds,

we have chosen to sell
the air rights to the museum—

And some of the 27
flights of condominiums

which stand above us now,

will be open for your
inspection after dinner!

You may even wish to become
one of our permanent neighbors!

- In any case—
- We're ready to go, Bob.

We're ready to go.

Proceed! Proceed!

Grandma, continue.

When I was young,
Mother loved telling me

tales of her life in France,

and of her work as an artist's model.

Her mother showed her this great
painting and pointed to this woman

and said that it was she.

And she pointed to
a couple in the back—

they were holding
an infant child—and...

she said that was me.

Shortly before my
great-grandmother's death,

she spoke of her association
with the artist of this painting.

She told Marie that
Seurat was her real father.

I was shocked!

My parents never believed this story.
After all, there was no proof.

My mother gave me this
small red notebook.

George, I wanted to
bring the book and show it.

In the back are notes about his
great-grandfather, the artist.

Actually, this book is really just a
grammar book in the handwriting of a child.

And though there are notes in the
back which mention "Georges"

They could be referring to anyone.

But they do not.

I do not know there is
any validity to this story.

Of course there is vali—

He has to have everything
spelled out for you.

The facts are sketchy and
the tales are many.

I would now like to invite you into
my 'Sunday Island of Light'.

It will be on exhibition here in the
upstairs gallery until November 30th.

Well, I can't say I understand what that
light machine has to do with this painting.

Darling, it's a theme and a variation.

Oh, theme and variation.

- Times change so quickly.
- Lord knows.

That's the challenge of our work.

You never know what movement
is going to hit next,

which artist to embrace.

I thought it went very well,
except for that electrical screw-up.

What did you guys think?

- Terrible!
- Terrific!

I mean, I don't understand completely

I'm not surprised.

But he combines all these different trends.

I'm not surprised.

You can't divide art today
into categories neatly.

What matters is the means,
not the ends.

I'm not surprised.

That is the state of the art, my dear.

That is the state of the art.

It's not enough knowing
good from rotten.

You're telling me.

When something new
pops up every day.

You're telling me.

It's only new, though, for now.

- Nouveau.
- But yesterday's forgotten.

- And tomorrow is already passé.
- There's no surprise.

That is the state of the art, my friend.

That is the state of the art.

He's an original.

Was.

I like the images.

Some.

Come on, you had your moment—
now it's George's turn.

- It's George's turn? I wasn't talking turns.
- Don't you think he's original?

- But is it really new?
- It's more than novelty.

- It's just impersonal.
- It's all promotion

That is the state of the art,

Isn't it?

Well...

Art isn't easy.

Even when you've amassed it.

Fighting for prizes.

No one can be an oracle.

Art isn't easy.

Suddenly, you're past it.

All compromises.

And then when it's allegorical.

Art isn't easy.

Any way you look at it.

Here's George now!

All right, George.

As long as it's your night, George.

You know what's
in the room, George.

Another Chromolume, George.

It's time to get to work.

George, look. All these lovely
people in front of our painting.

George, I'd like you to meet
one of our board members.

This is Harriet Pawling.

What a pleasure.

And this is my friend,
Billy Webster.

- How do you do?
- Hi, how are you?

Well, I'll just leave
you three to chat.

Harriet was so impressed
by your presentation.

This is the third piece
of yours I've seen.

They're getting so large!

What heading does
your work fall under?

- Most people think of it as sculpture.
- Sculpture?

I like think of myself as
an inventor as well as a sculptor.

It's so unconventional for sculpture.

Say "cheese," George,

And put them at their ease, George.

You're up on the trapeze, George.

Machines don't grow on trees, George.

Start putting it together.

I bet your great-grandfather
would have been very proud.

Yes, he would have loved this evening.

How do you know?

I just know. I'm like that.

Hi. I'm Harriet Pawling.

- Billy Webster.
- How do you do?

This is Elaine,
George's former wife.

Hello.

Elaine is such a darling.

I always think of her
as my granddaughter.

I'm just so happy these children
have remained close, though.

Isn't that nice?

You know, Harriet has just been
through a rather messy divorce.

Bill!

What a fascinating family you have!

Many people say that.

You know, we are going
to France next month

To visit the island where
the painting was painted,

and George is going
bring the Lomochrome.

Chromolume

I've been invited by the government to do
a presentation of the machine on the island.

George has never been to France.

Art isn't easy.

Even when you're hot.

Are these inventions of
yours one of a kind?

Advancing art is easy.
Financing it is not.

They take a year to make.

A vision's just a vision
if it's only in your head.

The minute he finishes one, he
starts raising money for the next.

If no one gets to see it,
it's as good as dead.

Work, work, work.

It has to come to light!

I put the names of my contributors
on the side of each machine.

Some very impressive people!

Well, we must speak further.

My family has a foundation, and we're
always looking for new projects.

Bit by bit,
putting it together.

Family—it's all you have.

Piece by piece—
only way to make a work of art.

Every moment makes a contribution,
every little detail plays a part.

Having just the vision's no solution,
everything depends on execution.

Putting it together—
that's what counts.

Actually, the Board of the Foundation
is meeting next week.

Ounce by ounce,
putting it together.

You'll come to lunch.

Small amounts,
adding up to make a work of art.

First of all, you need
a good foundation—

otherwise, it's risky from the start.

Takes a little cocktail conversation,
but without the proper preparation,

having just the vision's no solution,
everything depends on execution.

The art of making art

is putting it together.

Bit by bit.

We've been hearing about
you for quite some time.

We really haven't met.

Charles Redmond,
County Museum of Texas.

- How do you do?
- It's a pleasure to meet you, George.

- Your work is just tremendous.
- Thank you

I hate to bring up business
at a social occasion,

but I wanted you to know
we're in the process of

giving out some very
sizable commissions.

You're not going to
steal him away, are you?

Link by link,
making the connections.

Drink by drink,
fixing and perfecting the design,

Adding just a dab of politician,
always knowing where to draw the line.

Lining up the funds, but in addition,
lining up a prominent commission—

Otherwise, your perfect composition
isn't gonna get much exhibition.

Art isn't easy.

Every minor detail
is a major decision.

Have to keep things in scale,

Have to hold to your vision—

Every time I start to feel defensive,
I remember lasers are expensive.

What's a little cocktail conversation,
if it's gonna get you your foundation,

Leading to a prominent commission
and an exhibition in addition?

Art isn't easy.

Trying to make connections.

Who understands it?

Difficult to evaluate.

Art isn't easy.

Trying to form collections.

Always in transit.

Then when you have to collaborate.

Art isn't easy,
any way you look at it.

George, you have
to meet Mr. Randolph!

Hello, Lee Randolph.

I'm in charge of public relations
here at the museum.

- How do you do?
- There you are, George!

Hi, Marie.
Naomi Eisen.

Delighted. You know, you two
made quite a stir around here tonight.

You see, George? That electrical
foul-up didn't hurt our reception.

There's a lot of opportunity
for some fine press here.

Dot by dot,
building up the image.

Shot by shot,
keeping at a distance doesn't pay.

Still, if you remember your objective—

Not give all your privacy away—

A little bit of hype can be effective,
long as you can keep it in perspective.

After all, without some recognition,
no one's gonna give you a commission,

Which will cause a
crack in the foundation.

You'll have wasted
all that conversation.

I'm really sorry, George.

I spoke to Naomi in great detail about how
much electricity her synthesizer would use.

It is okay.

Laser was beautiful, George.

It was, wasn't it?
Now get yourself a drink and mingle.

George, there's one more thing
I want to talk to you about.

- I was gonna wait...
- What?

I'll wait.

I'm quitting.

Quitting?

I'm going back to NASA.

There's just too much pressure
in this line of work.

Don't do anything rash.
You just got to take it easy.

You got to sleep on this,
and then we'll talk about it tomorrow.

Okay, George.

Art isn't easy.

- Hey, it's the brains.
- Even if you're smart.

You think it's all together,
then something falls apart.

I love the new machine, George.

Thanks. That means a lot to me.

We saw you talking to
Redmond from Texas.

- Did you get one of the commissions?
- We talked about it. You guys?

Her. My stuff's a little
too inaccessible.

I love your work, Alex.
I'll put in a good word for you.

He knows my work!

Hey, it is all politics, Alex.

Maybe if you just
lightened up once in a while.

Texas would be fun!

Art isn't easy.

Overnight, you're the trend,
you're the right combination—

Then the trend's at an end,
you're suddenly last year's sensation.

So you should support the competition,
try to set aside your own ambition,

Even while you jockey for position.

If you feel a sense of coalition,
then you never really stand alone.

If you want your
work to reach fruition,

What you need's a link
with your tradition

And of course a
prominent commission.

Plus a little formal recognition,
so that you can go on exh—

So that your work
can go on exhibition.

There's the man of the hour.

Blair, hello. I read your
piece on Neo-Expressionism.

Just what the world needs:
another piece on Neo-Expressionism.

- Well, I enjoyed it.
- Good for you.

Now, I had no idea you might be
related to 19th-century France.

That is a cloudy
ancestral line at best.

I'm dying to meet your grandmother.

It was fun seeing the two of you
onstage with your invention.

It added a certain
humanity to the proceedings.

Humanity?

George...
Chromolume Number Seven?

Be nice, George.

I was hoping it would be a series
of three, four at the most.

You have to pay a price, George.

We have been there before, you know.

You never suffer from a shortage
of opinions, do you, Blair?

You never minded my opinions
when they were in your favor!

They like to give advice, George.

I have touted your work from
the beginning, you know that.

You were really onto something
with these light machines.

Don't think about it twice, George.

Now they're just becoming more
and more about less and less.

I disagree.

Don't get me wrong.
You're a talented guy.

If you weren't, I wouldn't waste
our time with my opinions.

I think you're capable of far more.

Not that you couldn't succeed
with Chromolume after Chromolume—

but there are new discoveries
to be made, George.

Be new, George.

They tell you till
they're blue, George.

You're new or else
you're through, George.

And even if it's true, George,
you do what you can do.

Bit by bit,
putting it together.

Piece by piece,
working out the vision night and day.

All it takes is time and perseverance,
with a little luck along the way,

putting in a personal appearance,
gathering supporters and adherents.

But he combines all
these different trends.

Mapping out the right configuration,
starting with a suitable foundation.

- He's an original.
- Was.

Lining up a prominent commission,
and an exhibition in addition

Here a little dab of politician,
There a little touch of publication

till you have a balanced composition,
everything depends on preparation

Even if you do have the suspicion,
that it's taking all your concentration

The art of making art.

Is putting it together.

Bit by bit,

Link by link,

Drink by drink,

Mink by mink.

And that—

Is the state of the art.

Ladies and gentlemen,
dinner is served.

Excuse us.

Could you please tell me,
what is that square form up there?

That is a baby carriage.

Who told you that?

I'm sorry to butt in.

I'm Blair Daniels, I've been waiting
for an opportunity to tell you

how much I enjoyed seeing you onstage.

Well, thank you, but my dear.
But that is not a baby carriage—

That is Louis' waffle stove.

Waffle stove?

But I've read all there is
to read about this work,

There's never been any
mention of a waffle stove.

Well, I have a book, too.
My mother's.

It is a family legacy,
as is the painting,

and my mother spoke often
of Louis' waffle stove.

Louis. Yes, you mentioned
him in your presentation.

Family, you know.
It's all you really have.

You said that before.

I say it often.

Excuse us.

You know, Miss Daniels,

there are only two worthwhile
things to leave behind

when you depart
this world of ours.

Children and art.

Isn't that correct?

I never quite thought of it that way.

- Do you know Elaine?
- No. I don't believe we've met.

I've heard a lot about you.

Elaine and George were married once.
I was so excited.

I thought they might have a child.

George and I are the
only ones left, I'm afraid.

I want George to have a child.
Continue the line.

You can understand that,
can't you Elaine?

Of course.

Are you married, Miss Daniels?

Awfully nice to have met you.

Elaine honey fix
my chair so I can look...

George. I think Marie is a little
too tired for the party.

She seems to be slipping a bit.

- I better take her back to the hotel.
- No, I'll take her back. You stay.

No, It's a good excuse
to leave early.

George, don't be silly!
You're the toast of the party.

- You should feel wonderful.
- Well, I don't feel wonderful.

Poor George.

It was a wonderful
experience for Marie.

I don't remember seeing her so happy.

It was very good of you to include her

She is something, isn't she?

Yes, she is.

You would have liked him,

Mama, you would.

Mama, he makes things—

Mama, they're good.

Just as you said from the start:

Children and art.

Children and art.

He should be happy.

Mama, he's blue.

What do I do?

You should have seen it—

It was a sight!

Mama, I mean it—

all color and light!

I don't understand what it was,

But, Mama, the things that he does—

They twinkle and shimmer and buzz.

You would have liked them.

It -

Him.

Henry? Henry.

It's George, Grandmother.

Of course it is.

I thought you were
your father for a moment.

Did I tell you—

who that was?

Of course.
That is your mother.

That is correct.

Isn't she beautiful?

There she is.
There she is.

There she is,
there she is,

Mama is everywhere.
He must have loved her so much.

Is she really in
all those places, Marie?

This is our family—
this is the lot.

After I go, this is
all that you've got, honey.

Let's not talk about
that right now—

Wasn't she beautiful?

Yes.

You would have liked her.

Mama did things

No one had done.

Mama was funny,

Mama was fun,

Mama spent money

When she had none.

Mama said, "Honey,
mustn't be blue.

It's not so much do what you like
as it is that you like what you do.

Mama said, "Darling,
don't make such a drama.

A little less thinking,
a little more feeling—

- We do not have this discussion—
- I'm just quoting Mama.

The child is so sweet,

And the girls are so rapturous.

Isn't it lovely

How artists can capture us?

Yes, it is, Marie.

You would have liked her—

Honey, I'm wrong.

You would have loved her.

Mama enjoyed things.

Mama was smart.

See how she shimmers—
I mean from the heart.

I know, honey, you don't agree,

but this is our family tree.

Just wait till we're there,
and you'll see—

Listen to me.

Mama was smart.

Listen to Mama.

Children and art.

Children and art.

Goodbye, Mama.

Connect, George.

Connect.

Are you certain this is the
best place for the Chromolume?

George, this is the largest
clearing on La Grande Jatte.

Where's the still?

It has been built and should be
delivered tomorrow morning

a couple hours before the Chromolume.

I wanted it here today, but they
don't make deliveries on Sunday.

Fresh water for the cooling system?

We should be able to
draw it from the Seine.

- As for the electricity—
- Dennis, did you see this tree?

- No.
- Could be the one in the painting.

It could.

At least something
is recognizable.

Electricity?

The wind generator's over here.

- You have been efficient as always.
- Thank you.

I'll miss working with you, Dennis.

I can recommend some very capable people
to help you with the Texas commission.

I turned it down.

- You what?
- Dennis, why are you quitting?

I know what you told me.
Why are you really leaving?

I love the Chromolumes.

But I've helped you
build the last five.

I just need to do something different.

I wish you had told me
that in the first place.

What do you think I turned down
the Texas commission for?

I don't want to do the same thing
over and over again either.

Well, there are other
things you could do.

I know.

I just want to do
something I care about.

I see you brought the red book.

Since Marie has died,
I thought I would at least

bring something of hers along.

- Marie really wanted to make this trip.
- I know.

I hope you don't mind,
but I took a look at the book.

It's very interesting.

It's just a grammar book, Dennis.

Not that part.
The notes in the back.

Shall we wait for it to get dark.
I'm not sure about the ambient light.

You go, Dennis.
I'd like to be alone, actually.

- You sure?
Yeah, I'll see you back at the hotel.

George.

I look forward to seeing
what you come up with next.

You're not the only one, Dennis.

"Charles has a book."

"Charles shows them his crayons."

"Marie has the ball of Charles."

"Good for Marie."

"Charles misses his ball."

George misses Marie.

George misses a lot.

George is alone.

George looks around.
He sees the park.

It is depressing.

George looks ahead.
George sees the dark.

George feels afraid.

Where are the people
out strolling on Sunday?

George looks within.
George is adrift.

George goes by guessing.

George looks behind.
He had a gift—

When did it fade?

You wanted people
out strolling on Sunday—

Sorry, Marie.

See George remember
how George used to be,

Stretching his vision
in every direction.

See George attempting
to see a connection,

When all he can see
is maybe a tree—

The family tree—

Sorry, Marie.

George is afraid.
George sees the park.

George sees it dying.

George too may fade,
leaving no mark,

Just passing through.

Just like the people
out strolling on Sunday.

George looks around.
George is alone—

No use denying.

George is aground.

George has outgrown
what he can do.

George would have liked to see
people out strolling on Sunday.

Almost did not recognize
you without your beard.

You have my book.

- Your book?
- Yes.

It is a little
difficult to understand.

Well, I was teaching myself.

My writing got much better.
I worked very hard.

I made certain Marie
learned right away.

Marie...

It's good to see you.

Not that I ever forgot you, George.

You gave me so much.

What did I give you?

Many things.

You taught me about concentration.

At first, I thought that
meant just being still.

But I was to understand

It meant much more.

You meant to tell me to be where I was—

Not some place in
the past or the future.

I worried too much about tomorrow.

I thought the world could be perfect.

- I was wrong.
- What else?

Enough about me.
What about you?

- Are you working on something new?
- No, I'm not working on anything new.

That is not like you, George.

- I've nothing to say.
- You have many things.

- Well, nothing that's not been said.
- Said by you, though, George.

- I do not know where to go.
- And nor did I.

I want to make things that count
things that will be new.

- I did what I had to do.
- What am I to do?

Move on.

Stop worrying where you're going—

Move on.

If you can know where you're going,

You've gone.
Just keep moving on.

I chose, and my world was shaken.
So what?

The choice may have been mistaken—

The choosing was not.

You have to move on.

Look at what you want,
not at where you are,

Not at what you'll be.

Look at all the things
you've done for me.

Opened up my eyes,

Taught me how to see,

Notice every tree.

Understand the light.

- Concentrate on now.
- I want to move on.

I want to explore the light.

I want to know how to get through,
through to something new,

Something of my own.

Move on.

Move on.

Stop worrying if your vision is new.

Let others make that decision—
They usually do.

You keep moving on.

- Look at what you've done,
- Something in the light,

- Then at what you want, not at where you are
- Something in the sky, in the grass

- What you'll be.
- Up behind the trees.

- Look at all the things you gave to me.
- Things I hadn't looked at till now

- Let me give to you something in return.
- Flower on your hat. And your smile.

- I would be so pleased.
- And the color of your hair.

And the way you catch the light.

And the care.

And the feeling.

And the life.

Moving on.

We've always belonged together.

We will always belong together.

Just keep moving on.

Anything you do,

Let it come from you.

Then it will be new.

Give us more to see.

You never cared what
anyone thought.

It upset me at the time because

I wanted you to care what I thought.

I'm sure that I did.

I'm sure that you did, too.

Dot.

Why did you write these words?

They are your words, George—

The ones you muttered so
often when you worked.

"Order."

George. Is that you?

Yes.

Tell me. Is this place
as you expected it?

- What?
- The park, of course.

- Somewhat.
- Go on.

The greens are a little darker,

the sky a little grayer,

And there are mud
tones in the water.

- Well, yes, I suppose—
- But the air seems rich and full of light.

Good.

"Design."

"Tension."

"Composition."

"Balance."

"Light."

Dot, I cannot read this word.

"Harmony."

"So much love in his words."

Sunday.

"Forever..."

- "... with his colors..."
- By the blue purple yellow red water

- "... how George looks..."
- On the green...

- "... he can look forever..."
- Purple yellow red grass

- As we pass
- "What does he see?"

- "... his eyes so dark and shiny..."
- Through arrangements of shadows

"... so careful..."

- "... so exact..."
- Towards the verticals of trees

Forever.

By the blue
purple yellow red water,

On the green
orange violet mass.

Of the grass.

In our perfect park.

Made of flecks of light.

And dark.

And parasols.

People strolling through the trees.

Of a small suburban park.

On an island in the river.

On an ordinary Sunday.

Sunday.

"White."

"A blank page or canvas."

"His -"

"favorite."

"So many"

"possibilities."