A cavernous room in a Fifth Avenue mansion, overlooking Central Park. Decorated with papier-mâché animals, striped walls, and handmade puppets.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a grand Bosendorfer and reveal splashes of stormlight.
The room smells like palo santo and unopened mail.
MUR, an artist, lays underneath the Bosendorfer, face buried in their hands. They wear homemade garments, paint splattered crocs, and just the right amount of B.O. They tremble. Crying.
From the corner, CHAR, a lionhead rabbit and MUR’s longtime companion, hops forward. Small, perceptive, a little sarcastic. His doll sized Warby Parker glasses are slightly askew.
CHAR:
What if they are wrong?
What if all of them;
The Lower East Side elite,
sweating through their Eckhaus Latta tops
and terminal uniqueness.
The “art” critics,
armed with MFAs
and daddy issues.
The curators,
power-drunk producers playing god
with grant money.
What if they missed it?
What if you’ve got the eyes
to see what’s actually there;
No filter.
No spin.
Not the feed.
But the real thing.
What if you’re not late to the party…
but free from it?
