Female Monologue: Don't Blame the Muse
Comedic monologue from the play Mused
By Gabriel Davis
How did it all start? I guess with a line. “I want to paint you.” A cheesy line. In high school I was a cheerleader and the jocks had the worst lines. I thought art school would be different until this blue eyed boy leans over from his easel and says: “I want to paint you.” Chiseled, totally my type. I feign disinterest. My eyes roll.
Another boy approaches, “I want to capture you in clay.” Also cute, but not my type. But I flirt with him to get blue eyes jealous. "I've always thought sculpture is the most challenging medium. Takes real muscle. What do painters do? Just wag their wrists around all day?"
Another boy approaches. French accent, "I think papier mâché is the most challenging medium" he says to me. “Go on,” I volley back. “Papier mâché takes finesse. You must have deft hands, you must work quickly while the plaster is still liquid but not too quickly that you rip the papier, you must coax your papier to make it sing for you, no?"
(Beat, to Audience)
No.
I notice another boy staring intently at me. This one is cute, Hugh Jackman hunky. My knees lightly buckle. “I see through you,” he says. “I am a glass blower and I will blow your likeness in the hot glass so that when it cools I can stare through you all day.”
What was a girl to do? Should I have told them not to pursue their art? I know, the teachers are telling you I’m disruptive, that the sheer volume of young artists at this school creating likenesses of me instead of doing their actual homework is “alarming” and maybe I should pursue my studies elsewhere.
Well, to that I say, it’s not my fault I’m a natural born muse. And they can’t discriminate against me for being a muse. Muses are a minority and they should be protected … and painted.
You’ve been staring at the brush on your desk since I walked in. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.
Make up your mind, sir. Are you going to expel me … or paint me?
By Gabriel Davis
How did it all start? I guess with a line. “I want to paint you.” A cheesy line. In high school I was a cheerleader and the jocks had the worst lines. I thought art school would be different until this blue eyed boy leans over from his easel and says: “I want to paint you.” Chiseled, totally my type. I feign disinterest. My eyes roll.
Another boy approaches, “I want to capture you in clay.” Also cute, but not my type. But I flirt with him to get blue eyes jealous. "I've always thought sculpture is the most challenging medium. Takes real muscle. What do painters do? Just wag their wrists around all day?"
Another boy approaches. French accent, "I think papier mâché is the most challenging medium" he says to me. “Go on,” I volley back. “Papier mâché takes finesse. You must have deft hands, you must work quickly while the plaster is still liquid but not too quickly that you rip the papier, you must coax your papier to make it sing for you, no?"
(Beat, to Audience)
No.
I notice another boy staring intently at me. This one is cute, Hugh Jackman hunky. My knees lightly buckle. “I see through you,” he says. “I am a glass blower and I will blow your likeness in the hot glass so that when it cools I can stare through you all day.”
What was a girl to do? Should I have told them not to pursue their art? I know, the teachers are telling you I’m disruptive, that the sheer volume of young artists at this school creating likenesses of me instead of doing their actual homework is “alarming” and maybe I should pursue my studies elsewhere.
Well, to that I say, it’s not my fault I’m a natural born muse. And they can’t discriminate against me for being a muse. Muses are a minority and they should be protected … and painted.
You’ve been staring at the brush on your desk since I walked in. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.
Make up your mind, sir. Are you going to expel me … or paint me?