Savage Messiah

You are in my place.

- This is a public library. - I always sit here.

- You cannot reserve. - Ask him.

My place, please.

Why don't you sit there?

Why don't you?

Thank you.

I'm lonely.

Are you lonely?

Of course, I am.

You're a genius. I know you're a genius.

Because, uh, I'm a genius too.

Hmph, when there are no fish in the pond, the shrimp is great.

Oh, philosopher! I thought you're a poet.

I'm a writer, and I want a paper.

I'm an artist. I don't read the papers.

Give us a kiss.

- I do not like men. - Oh, I do.

Sometimes I think men are more beautiful than women.

Hmph. Beauty is dead.

I think you're wrong. I make beauty.

You make beauty.

Most people struggle to make something beautiful.

Many fail, that's true. But I shan't fail.

- Ha ha. - I have enough for everyone

You mustn't boast, boy, or you'll never become a genius.

Do you think Michelangelo boasted?

I loathe Michelangelo.

There, Michelangelo at his worst.

'Yoo-hoo.'

That's not by Michelangelo.

'It's dead. Just look at it.'

No holes, no muscle, and no mystery.

Consider these tipsy tits.

And who wants a whooping great ass

staring them in the face in the middle of the working day?

It's indecent.

There is a good chance some innocent young child

will be corrupted for life.

Art, good people.

Nothing but luck backed up by slave labor.

'So good citizens, I implore you'

have nothing to do with art.

Art rots your moral fiber.

Ladies and gentleman, observe that charming woman

'in the straw hat with a wicker basket.'

From the look of her, you would imagine

she was a...famous lady of fashion.

'But there, you would be wrong. She is a great novelist.'

'But she does not set her immortal stories'

'at the time of the Crusades, does she?'

And why?

Because you can't make art out of dreams.

'Art is dirt. Art is sex.'

And art is revolution.

- We want a word with you. - Stop.

I'll see you tomorrow, in the library.

'If I'm not there, come and bail me out.'

Hello.

I forgot to tell you my name.

It's Gaudier. Henri Gaudier.

G-A-U-D-I-E-R.

Hey let's get married. I earn good money.

One franc an hour at the Lartigue Art Gallery.

- No. - No.

Well, let's live together then.

- I sleep with everyone. - Good.

I'm part of everyone.

You shouldn't have made that scene in the park.

You should have taken the hat around.

I come from a good family.

My father's a carpenter.

What's your book about then?

Conflict.

- Conflict? - Yes.

- Ah. - Perhaps you should read it.

- Yes. - Leave it alone. How dare you?

I know you.

Doesn't give you the right to pry.

- Yeah true. - Anyway, it's in Polish.

I'll learn Polish. I shall learn Polish tomorrow.

You tire me. Ten minutes with you is like a week's work.

- I'm sorry. - Give you 1 sou for that leek.

- Three. - One.

Three.

Shall I send it or will you take it wrapped?

What's it like, this work you do in the gallery?

Oh it's piece work. Come and go as I please.

But they get their pound of flesh. Here.

Your flesh?

Sometimes I do feel as if I'm always going uphill.

Now, don't get me wrong.

I don't want to be other than I am.

I know it's lucky to be what I am.

But, sometimes, I don't think I'll be able to do

what I want to do... on my own.

Let me make one thing clear.

My asking you in is a simple act

of artistic companionship.

I understand, Miss Brzeska.

Why should you be special? I know dozen of artists.

- Who do you know? - I know..

Never mind who I know.

What does it matter who I know?

I don't know anybody. That's who I know.

- You know me. - I know your kind.

You think art is all sex and material things.

Art is above sex!

When my books go out into the world, people who read them--

- Read. I'll read anything. - You?

You're the worst read man I've ever met.

You wait until you meet my friends.

- You have no friends. - And neither have you.

And you're old.

I would like to see Henri Gaudier.

Staff are not allowed through the doors, madame.

But I must see him urgently.

I'm-I'm his sister and-and--

And his poor dying mother is calling for him.

- My condolences, madame. - But--

The trade entrance is around the corner.

Bourgeoislackey.

My God!

A forger.

Help! Help!

Brzeska.

So I'm entertaining a criminal?

Better a good copy than a bad original.

Hmph.

- What's 'to draw' in Polish? - Rysowac.

Oh, don't make a mess all over the floor.

'Anyway if people with more money than sense'

'can't tell the difference between a genuine Gaudier'

and a genuine Gainsborough, they deserve to be cheated.

One day, someone will be forging my work.

Work? Ha!

You don't know the meaning of the word.

Dabrowski, to work. Yes?

Well, star of the morning, I have Dobrowsk'd on the roads

from Paris to Marseille.

I have Dobrowsk'd in Wales, in a coal merchant's office.

And I got a Dobrowski's scholarship to study business.

Till I chucked it for this.

And soon, I shall be in the Dobrowski's house.

While you, I imagine, are in Paris to do a little shopping.

I came to finish my book.

I needed a creative atmosphere.

You have to create your own atmosphere.

Knife, please.

- What's in there? - 'What? My trunk?'

All I possess.

- Is it full? - 'Yes.'

Who said you could open that?

You have too many things. You should get rid of them.

Those artistic, they have nothing.

If there was ever any good in nothing

it's hard to find when you pass 30.

Thirty! What am I saying?

Twenty, ten, being alone

getting sick on nothing of nothing in the head.

Arms minus the will to wash their face.

Taking a letter to post harder than shifting a ton of rock.

Alone.

"Write. You want to write," mother said.

Poor, flat, flabby, chocolate munching.

I only want what's good for you, mother.

Gone saggy with one after another born dead

or dead three weeks later...boys..

till they held me up, looked between my legs and frowned.

Stupid, they said. Stupid. Can't write. Girl.

She said, "Girl, Better find a man as stupid as yourself."

Writing. Writing? Put that book down.

However will we get rid of you, I'm sure I don't know.

Ms. Nice, fluttery, home-loving, reading, eating, sleeping.

So...they found me an old fish fop with a moneyed mama.

Her darling father's gambling and whores gobbled that up.

So, then a fish fop gent, a well bred cast-off

can become a governess.

Her empire, a cloud of vomit and baby shit.

And then evening, up two women write out

your thoughts on the soul.

Oh, what is this I hear?

It's my God-fearing, upright employer ready to jump on me.

Keep your love, I know what you've got at top of your legs.

I'm the biggest whore in the Latin quarter.

I've started more books

than all the drawings you'll do in a lifetime.

'My book is about sleep.'

That thick oily substance

under whose surface you float, half dreaming, half waking..

...hidden in your hope that the world comes through.

Hm, you cannot imagine the ways I have evolved

to abolish myself there, under the surface.

Half sleeping half waking.

Leaving your worries and your clothes asleep.

But the rent never sleeps and time never sleeps.

If only we had met 20 years ago.

But it's gone, you see. It's gone, you see.

Old enough to be your mother. I'm a snaggletoothed old hag.

And do not imagine I mourn my lost loveliness.