The Artist wanders on stage. In a pocket—either in a disheveled vest or pants—he carries a sheaf of assorted paper. He moves across the stage as if search of something. Finally he turns and speaks to the audience.


Oh hi, I’m a poor artist, and I’m trying to find a home, a place where I can practice my art and survive. I know that others before me—in their despair, in their anger—have left, have gone far away. Still others have…have…

Forming the fingers of one of his hands into a pistol, he pretends to shoot himself through the temple.

Well, I’m not going to do that. I like it here. I want to stay here.

Mr. Jones enters. He stands looking at the Artist, but the other does not acknowledge his presence. The Artist continues speaking.

I have been working—practicing my art for…oh well, I guess almost 20 years now. In that time I have amassed a collection of nine hundred and seventeen rejection slips, of which this is just a small sample. Here.

The Artist pulls the sheaf of assorted-size paper from a pocket in either pants or vest and displays them.

A lesser man would have given up. Not me. I keep working.


Maybe you’re no good. Did you ever think of that? That’s the explanation I’d look to first, if I were you.


At first without looking at Mr. Jones.

All right, I’ve had more than my fair share of rejections, but I’ve also had my successes.