Paywright Portrait, Shawn Hirabayashi, Excerpt from Floating

 

The playwright Shawn Hirabayashi 2007

copyright Peter Bellamy 2010

Excerpt from "Floating.

(AT RISE: The sounds of seagulls. The lights are hot. ACHILLE, dressed formally, stands on a large piece of deep blue silk.)

"ACHILLE"

Hail, tugboats. What do they call you? Hm? Hm? You probably know what they call me. One of the ships that has been here for the past four days must have told you what they call me. One of the ships holding the men watching me burn, waiting for me to sink. Perhaps the one holding my captain. My ex-captain. Tell me, what do you think you know? Have you heard the talk of the men? Hm? What do you think you know?

I am an ocean liner. 23,479 tons.

They used to call me something different. Before Achille Lauro. Something Dutch. I only remember the meaning: “floating bell.” Isn’t that lovely? Yes? No?

Playwright Portrait, Zakiyyah Alexander, Excerpt from 10 Things To Do Before I Die

The Playwright Zakiyyah Alexander 2007
copyright Peter Bellamy 2010

excerpt from 10 Things to Do Before I Die

VIDA: Hello, it’s me and I am leaving you a message. You know what I hate? What I hate about you? I hate the fact that you drip sweat all over me, it’s disgusting, not sexy. I hate that you say the word fucking while you’re fucking me. I hate it when you go down on me. I lie there and wait while you think you’re actually doing something, then I pretend to come cause I’m worried that I might hurt your feelings. I hate that you don’t call me enough, that you don’t think about me enough, that you don’t love me. And, I hate the way I feel when you walk out the door. I hate you for making me hate me.

Playwright Portrait, Matthew Maguire, Excerpt from Luscious Music

the playwright Matthew Maguire
copyright Peter Bellamy 2010

excerpt from Luscious Music

Clea: If you ain't ready to walk, they got your ass in a sling, you hear me, babe?

Playwright Portrait, William Electric Black, Excerpt from My Boyfriend is a Zombie

William Electric Black 2007
copyright peter bellamy 2010


excerpt from My Boyfriend Is A Zombie

Paula Rhinestone:
I know other boys are handsome hunks
And play on the football team
But my gruesome guy is my maggot pie
Yeah, he knows how to make chicks scream

He’s kind of shy
Doesn’t drink or smoke
And always slurs his wordsWho could ask for more
From the creature I adore
Does that make me somewhat disturbed

My boyfriend is a zombie
Though he’s gooey, creepy, freakyHe really charms me
My boyfriend is a zombie
Though he’ll munch someone for lunch
He’d never harm me

The Artist Jack Goldstein, 1986

Jack Goldstein 1986
copyright Peter Bellamy 2010

“The man committing suicide controls the moment of his death by executing a back flip.” Jack Goldstein

Jack Goldstein was one of the torch bearers of appropriation.  His success would rise and fall and ultimately he was a giant.  To this day, his suicide causes despair amongst those who looked to him for inspiration.  He is pictured here with his dog, who he said was the brother of Man Ray, William Wegman’s dog, in his loft deep in Brooklyn.

The Artist David Budd, 1986

The Artist David Budd 1986
copyright Peter Bellamy 2010

David Budd left the sheltered obscurity of Florida in the 1950s, after seeing a film on Jackson Pollack.  In pursuit of the big dream, he went first to Paris than to New York; he fell in with similar artist and had modest success.  Here, pictured in his studio, lies David Budd.  How he was injured, I am not sure.  Perhaps gambling and drinking - he mentioned something about OTB (off track betting). I prefer the other story, that he fell off a horse.  He had to be in pain, but the brave face and cheerfulness was all he offered.  He threw himself to his art, like Christians to the lions; hence his crown of thorns.

The Artist Michael Tetherow, 1986

Michael Tetherow 1986 Tribecca
copyright Peter Bellamy 2010

Michael Thetherow's brother contacted me to tell me of Michael’s death. He wanted to have my portrait represent his presence at the memorial.  When I photographed Michael his loft was freezing cold and he lived in a plastic tent in the center, which was the only area of warmth.  Michael suffered from rheumatoid arthritis.  The loft wars had been going on for sometime and many artists lived with out the benefit of heat or hot water.  I understand that toward the end of his life he lived and painted entirely outdoors, seldom seeking shelter.