Louis Comfort worked away in his Tiffany Studio. He pieced together a masterpiece, hoping that Alice would be impressed. Of course, Alice was never impressed. She would sit in her own cigarette smoke with a sourpuss scowl. Perhaps it was the circumstance of being typecast as a one-dimensional actress. Poor Alice could only play herself. She could only recreate her own Adventures, playing a role she had had since childhood.
And now, Alice was haggard, and old, and beaten down. Her life had been spent in Theatres of all shapes and sizes. Her role had taken her just about everywhere. The fantasy pulled her towards every corner of the world. And every night she would slide down the “Rabbit Hole,” while smoking her cigarette and more than a little drunk on cheap bourbon. Every night Alice would recreate her own Adventures.
Alice’s story was a good story, the main reason she had been typecast for so long. At this point in her life, the fantasies were real fantasies. At least she thought they were. Even though it was quite obvious that her mind played tricks on her. Maybe it was the bourbon, or the cigarettes, or just all of those years on the road, but poor Alice had sort of lost it, and nothing seemed to make her happy.
Louis Comfort was a brilliant man. The way he pieced together the glass was incredible. The leaded glass was always thick and colorful. And the glass made a perfect ramp for Alice. The way he curved the leading made a natural slide. And Alice was fragile and demented. She would always think it was a real “Rabbit Hole.” The production was ornate and gaudy, and quite the task for an Artist. The “Rabbit Hole” was nothing more than Louis Comfort reaching for his potential.
No comments:
Post a Comment