When Art divides friends

Pablo Picasso once famously quipped, "Art is a lie that makes us realise truth." It is a paradox that sits right at the beating heart of Yasmina Reza's celebrated 1994 play, 'Art'. Over the decades, the sharp-tongued script has evolved from a Parisian hit to a global phenomenon, finding a home in dozens of languages. 

Recently, Dhaka's Open Space Theatre marked the 35th staging of their acclaimed adaptation. Translating and directing Yasmina Reza's witty, distinct cadence is an incredibly difficult balancing act, but Arifur Rahman's script was masterfully localised, preserving the cosmopolitan intellectualism of the original while grounding it in an entirely natural, conversational rhythm.

The premise is deceptively simple. Three longtime friends: Serge, Marc, and Yvan find their bond pushed to the brink over a painting. Serge, a self-styled modern art enthusiast, has just dropped an obscene amount of money on a canvas that is, for all intents and purposes, completely white. 

He proudly unveils it to Marc, whose reaction is visceral, blunt, and wildly insulting: he thinks it is a 'piece of shit' and a monumental waste of cash. Caught in the crossfire is Yvan, the perpetual fence-sitter, who attempts to play peacemaker only to end up drawing the ire of both men.

On a surface level, Art seems to be asking the audience to question the very nature of aesthetics. Are we culturally conditioned to conflate market value with artistic worth? When we hear that a blank canvas sold for a small fortune, do our brains automatically trick us into assigning it a deeper, hidden genius? 

Here Yasmina Reza uses Serge's purchase to interrogate the modern art market. But the canvas is merely the catalyst. What the play is actually examining is the fragile architecture of human connection. If I am a staunch traditionalist and you are seduced by the thrill of the avant-garde — as is the case with Marc and Serge — is there any genuine foundation left for our friendship?

Despite its title, one could always suspect the enduring popularity of Art relies on something far more primal than gallery-floor debates. It digs into one of the oldest dilemmas in human society: exactly how much unvarnished truth can a relationship withstand?

The narrative opens with Marc spitting out his unfiltered disdain, and ironically, it only resolves when Serge is forced to deploy a calculated lie to salvage their brotherhood. 

What makes Open Space Theatre's production so thoroughly engaging is that the cast never loses sight of these underlying emotional stakes. While they are arguing about a white rectangle; they truly and desperately are trying to figure out why they are still friends after all these years. 

Under Arifur Rahman's direction, the pacing is a pressure cooker. He wisely maintains the tension during the characters' occasional direct addresses to the audience, using these moments to ratchet up the claustrophobia rather than providing a release valve of comic relief.

A particularly striking observation from this production is how the costume design externalises this psychological tug-of-war. The wardrobe choices are deliberately and cleverly coded. Arifur Rahman's Marc, rigid, blunt, and stubbornly cynical, is clad in stark black. 

In direct opposition stands Rafayatullah Sohan's Serge, draped in light, white shades that perfectly mirror both the blank canvas he fiercely defends and his own lofty, airy pretensions. Trapped quite literally in the middle of this monochromatic battlefield is Tahmid Suprav's Yvan. 

Wearing a muted green, his attire is a brilliant visual compromise — a shade that sits halfway between lightness and darkness, physically representing his desperate, exhausting attempts to balance the extremes of his two uncompromising friends.

The performances built on top of this visual foundation are phenomenal. Sohan wraps himself in a defensive, stuffy superiority to mask his deep-seated insecurities. As Marc, Arifur Rahman storms around the stage with an aggressive energy, styling himself as the grounded voice of reason while revealing that he is fundamentally just as arrogant as his counterpart. 

Yet, it is Suprav who frequently steals the show. His Yvan is a hilarious portrait of an overgrown adolescent, a man desperately out of his depth and buckling under the weight of his own chaotic life choices. The chemistry between the trio has the bruised intimacy of men who have known each other for entirely too long.

Art is the kind of play where the humour is additive; the more these characters dig their heels in, the more absurdly funny the situation becomes. But beneath the laughter lies a poignant critique of male emotional illiteracy. Here are three men wholly incapable of articulating their actual feelings about their lives, their ageing, or their shifting relevance to one another — so instead, they scream about a painting.

Open Space Theatre has delivered a top-notch production that is as intellectually stimulating as it is wildly entertaining. It reminds us that whether it is a blank canvas or a thirty-year-old friendship, the value of a thing is ultimately decided by what we are willing to project onto it.