Any form of art is a form of power; it has impact, it can affect

Host: The evening sky was the color of charcoal and promise. Streetlights blinked alive one by one as the city exhaled — that deep, restless sigh that only comes when daylight dies. Inside a half-abandoned warehouse, the walls were covered in graffiti, layers upon layers of color — anger, love, hope, and memory all shouting at once.

A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying faintly in the draft. Beneath it stood Jack, holding a spray can, the metallic rattle echoing in the emptiness. Across from him, Jeeny crouched near a canvas, her hands smeared with paint, her eyes alive with a quiet fire.

Somewhere, a radio hummed — soft jazz from a distant station — and over it, the sound of dripping rain from the cracks in the roof.

Jeeny: “Ossie Davis once said, ‘Any form of art is a form of power; it has impact, it can affect change — it can not only move us, it makes us move.’”

Jack: (pauses, shakes the can) “Power, huh? I see art more like decoration. People hang it up to forget the real world, not to change it.”

Jeeny: “You really think beauty is just wallpaper for despair?”

Jack: “Sometimes it is. You think a painting can stop a war? A poem can feed a starving kid?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it can make someone care. And when someone cares, they act. That’s power, Jack. The kind that starts quietly — inside.”

Host: The light flickered, briefly plunging them into shadow. The air smelled of wet cement, paint fumes, and possibility. Jack’s eyes — gray, cold, questioning — met Jeeny’s warm brown gaze. Between them, a half-finished mural stretched across the wall: two hands reaching, fingers almost touching, surrounded by swirling fragments of color.

Jack: “You know what I see when I look at this wall? Layers. People tagging over each other. Messages lost. Everyone trying to speak, and no one really listening.”

Jeeny: “But they still speak. That’s the point. Silence is surrender.”

Jack: “Or survival. Sometimes it’s smarter to keep your head down than to shout into the wind.”

Jeeny: “That’s what they told Nina Simone — to stay quiet. To sing about love, not protest. But she didn’t. She sang about Mississippi burning, about black bodies hanging from trees. Her voice was a weapon. That’s art as power.”

Jack: “And she paid for it. Blacklisted. Silenced. You call that power?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because her songs still echo. Decades later, people still feel her rage, her courage. That’s more lasting than fear.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, a rhythmic drumming on the tin roof. The sound merged with the faint jazz from the radio — a strange harmony of sorrow and pulse. Jack walked closer to the mural, his boots crunching on old paint chips, his hand tracing the wall’s roughness.

Jack: “You talk like art’s a revolution. But most people scroll past it. A million voices, a thousand messages — and everyone just wants likes.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you look for applause. I look for awakening.”

Jack: “Awakening? You think a TikTok dancer is changing the world?”

Jeeny: “Why not? Dance was rebellion once. Remember the Charleston? It was freedom in motion, black bodies moving how they weren’t supposed to. Even rhythm can be revolution.”

Jack: (smirks) “You always romanticize everything.”

Jeeny: “And you always strip everything bare until it bleeds logic.”

Host: The light bulb buzzed louder, trembling as though listening. Jeeny stood, wiping her hands on her jeans. The paint smeared into constellations across her palms. Her voice softened, but her eyes glowed with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “Art doesn’t always change the system. Sometimes it just changes a person. A boy reads Baldwin and learns to see himself as human. A woman watches a film and decides she won’t stay silent anymore. That’s how the world tilts — one heart at a time.”

Jack: “That sounds beautiful — and naive. You really think a canvas can compete with corruption? With money? With power built on fear?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has. You think tyrants burn books because they’re harmless?”

Jack: (pauses, jaw tightening) “Fair point.”

Jeeny: “They fear words. They fear colors. They fear songs that won’t die when bullets fall silent.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the broken window, making the light swing wildly. The shadows danced across the mural, and for a moment, the hands on the wall seemed to move — as if reaching again, closer than before. Jack stared at it, his expression unreadable, something breaking through the armor of disbelief.

Jack: “You know… I once wrote songs. Not many people know that. Stupid stuff, teenage rebellion. My dad found one of my tapes. Said it sounded like ‘a kid pretending to hurt.’”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s cruel.”

Jack: “He wasn’t wrong. But I stopped after that. Figured art’s for dreamers who don’t want to face reality.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was afraid your reality was bigger than his.”

Jack: (chuckles bitterly) “Or maybe he knew the truth — that words don’t change anything.”

Jeeny: “Then why are dictators terrified of poets?”

Host: The radio crackled, a new song emerging — Coltrane’s “Alabama,” mournful and deliberate, written after the 1963 church bombing. The saxophone wove through the air like grief learning to speak. Jack stood frozen, eyes on the wall. Jeeny stepped beside him, her voice low, almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “He wrote that after four little girls were killed. No words, just notes. And the world felt it. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s movement.”

Jack: “Movement born from pain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Pain transformed — not erased. That’s what art does. It takes despair and gives it language.”

Jack: (softly) “Language can be dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Good. It should be.”

Host: A silence stretched — long, trembling, alive. The rain eased, leaving behind only the dripping echo of water from the ceiling. Jack picked up a brush, dipped it into the blue paint, and hesitated. Jeeny watched, not saying a word.

Jack: “You really think this — any of this — means something?”

Jeeny: “It means everything. Because someday, someone will stand in this same spot, see this wall, and remember that two people cared enough to paint.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “With everything in me.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s power too — believing.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And creating even when you don’t.”

Host: The brush moved across the wall, slow, deliberate. Blue met red. Red met white. The colors bled together like memory and defiance. The mural transformed, hands now joined in a burst of light that seemed to hum with its own breath.

Outside, the storm passed, leaving the air clean, the sky open.

Jack: “You know, maybe Ossie Davis was right. Art doesn’t just move us — it makes us move. Makes us pick up a brush. Makes us face something.”

Jeeny: “It makes us human, Jack.”

Jack: (looking at the wall) “Then maybe that’s the closest thing we’ll ever have to power.”

Jeeny: “And the only kind worth keeping.”

Host: The camera pulls back, rising through the open roof, into the night sky. Below, two small figures stand before their creation — color blooming against ruin, light spilling over decay. In the distance, the city glows — endless, indifferent, yet somehow gentler tonight.

For a fleeting moment, under that vast, breathing darkness, art — and the hands that made it — feel infinite.