Art is a subjective thing, and it should be a subjective thing.

Host: The gallery was nearly empty, except for the echo of footsteps that rippled through its white silence. Spotlights hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows on walls covered with paintings whose prices were written not on the frames, but in the silence that surrounded them.

Outside, the night pressed against the glass, reflecting the city’s lights in a way that made the inside look richer, almost holy. But the air inside the gallery was heavy, sterile, too clean to be alive.

Jack stood near a large abstract painting, his hands buried in his coat pockets, his eyes narrowed in that way he had — half skeptical, half tired. Jeeny stood a few steps away, holding a glass of wine, her eyes soft, shining with quiet wonder.

Between them, on a small pedestal, was a canvas — a single red line across a field of white. A placard below it read: Price: $4.5 million.

On the wall, written in vinyl letters, was the quote of the night:
"Art is a subjective thing, and it should be a subjective thing. And the difficulty of subjectivity is that it becomes hugely problematized when you start applying large sums of money to art objects. That's where it all starts to get a bit sticky." — Tim Crouch.

Jack: “There it is. The perfect example of what he meant. One red line. Four and a half million dollars. Tell me, Jeeny, what’s the subjective value in that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about the line, Jack. Maybe it’s about the silence around it. The space it creates.”

Jack: “The space it creates? You mean the void between common sense and madness?”

Jeeny: “No. The space where feeling begins. That’s what art does — it stirs something that words can’t touch.”

Jack: “Or it stirs bank accounts.”

Host: A couple walked past them, whispering, pretending to understand what they saw, as if decoding the painting might prove their worth. The soft jazz from the corner speaker breathed through the room like a perfume, sweet but artificial.

Jack watched them leave, a smile of amusement curling on his lips.

Jack: “You see that? People don’t come here to feel. They come here to belong. To show they can afford to ‘feel’. That’s the sticky part Crouch was talking about — the price tag turns emotion into currency.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that the paradox of art? That it’s both free and unreachable at once? The artist gives something of their soul, and the world decides its value — sometimes with love, sometimes with money.”

Jack: “And sometimes with ignorance.”

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But the art itself — the act of it — remains pure, even if the market isn’t.”

Jack: “That’s like saying a diamond stays pure after it’s dug from blood-soaked soil.”

Host: A shadow from a passing cloud slid over the room, dimming the lights for a moment. Jeeny turned, her face half-lit, half-lost, her voice calm, but with a fierce glint beneath.

Jeeny: “You talk like an economist, Jack. Like value can only be measured in numbers.”

Jack: “Numbers don’t lie. Paintings do.”

Jeeny: “No. People do. Art only reflects it.”

Jack: “And when that reflection is bought and sold, what’s left? Sincerity doesn’t survive a price tag.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to Frida Kahlo, or to Basquiat, or to every artist who bled on a canvas just to be seen. Their art became expensive long after they were dead. Does that make their truth less real?”

Jack: “It makes it a commodity.”

Host: The rain had started outside, tapping softly on the glass façade. The sound mingled with the murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses. Jeeny moved closer to the painting, her fingers almost touching the canvas, but stopping just before the surface — as if the air between her and the art was sacred.

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the money, Jack. Maybe it’s the distance it creates — between people and meaning. Between what we see and what we allow ourselves to feel.”

Jack: “You’re describing capitalism, not art.”

Jeeny: “But capitalism lives in art now. It feeds on it. It sells what should be felt.”

Jack: “Exactly. And that’s why subjectivity doesn’t work when money gets involved. You can’t price a feeling, Jeeny — but they keep trying.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful — that they fail, every single time.”

Host: Jack laughed, but not with joy. It was a quiet, tired kind of laughter, like the sound of disbelief that comes from truth too close to home. He walked toward the window, watching the reflections of paintings merge with the rain outside.

Jack: “You ever think about how art used to be alive? Michelangelo, Caravaggio — they painted for God, for glory, not for galleries. Now it’s all brands, signatures, and sponsorships.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people still stand in front of the Sistine Chapel and cry. Isn’t that the proof that art still works, even after it’s been sold, used, owned?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s just habit. People are told it’s great, so they feel it should move them.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Feeling can’t be taught. It can only be remembered.”

Host: The lights shifted again, warmer now, softer. The crowd was thinning; the curator checked his watch. Somewhere, a champagne cork popped, echoing like a gunshot in the stillness.

Jack turned back to Jeeny, his face sober, his voice lower, vulnerable.

Jack: “You think I’m cold, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re afraid — of being moved by something you can’t measure.”

Jack: “Because when I believed, I got burned. I once invested in a young artist, back when I was still naïve enough to think art meant truth. Two years later, he sold the same concept to another gallery, called it a ‘variation’. It was just greed dressed as genius.”

Jeeny: “So now you blame the art for the artist’s sin?”

Jack: “No. I blame the system that rewards it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not art that’s sticky, Jack. It’s us.”

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving streaks on the glass like brushed ink. A car’s headlights passed, illuminating their faces — Jeeny’s open, hopeful; Jack’s guarded, yet cracking.

She set her wine glass down, the sound small but final, and looked at him — really looked.

Jeeny: “You said earlier that you can’t price a feeling. Maybe that’s true. But that’s why it’s worth everything.”

Jack: “And maybe it’s worth nothing — until someone pays for it.”

Jeeny: “Then let them pay. As long as someone still feels, the art wins.”

Host: A silence spread between them — not of disagreement, but of realization. The room was empty now. Only the painting remained, that red line across white, bleeding its meaning quietly into the air.

Jack moved closer, studied it. The brushstroke was uneven, raw, imperfect. For the first time, he saw the tremor of a hand behind it — the human pulse that money could never buy.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about the line or the price — it’s about the nerve it touches.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Art isn’t meant to be owned. It’s meant to be felt, even if only for a second.”

Jack: “And yet, we still sell it.”

Jeeny: “Because we can’t sell the feeling. So we sell what’s left — the shell.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the gallery doors closing with a soft click. Jeeny gathered her coat, smiling, her eyes still shining with that quiet fire. Jack followed, one last glance at the painting as they walked out into the cool night air.

The camera would have lingered, framing the painting under its spotlight, the red line glowing like a pulse, a heartbeat against the void.

Outside, the city lights reflected on the wet street, each one a tiny masterpiece, unpriced, unclaimed, alive.

And as they walked away, the truth of Tim Crouch’s words echoed —
art is subjective, beautifully fragile, and it only gets sticky when we try to own what was never meant to be possessed.