Art is for healing ourselves, and everybody needs their own

Host: The room was small, dimly lit, and filled with the smell of turpentine and rain. Outside, the night breathed against the windows, pressing its cold face against the glass. A single lamp hung above, casting a circle of light over a half-finished painting — strokes of red, black, and white bleeding into each other like bruises beneath the skin of the canvas.

Jeeny stood, a brush in her hand, her fingers stained with color, her eyes tired, yet alive. Jack leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his silhouette cut sharp by the light. The rain outside whispered, like memory speaking in sleep.

Between them, the air was thick with the scent of creation — and the weight of things unspoken.

On the table, an open notebook lay with the quote written in blue ink:
“Art is for healing ourselves, and everybody needs their own personal art to heal up their problems.” — Linda Ronstadt.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That art can heal anything?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: Her voice cracked, not from weakness, but from truth. The paintbrush trembled slightly in her hand, as if carrying the weight of her own wounds.

Jack moved closer, the floorboards creaking under his boots.

Jack: “You talk as if a painting can erase grief. As if a song can fix what’s broken in people.”

Jeeny: “Not erase. Not fix. But understand. Transform. There’s a difference, Jack.”

Host: A drop of paint fell, splattering onto the floor like a tear. The rain hammered harder, as if the sky itself was weeping for the world.

Jack: “You’re telling me a brush or a melody can compete with therapy? With medicine? With reality?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying sometimes art is the only reality that lets us survive the other one. When you paint, when you write, when you play — you’re not escaping, Jack. You’re facing it. Just in a way that your soul can bear.”

Host: Jack looked at her, eyes narrowing, as though searching for the logic in her madness. He picked up a brush from the table, turning it between his fingers like a weapon he didn’t know how to use.

Jack: “That sounds poetic, but it’s just sentiment. People need action, not abstraction. You don’t heal a wound by painting it.”

Jeeny: “Don’t you? Soldiers have painted their memories to keep from falling apart. Survivors have written their stories to find their voice again. Van Gogh painted through his madness, Frida Kahlo through her pain. Their bodies broke, but their art kept their souls from dying.”

Host: The lamp flickered, throwing shadows like phantoms across the walls. Jeeny set her brush down, her chest rising with a shuddering breath.

Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes, once cold, now betrayed a faint tremor, the ghost of something long buried.

Jack: “You really think everyone can just… pick up a brush and heal? Some people don’t have that kind of beauty inside them, Jeeny. Some of us just get stuck with the mess.”

Jeeny: “Everyone has something, Jack. Some way to speak without words. Even you.”

Jack: “Me?” He laughed — low, bitter, disbelieving. “I don’t make art. I don’t write. I don’t paint. I build systems, manage chaos. That’s not healing — that’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your art. Structure is your canvas, Jack. Order is your melody. Don’t you see? Art isn’t always beautiful — it’s whatever keeps you from collapsing.”

Host: The rain softened, as if listening. Jack’s hand loosened around the brush, his eyes drawn to the painting in front of him — a storm of color, red bleeding into white, anger dissolving into light.

Jeeny stepped closer, her voice soft, but steady.

Jeeny: “When my mother died, I couldn’t speak for weeks. The only thing that helped was painting her hands — over and over. It didn’t bring her back, but it brought me back to myself.”

Jack: “And what did you find?”

Jeeny: “That grief is just love with nowhere to go. So I gave it somewhere.”

Host: Jack’s throat tightened. He turned away, his reflection in the window a blur of light and shadow. The rain had stopped, but the sound of dripping water remained, slow and rhythmic, like the beating of a tired heart.

Jack: “You talk about art like it’s a cure. But some wounds never heal, Jeeny. Some you just learn to hide.”

Jeeny: “Then art is how you hide beautifully. It gives shape to what you can’t say, to what you can’t bury.”

Host: A long silence. The lamp hummed, the night held its breath. Jack walked forward, staring at the canvas again. His fingers touched the edge, where the paint was still wet — warm, alive.

He whispered, almost to himself.

Jack: “You think if I painted, I’d understand? That I could… let go?”

Jeeny: “Not let go. But maybe learn to live with it. That’s what art does — it turns pain into something you can look at without breaking.”

Host: Jack nodded, slowly, the truth of her words sinking through the armor he had worn for years. He looked around the room, at the chaos of brushes, rags, and color, and for the first time, it didn’t look like madness to him — it looked like freedom.

Jack: “I used to draw. When I was a kid. My father burned my sketchbook once. Said it was a waste of time. After that, I never touched a pencil again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s time you do.”

Host: He met her eyes. For a moment, they just stood there — two souls in the half-light, carrying their scars like artifacts from the same war. Then Jack reached out, picked up the brush, and dipped it into the paint.

The motion was hesitant, almost childlike, but true. The sound of bristles scraping the canvas was soft, deliberate, like a confession whispered in color.

Jeeny: “See? It doesn’t have to be good. It just has to be honest.”

Jack: “I don’t even know what I’m painting.”

Jeeny: “Then let the wound decide.”

Host: The room filled with the smell of fresh paint and quiet courage. Jack’s movements grew steadier, bolder. The lines took shape — not of a person, not of a place, but of something raw, wordless, and real.

Jeeny watched, her eyes glistening, as if witnessing a resurrection.

Jack: “Maybe you were right. Maybe this… helps.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t solve anything. But it reminds you you’re still here. Still capable of creating instead of destroying.”

Host: The lamplight faded, and dawn began to creep through the window, brushing the walls in silver. The rain had stopped completely, and the city was breathing again.

Jack stepped back, looking at the canvas — a chaotic, bleeding, beautiful mess. He smiled, not out of joy, but out of recognition.

Jack: “So this is healing?”

Jeeny: “No. This is how healing begins.”

Host: The morning light fell across their faces, illuminating the color that still streaked their hands. Outside, the world stirred, unaware of the miracle that had just unfolded in a room filled with paint and pain.

And as the sun rose, it caught the edges of the canvas, making the wet paint shine like wounds turning into light.