Art is nothing but the expression of our dream; the more we

Host: The studio was silent except for the soft creak of an old wooden floor and the faint scratch of a paintbrush against canvas. Dust motes drifted lazily in the amber glow of a single lamp, floating like tiny ghosts of forgotten colors. The air smelled of linseed oil, charcoal, and the ghost of rain that clung to the windowpanes.

Jack stood before a half-finished painting — a swirl of violent blues and reds, the kind of image that seemed to both ache and breathe. Jeeny sat by the window, her fingers wrapped around a chipped mug, her eyes following him quietly.

Outside, the city was dissolving into night — a slow blur of neon, fog, and loneliness.

Jeeny: “Franz Marc once said, ‘Art is nothing but the expression of our dream; the more we surrender to it the closer we get to the inner truth of things — our dream-life, the true life that scorns questions and does not see them.’”

Jack: chuckles softly, without turning from the canvas “Dreams, huh? I’ve had plenty. Most of them end when the alarm clock rings.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you keep waking up too early.”

Jack: pauses, smirks “You mean I’m not surrendering enough to the dream?”

Jeeny: “No. I mean you stopped believing it could be real.”

Host: The light flickered, painting long shadows across the walls — distorted shapes of brushes, easels, and silent canvases waiting like patient witnesses. Jack set the brush down, exhaled slowly, and turned toward her. His grey eyes caught the reflection of the lamp flame, half fire, half doubt.

Jack: “You make it sound mystical. But art isn’t magic, Jeeny. It’s method. It’s years of repetition, of mistakes, of trying to control chaos long enough to make it look intentional.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a craftsman, not an artist.”

Jack: “Maybe because that’s what art really is — control disguised as emotion. Structure masquerading as soul.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the other way around. It’s emotion pretending to have structure. It’s surrender wearing the mask of mastery.”

Jack: grins faintly “And you wonder why artists starve.”

Host: A soft rain began outside, tapping against the glass like a rhythm only the lonely could hear. Jeeny rose, walking toward one of the unfinished canvases — a field of abstract color. She reached out, not to touch, but to feel.

Jeeny: “You know what I see here? Not composition. Not technique. I see longing — pure, wordless longing. The kind you can’t reason away. That’s what Marc meant — that art is the dream we let happen when reason sleeps.”

Jack: “Dreams are messy. Unreliable. They twist truth into illusions. How can that bring us closer to any ‘inner truth’?”

Jeeny: “Because truth isn’t found in answers, Jack. It’s found in feeling. We don’t paint to explain — we paint to remember what explanation destroys.”

Jack: “So truth is just emotion?”

Jeeny: “No. Truth is what emotion reveals before reason interferes.”

Host: Jack ran a hand through his hair, smearing a faint streak of blue paint across his temple. For a moment, he looked less like a skeptic and more like one of his own creations — half-formed, searching, alive.

Jack: “You talk like the canvas is some kind of oracle.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every artist is a translator of their dream. Marc, Van Gogh, Kahlo — they didn’t explain life; they confessed it. In color, in movement, in silence.”

Jack: “Confession’s easy when no one interrupts. But life does. Bills. Deadlines. Doubt. You can’t live in dreamscapes forever.”

Jeeny: “Why not? Everyone else lives in nightmares — wars, noise, indifference. Maybe the dreamers are the only ones awake.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. Dangerous, but poetic.”

Jeeny: “Poetry is always dangerous. It tells the truth no one asked to hear.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the windows in sheets. The smell of wet asphalt rose from the street below. A low thunder rolled through the distance, shaking the silence loose.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think art’s just vanity. A beautiful way to scream, ‘Look at me.’”

Jeeny: “And yet you keep painting.”

Jack: pauses, quietly “Because silence scares me.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the dream calling — not to be looked at, but to be heard. You think it’s vanity, but it’s hunger. The soul’s way of saying, ‘I’m still here.’”

Jack: “And surrendering to it — like Marc says — what then? You just dissolve into the dream? Lose yourself in color and chaos until you forget who you are?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only way to find who you are.”

Jack: “Losing yourself?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because self-awareness is the cage. The dream is the key.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not with weakness, but with something raw — conviction worn thin by too much beauty. Jack stepped closer, his voice low, cautious, as if afraid of breaking the fragile thread between them.

Jack: “You make it sound like art is salvation.”

Jeeny: “It is, in a way. Not from the world, but from numbness. It rescues us from the ordinary.”

Jack: “And what if the ordinary is all there is?”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “Then at least we painted it beautifully.”

Host: The lamp light flickered again, momentarily plunging the room into shadow. When it steadied, Jeeny’s face looked older, wiser, her eyes gleaming like two small mirrors reflecting every color in the room.

Jack: “You know, Marc died young. He never got to see his art fully accepted. Maybe he dreamed too hard.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he lived too honestly. Those who touch truth too soon often don’t survive it.”

Jack: “Then maybe ignorance is safer.”

Jeeny: “It is. But safety’s the enemy of wonder.”

Jack: “And wonder’s the path to madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe madness is just freedom with better lighting.”

Host: The rain slowed. The air in the studio was dense now — thick with paint, philosophy, and the unspoken ache of two souls circling the same question from opposite sides.

Jack: “So, tell me — when you paint, what do you see?”

Jeeny: “I see what isn’t there yet. I see the world as it could be if we stopped asking ‘why’ and started feeling ‘how.’”

Jack: “And that’s the inner truth Marc talked about?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The truth beneath words. The one that doesn’t need to explain itself.”

Jack: “And you think surrender gets you there?”

Jeeny: “Not surrender as defeat — surrender as trust. Letting go of control so creation can speak through you.”

Jack: “So the artist disappears?”

Jeeny: “No. The ego disappears. The artist finally shows up.”

Host: The camera moves in close — Jack’s hand trembling slightly as he reaches for the brush again. He dips it into paint — this time not with precision, but instinct. He drags a bold, erratic stroke across the canvas.

Jeeny watches, silent. The line is imperfect, alive, necessary.

Jack: quietly “Feels… different.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s real. That’s what surrender feels like — the end of pretending.”

Jack: “And the beginning of truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lamp hums softly. The rain stops. Outside, the city glows under a damp night — its colors deeper, its silence heavier. In the studio, two souls stand before a canvas that now seems to breathe on its own — neither finished nor unfinished, but true.

The camera pulls back. The studio fades into darkness, except for the canvas — radiant in its incompleteness.

The voice of Franz Marc lingers in the air like a final brushstroke: “Our dream-life, the true life that scorns questions and does not see them.”

And for once, Jack does not ask — he only feels.

End Scene.