Art is subject to arbitrary fashion.

Host: The gallery was closing, its vast halls echoing with the footsteps of stragglers reluctant to leave beauty behind. The air smelled of varnish, old wood, and quiet arguments — the perfume of intellect and ego mingled together.

Paintings stared down from white walls, their colors caught in the amber of dimmed spotlights, some bold, some whispering, some almost ashamed of their own stillness. Outside, the rain fell in patient rhythm, tapping against the glass like applause long after the curtain had dropped.

In the center of the room, Jack stood before an abstract canvas — a chaos of black and crimson that looked less like art and more like a scream caught in slow motion. His hands were in his pockets, his jaw set, his reflection blurred against the protective glass.

Across from him, Jeeny lingered near a marble sculpture, her gaze softer — always drawn to form, to faces, to anything that still believed in the human shape. She turned toward him, her voice low but clear, like the brushstroke of calm on a storm.

Jeeny: reading from a pamphlet she held loosely in her hand
“Kary Mullis once said, ‘Art is subject to arbitrary fashion.’”

Jack: without looking at her
“Yeah. You can see it here — every era pretending to be eternal.”

Jeeny: walking closer, her heels soft against the floor
“Pretending, maybe. But art was never meant to be eternal. It’s meant to be expressive. Even if it’s wearing last year’s clothes.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, the sound filling the silence like background music to their disagreement. The security guard at the far end of the gallery yawned, pretending not to listen.

Jack: tilting his head toward the painting
“You think this,” he gestures toward the abstract piece, “is expression? It looks like the aftermath of a blender accident.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“Maybe to you. But to someone else, it’s revelation. That’s the trouble with calling art ‘fashion’ — it dismisses evolution as vanity.”

Jack: turning toward her now, his voice dry but edged with thought
“No, it’s not vanity — it’s trend. Fashion is about belonging, not believing. One day, realism is genius; the next, it’s archaic. Then you splash paint on a wall, call it emotion, and suddenly it’s divine. It’s arbitrary, Jeeny. Exactly what Mullis said.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly, but not conceding
“Arbitrary — yes. But not meaningless. Fashion in art is just reflection in motion. The world changes, so does taste. Maybe that’s not shallow; maybe that’s proof art is alive.”

Host: The lights above flickered, casting momentary shadows across the canvases — the faces of dead artists watching this timeless argument play out again.

Jack: quietly, after a pause
“I get that art moves with the times. But I can’t help feeling like meaning’s been traded for novelty. Artists now make statements, not beauty.”

Jeeny: softly, stepping closer
“Maybe that’s because beauty doesn’t provoke anymore. The world’s too wounded for pretty things. Now we need art that burns — not soothes.”

Jack: turning away, murmuring
“So pain is fashionable now.”

Jeeny: gently, but with conviction
“No. Honesty is. And honesty looks different every century.”

Host: A flash of lightning outside illuminated the room — for a moment, the entire gallery glowed, the sculptures gleaming like they’d come alive just to eavesdrop. Then the light faded, leaving the hum of electricity and the echo of two minds trying to understand what art had become.

Jack: after a long pause
“You know what I think? Mullis wasn’t condemning art — he was diagnosing it. Every artist chases freedom, but ends up imprisoned by the taste of their time.”

Jeeny: nodding thoughtfully
“True. Every generation calls the last one blind and the next one soulless. And still, we paint. We sculpt. We write. Maybe that’s the only rebellion that matters — to keep creating, even when fashion tries to dictate the form.”

Jack: smiling faintly, almost despite himself
“You sound like someone who’d still write poetry by hand even if AI starts painting better sunsets.”

Jeeny: grinning softly
“I would. Because machines can imitate technique, but not longing.”

Host: The rain softened now, and a faint reflection of streetlight shimmered across the marble floor. Somewhere in the distance, the faint strains of a cello leaked from a rehearsal room — the low, aching kind of melody that turns thought into silence.

Jack: quietly, looking again at the abstract painting
“So maybe art’s subject to fashion, but its soul isn’t. Maybe the medium changes, the madness stays.”

Jeeny: softly
“Yes. The madness is timeless. That’s the part that survives — the ache that doesn’t care if it’s trendy.”

Jack: turning toward her
“And you think that ache is enough to redeem all this noise?”

Jeeny: nodding gently
“I think it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The guard cleared his throat, signaling closing time. The world beyond the gallery called them back — the wet streets, the rushing cars, the hum of neon pretending to be modern constellations.

Jeeny: picking up her coat
“Mullis was right, Jack — art follows fashion. But maybe that’s its humility. It changes with us because it refuses to abandon us.”

Jack: smiling faintly, slipping into his jacket
“So art’s not enslaved by time — it’s loyal to it.”

Jeeny: grinning
“Exactly. Even when time doesn’t deserve it.”

Host: They walked toward the exit, their footsteps soft and measured, echoing faintly against the marble floor.

And as the gallery lights dimmed behind them, Kary Mullis’s words lingered in the quiet air —
not as cynicism, but as paradox:

That art bends with culture but never breaks from truth.
That fashion decorates the surface, while art reveals the wound beneath.
And that to create in any age — no matter how arbitrary its taste — is to declare, once more, that the human spirit will not go silent.

Jeeny: as they step into the rain, her voice soft but sure
“Let them call it fashion. The real ones will still feel it.”

Jack: smiling as the rain darkens his collar
“Yeah. Real art doesn’t follow trends — it survives them.”

Host: The streetlight above flickered,
the rain fell steady,
and beneath the hum of the city’s modern pulse,
two believers walked home — carrying faith not in fashion, but in feeling.