Art should never try to be popular. The public should try to make

Host: The theatre was nearly empty now. Rows of velvet seats, still glimmering faintly under the dying stage lights, stretched into the dark like forgotten dreams. The faint scent of dust, paint, and perfume lingered — the ghosts of applause. Outside, the rain had begun to fall, its rhythm tapping gently on the old marquee, where a few letters flickered in dying neon: “The Modern Soul – Written by Jack Renner.”

Jack sat alone on the edge of the stage, his hands clasped, his eyes fixed on the empty auditorium — a battlefield of expectations and silence. Jeeny stood behind the curtain, her coat draped over her arm, watching him with the stillness of someone who knew better than to break another person’s thoughts too early.

The quote — “Art should never try to be popular. The public should try to make itself artistic.” — had been printed in gold letters on the program. Oscar Wilde’s defiant wit now lay scattered across the floor, trampled under the evening’s disappointment.

Jeeny: “They didn’t hate it, Jack.”

Jack: “They didn’t understand it. Which is worse.”

Host: The lights above the stage buzzed softly, their glow dimming into a pale amber. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming like soft applause that came too late.

Jeeny: “Maybe they came expecting something else — something lighter.”

Jack: “That’s the disease of art, Jeeny. The audience doesn’t come to feel — they come to agree. They want mirrors, not windows.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they just wanted a story that let them breathe instead of drown.”

Jack: dryly “Then they should’ve gone to a spa, not a play.”

Host: His voice carried the bitter humor of a man whose passion had just been measured in ticket sales. He stood, walking slowly to the front of the stage, staring into the darkness of the seats where the public had once sat — judging, blinking, waiting to be entertained.

Jack: “Oscar Wilde said art should never try to be popular. He was right. The moment art bows to applause, it stops being art and becomes advertising.”

Jeeny: “But applause isn’t corruption, Jack. It’s connection. What’s the point of art if it never reaches the people?”

Jack: “To tell the truth — even when the people don’t want to hear it. Especially then.”

Jeeny: “And if no one listens?”

Jack: “Then you keep speaking. Art isn’t democracy; it’s prophecy.”

Host: Jeeny walked toward him, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor. The stage lights threw long, fractured shadows across her face, half illuminated, half lost.

Jeeny: “Prophecy doesn’t pay rent, Jack. Neither does pride.”

Jack: “Neither does mediocrity.”

Jeeny: “You’re not the only one who bleeds for what they make. But sometimes you have to meet the world halfway — not because it’s right, but because it’s real.”

Jack: “Meeting it halfway means cutting yourself in half. I’d rather starve whole.”

Host: The silence between them thickened, pulsing with that eternal tension between creator and crowd — purity versus survival, truth versus acceptance. The faint hum of the rain filled the gaps where no words could fit.

Jeeny: “You know, Wilde said that a century ago. Back when art still shocked the world. Now we’re all shocking ourselves into irrelevance. Everyone’s trying to be misunderstood just to seem profound.”

Jack: “You think I’m one of them?”

Jeeny: “I think you hide behind difficulty. You mistake confusion for depth.”

Jack: “And you mistake popularity for validation.”

Jeeny: “No — I mistake humanity for validation. Art isn’t supposed to float above people like a sermon. It’s supposed to touch them, even if they don’t know why.”

Jack: “You sound like a critic.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like the audience you’ve forgotten how to love.”

Host: The rain intensified — its rhythm filling the hollow theatre, soft yet insistent, like the heartbeat of the world beyond the stage. Jeeny’s voice trembled now, but her conviction held.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I saw tonight, Jack? A masterpiece that forgot to invite its witnesses. You built a cathedral and then locked the doors.”

Jack: “Maybe it wasn’t meant for them.”

Jeeny: “Then who is it for?”

Jack: “For truth.”

Jeeny: “Truth doesn’t exist in isolation. It exists in recognition. If no one sees it, it’s just arrogance wearing art’s costume.”

Host: The spotlight flickered once, illuminating the empty rows of seats — ghosts of those who had clapped politely and left too soon. Jack stared at them as if they might still return, as if silence could turn into applause through sheer will.

Jack: “You think Wilde wanted to please the masses?”

Jeeny: “No. But he wanted to move them. There’s a difference between worshiping your art and loving it.”

Jack: “Love corrupts purity.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Love completes it.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm. Her voice softened — no longer debating, but pleading.

Jeeny: “Look at what you’ve created. It’s brilliant. But brilliance without empathy is ice. You have the fire — but you hide it behind walls of intellect. The public doesn’t need to become artistic to meet you. You need to become human to reach them.”

Jack: “And what happens when humanity mocks what it doesn’t understand?”

Jeeny: “You forgive it. Because art isn’t revenge — it’s mercy.”

Host: Her words settled like quiet rain upon stone. Jack exhaled, slow and uneven, as if the weight of unspoken pride had been sitting on his lungs all night. He walked to the center of the stage, looking out at the empty void once more.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Wilde was wrong — or maybe we’ve outgrown his era. Back then, art was rebellion. Now, it’s therapy. Maybe the public shouldn’t make itself artistic — maybe it should make itself honest.”

Jeeny: “Honesty is art’s truest audience.”

Jack: half-smiling “And honesty doesn’t clap very often.”

Jeeny: “No. But it stays.”

Host: The rain began to fade, leaving behind a quiet rhythm — the kind of peace that only follows surrender. Jeeny picked up a discarded program from the floor, smoothing its edges. She read Wilde’s quote again, whispering it like an old charm.

Jeeny: “Art should never try to be popular. The public should try to make itself artistic…” She looked up at him. “Maybe both sides have forgotten how to meet in the middle.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s where the next revolution lives — between understanding and wonder.”

Host: The stage lights dimmed completely now, leaving only the faint glow from the marquee outside — a fragile heartbeat of red and gold against the dark.

Jack reached for Jeeny’s hand. They stood there for a moment — two silhouettes framed against the empty theatre, bound not by agreement, but by respect.

Jack: “You know, Wilde also said art is the most intense mode of individualism the world has known.”

Jeeny: “And yet he died poor and alone.”

Jack: quietly “So will I, probably.”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’ll die authentic.”

Host: The camera would drift slowly upward, capturing the wide emptiness of the theatre — the rows of velvet, the faint scent of dust and ambition, the soft echo of their voices.

Outside, the city pulsed on, oblivious, hungry for simpler entertainments.

And inside, two souls stood defiant beneath the ghost of Wilde’s challenge — the artist and the conscience, the creator and the witness — both realizing that perhaps art’s truest revolution wasn’t rebellion against the public, but reconciliation with it.

The final shot lingered on the stage, where a single spotlight flickered back to life, illuminating the quote in gold:

“Art should never try to be popular. The public should try to make itself artistic.”

Host: And as the light slowly faded, the theatre exhaled — a sigh of truth, beauty, and unfinished dialogue.