Art! Who comprehends her? With whom can one consult concerning

Host: The attic was a cathedral of dust and silence. A single window let in a beam of pale moonlight, slicing across old canvases stacked against the wall, their colors muted by time. The air smelled of turpentine, paper, and something ancient — the ghost of creation itself.

Outside, the night was endless — rain whispering on the roof, the city below humming like a half-forgotten symphony. Inside, Jack sat by the window, a cup of cold coffee in his hand, staring at a half-finished painting — a chaotic burst of blue and crimson that seemed to bleed from its frame.

Jeeny stood behind him, her arms crossed, her eyes following the brushstrokes like she was trying to read a confession written in another language.

On the table beside them, a scrap of paper lay open — Beethoven’s words, scribbled in faded ink: “Art! Who comprehends her? With whom can one consult concerning this great goddess?”

The room held its breath.

Jeeny: “He sounds desperate. Like he loved art more than it ever loved him back.”

Jack: “He wasn’t desperate. He was reverent. That’s how you talk when you’re standing before something you know you’ll never conquer.”

Jeeny: “Or when something’s already conquered you.”

Host: Jack didn’t move. His eyes stayed on the painting, his jaw tense, his fingers twitching as though he might pick up the brush again, but couldn’t.

Jack: “Art isn’t a goddess, Jeeny. It’s a disease. Once it gets inside you, it eats everything — sleep, peace, sanity. You start seeing meaning in shadows, rhythm in silence.”

Jeeny: “And yet you keep painting.”

Jack: “Because there’s nothing else that feels real. Everything else — work, money, people — it’s all noise. Art’s the only thing that listens back.”

Jeeny: “Listens? Or mirrors you until you break?”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the words struck like chimes. Jack turned toward her, his eyes sharp, grey like stormwater.

Jack: “You think art is cruel. I think it’s the only honest thing left. It doesn’t comfort you, it exposes you.”

Jeeny: “And you call that honesty? Beethoven went deaf. Van Gogh cut off his ear. Sylvia Plath found peace only in silence. Maybe art doesn’t just expose — maybe it consumes.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the cracked window, making the canvas flutter like a shroud. The moonlight wavered.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the price. Every faith demands a sacrifice.”

Jeeny: “But who decides what’s holy enough to die for? Beethoven called art a goddess — but what kind of goddess takes and never gives?”

Jack: “One that gives immortality.”

Jeeny: “At the cost of life.”

Host: The tension between them thickened. The attic felt smaller now, filled with invisible echoes — the kind that belong to ghosts of unfinished works.

Jack: “You talk like art is a thief. It’s not. It’s transformation. Beethoven didn’t lose his hearing — he traded it. For something purer. Something eternal.”

Jeeny: “That’s what people say when they want to romanticize pain. But tell me, Jack — what’s eternal about loneliness?”

Jack: “The fact that it creates everything.”

Host: He said it quietly, almost tenderly. Jeeny’s expression softened, just for a moment — then hardened again.

Jeeny: “You think loneliness is creative fuel. But I’ve seen what it does to people. It doesn’t make them gods. It makes them ghosts. They start living for what can’t love them back.”

Jack: “And yet you love.”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “You love what art does to people — the way it lifts them, moves them. You cry at films, Jeeny. You read poetry like prayer. Don’t tell me you don’t understand the hunger.”

Jeeny: “I understand the hunger. I just refuse to call it divine.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, like applause from an unseen audience. Jack rose, paced the room, his footsteps echoing against the wooden floor.

Jack: “So what would you call it, then? Madness?”

Jeeny: “No. Devotion without mercy.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: He laughed, but it wasn’t humor — more like resignation.

Jeeny walked toward the painting, studied it — the chaotic swirls of color, the uneven strokes, the fury barely contained.

Jeeny: “What is this supposed to be?”

Jack: “It’s not supposed to be anything. It just is.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem. You artists think chaos is revelation. That if it’s raw enough, it must be true.”

Jack: “Truth is raw. If it doesn’t hurt, it’s decoration.”

Host: Jeeny touched the edge of the canvas, her fingers leaving faint smudges of blue.

Jeeny: “Beethoven couldn’t hear his own music, Jack. Think about that. He worshiped a goddess who robbed him of her voice. And still — he kept composing. That’s not faith. That’s obsession.”

Jack: “Or surrender. Maybe he realized that comprehension was never the point. You don’t consult with a goddess, Jeeny — you listen.”

Jeeny: “Even when she’s silent?”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The lamp flickered. The wind sighed. Somewhere outside, a bell tolled midnight.

Jeeny: “You make it sound beautiful. But I don’t think it is. I think it’s tragic — the way people destroy themselves in the name of art. All those masterpieces — born from sleepless nights, starvation, madness. And the world claps. Like suffering’s a show.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s the only show worth watching — a human being wrestling the infinite.”

Jeeny: “Until the infinite wins.”

Jack: “But it never really does. You’re still talking about Beethoven, aren’t you? Still hearing his music two centuries later. That’s what she gives back, this ‘goddess.’ Eternity in exchange for pain.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened — not with tears, but with something deeper: understanding. The kind that hurts.

Jeeny: “So the artist dies, and the art lives. But what’s the worth of immortality if the price is your own heart?”

Jack: “Ask any believer. They’ll tell you — salvation’s never free.”

Host: Silence fell. Only the sound of rain and the faint creak of the house remained. Jack sat again, his hand covering his face. Jeeny stood by the window, watching the night dissolve into streaks of silver.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he asked the question — not to be answered, but to be understood. Who comprehends her? With whom can one consult? He wasn’t looking for an answer, Jack. He was looking for company.”

Jack: “Company in madness.”

Jeeny: “Company in creation. It’s not the same.”

Host: Jack’s hand fell away. For the first time that night, he smiled — a small, weary smile, like a candle at the end of a long vigil.

Jack: “So you’re saying we’re all just praying to the same goddess, hoping she listens.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe she listens through us. Maybe that’s what art really is — her way of speaking back.”

Host: The rain stopped. The attic was quiet now, save for the faint ticking of an old clock. Jeeny walked to the painting, picked up a brush, dipped it into the blue, and made one small, deliberate stroke.

Jeeny: “There. Now she’s not just yours.”

Jack: (softly) “No. She never was.”

Host: The camera lingered — on the two figures standing before the half-finished painting, on the streak of color binding their worlds together.

Then it pulled back, through the window, into the night, past the rooftops glistening from the rain.

The voice of Beethoven — silent yet thundering — seemed to echo in the air:
that art, the eternal goddess, cannot be comprehended, only worshiped,
and that those who dare to listen are forever changed — not because they understand her,
but because they never stop trying to.