Artists live in unknown spaces and give themselves over to

Host: The attic was cold and wide, filled with the smell of turpentine and the faint hiss of a radiator trying to breathe life into the winter air. The city below was drowning in fog, its lights smudged into the grey like embers buried in ash. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swinging slightly as if trembling with the weight of its own light.

Jack stood near the window, his hands in his coat pockets, watching the mist drift past the glass. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, her canvas before her — a storm of half-formed colors, shapes that seemed to move when you looked too long.

The silence between them was not empty, but alive — the kind of silence that artists know too well, the one that precedes either creation or collapse.

Jeeny: “Kiki Smith once said, ‘Artists live in unknown spaces and give themselves over to following something unknown.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “And you believe that? That art is just… wandering in the dark, hoping to stumble on something worth seeing?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “It’s not wandering. It’s surrender. The unknown isn’t chaos — it’s potential. You can’t plan art, Jack. You listen for it.”

Host: The light flickered across Jeeny’s face, highlighting the brushstrokes on her cheek, traces of blue and gold. Her eyes were distant, soft, yet filled with a fierce, quiet certainty.

Jack: “Listen? To what? The muse? The void? Come on, Jeeny. Artists romanticize not knowing because it excuses the lack of direction. You wouldn’t build a bridge without a blueprint — why should creating be any different?”

Jeeny: “Because a bridge isn’t alive, Jack. A painting breathes. A poem bleeds. You don’t build them; you become them. The unknown isn’t the absence of order — it’s the birthplace of discovery.”

Jack: (sharply) “Discovery? Or delusion? Half the artists who ‘follow the unknown’ end up starving or forgotten. Van Gogh died broke and insane. If he’d been more practical, maybe he would’ve lived long enough to see his success.”

Jeeny: “But his art lived because he gave himself to what he didn’t understand. He painted his torment — not what sold, but what was. The world doesn’t need more efficient painters, Jack. It needs those who risk madness to touch the truth.”

Host: A gust of wind shook the windowpanes, rattling the jars of brushes and bottles on the shelf. The sound was like a low chord, a note struck deep in the room’s bones.

Jack turned, his face caught in the half-light, his eyes like steel tempered by doubt.

Jack: “Truth is a luxury word, Jeeny. Everyone says they’re searching for it, but no one can prove it exists. Artists, scientists, lovers — all chasing ghosts.”

Jeeny: “And yet those ghosts shape everything we are. The unknown you fear is where every invention, every song, every act of love begins. Even science — your precious logic — is born in the dark. Every hypothesis is a leap into mystery.”

Jack: (quietly) “At least science looks for evidence.”

Jeeny: “And art is the evidence — of feeling, of chaos, of being human. You think the unknown is a threat. I think it’s a home.”

Host: The radiator hissed, a soft and persistent heartbeat in the background. Jeeny stood, her paint-stained hands moving in the air, as if she were shaping her thoughts into form.

Jeeny: “Do you know what it’s like to paint for hours and not recognize what’s on the canvas? To feel something pulling you forward — not with reason, but with hunger? That’s what Kiki meant. You follow the unknown not because it’s safe, but because it’s alive.”

Jack: “You make it sound mystical. But maybe it’s just the brain trying to make sense of chaos. Maybe the unknown is just noise, and artists pretend it’s music.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even if it is, the act of listening turns noise into music. That’s what creation is — not control, but transformation.”

Host: The light bulb swung again, casting their shadows against the brick wall — long, distorted, dancing like souls caught between worlds.

Jack: “You really think surrendering to something you don’t understand is strength?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the unknown humbles us. It reminds us we’re not gods — we’re explorers. Every artist who ever mattered — from Beethoven to Marina Abramović — gave themselves to what couldn’t be measured. They didn’t master the unknown; they served it.”

Jack: “And what if it devours you? What if you lose yourself in it?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve lived as few ever do — utterly consumed by the thing that makes you human.”

Host: A long silence settled, broken only by the faint scrape of Jeeny’s brush as she lifted it again. She stroked the canvas gently, the sound almost like breathing. Jack watched, his jaw tight, his thoughts unspoken.

Jack: “You know, when I was in architecture school, we had this professor. He used to say that every design begins in the fog. He made us draw blindfolded — lines, circles, chaos. At first, I thought it was stupid. But later, I realized the best buildings I made came from those mistakes. Maybe… maybe there’s truth in what you’re saying.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “There always is, hidden in the mess. That’s the unknown — it doesn’t reveal itself to control, only to courage.”

Jack: “Still, I can’t help thinking — not everyone’s built for that kind of faith. Most people need solid ground.”

Jeeny: “And artists dig where there’s no ground at all. They fall, and in falling, they build wings.”

Host: The fog outside had thickened, blurring the world into a single, soft color — neither black nor white, but something in between, a shade of becoming. The room glowed with the muted light of a streetlamp, and the air felt charged, as if something unseen were moving through it.

Jack walked closer to the canvas, studying the chaos of color — the swirls, the strokes, the shadows that almost formed a face, or maybe a dream.

Jack: “It’s strange. It looks incomplete, but… it feels finished.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s not meant to be finished. The unknown never ends, Jack. It just changes shape.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what living is — never really knowing, just learning to follow.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To follow, to trust, to surrender — that’s art. That’s life.”

Host: The bulb above them hummed, a soft, lonely note in the cold air. Jeeny set down her brush, her eyes shimmering with a tired, beautiful peace.

Jack exhaled, a faint smile forming, the kind that comes not from agreement but from understanding.

Jack: “You know… maybe we’re all artists, then. Just trying to find our way through the unknown.”

Jeeny: “We are. Some with brushes, some with blueprints, some just with their hearts. We all follow something we can’t name.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the room a halo of light in the fog, two souls framed by the unfinished. The painting glowed faintly, as if the unknown itself had left its signature in color.

Outside, the fog began to lift, just slightly — revealing, for a moment, the world that waited beyond the window.

And in that half-light, in that quiet revelation, their silence felt like faith.