Beauty is subjective and should not be limited to only what we

Host: The afternoon sun fell through the cracked windows of a downtown art studio, scattering light across unfinished canvases, spilled paint, and dust that moved like tiny galaxies in the warm air. The room smelled of linseed oil, coffee, and faint turpentine.

In the center, Jeeny stood before a half-painted portrait, her brush poised, her eyes distant. Across the room, Jack leaned against the doorframe, his hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. Outside, the city hummed — car horns, footsteps, and the faint sound of someone singing on the street below.

On the old radio beside the window, a voice drifted in — calm, elegant, carrying the accent of wisdom and grace:
"Beauty is subjective and should not be limited to only what we see on the outside." — Alek Wek.

Jeeny: “That’s true, isn’t it? Beauty isn’t about the surface. It’s about the story underneath — the one that hides behind the eyes.”

Jack: “Maybe. But people don’t buy stories, Jeeny. They buy faces. Shapes. Symmetry. You can’t hang someone’s soul on a billboard.”

Host: The light flickered through a rotating fan, slicing across Jack’s face in stripes — a rhythm of light and shadow that mirrored his conflict. Jeeny turned slowly, her brush still raised, a drop of blue paint trembling on its edge.

Jeeny: “You always see the market, not the meaning. Maybe that’s your problem, Jack — you think beauty has to be measurable.”

Jack: “Because it is. In this world, value is always measured. People might talk about inner beauty, but they still edit their photos and chase filters. Even truth gets cropped for better lighting.”

Host: A soft silence followed, filled only by the faint buzz of the city beyond. Jeeny stepped closer to the portrait, her eyes reflecting both tenderness and defiance.

Jeeny: “You think I don’t see that? Every time I walk into a gallery, I see the same faces painted over and over — perfect, polished, lifeless. But real beauty isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being alive.”

Jack: “Alive doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: “Neither does emptiness — not forever.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, glancing across the painting on the easel. It was a woman’s face, weathered, with lines carved deep from time and laughter. One eye slightly higher than the other. Yet, somehow, she glowed — not in perfection, but in truth.

Jack: “She’s… old. You could’ve painted her younger. Cleaner. You’d get more attention that way.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. I don’t paint for attention. I paint for recognition. For the part of us that’s still human when the mirror stops lying.”

Host: The paintbrush moved across the canvas again — slow, deliberate, almost reverent. The faint smell of oil paint grew stronger. Jack walked closer, his eyes tracing the colors, the uneven texture, the trembling truth in every stroke.

Jack: “You know… I used to think beauty was supposed to inspire. But this—” he gestured at the painting “—this feels more like it’s trying to confront me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what real beauty does, Jack. It doesn’t comfort you — it challenges you. It asks if you can still love something once you’ve seen all its flaws.”

Host: A gust of wind from the open window caught a few papers, sending them fluttering across the floor. One landed at Jack’s feet — a rough sketch of a burn victim’s face, half scarred, half smiling. Jack bent down, his fingers trembling slightly as he lifted it.

Jack: “You drew her?”

Jeeny: “She sat here last week. She said she didn’t want me to make her look normal. She wanted to be seen. And when she looked at the finished sketch, she cried. Not because it was ugly, but because it was honest.”

Jack: “Honest… that’s dangerous in your world.”

Jeeny: “It’s dangerous in every world.”

Host: The room filled with the soft hum of the city outside — the pulse of life beyond their little space of truth and argument. Jack stared at the sketch for a long time, the faintest trace of emotion flickering in his grey eyes.

Jack: “You know, when I worked in advertising, we used to test how long people would look at a face before they turned away. You know what we found? The more imperfect the face, the longer they stared. It made them feel something. Confusion, empathy… something.”

Jeeny: “And you still chose to sell perfection.”

Jack: “Because perfection sells faster.”

Jeeny: “And emptier.”

Host: Her voice broke the air like a soft knife. For a moment, neither of them moved. The sunlight was dimming now, its gold turning to amber, then red. The city’s noise grew softer, fading into a kind of evening calm.

Jack: “You really believe people can learn to see beauty that way?”

Jeeny: “I believe people want to. They just need permission.”

Jack: “And who gives it to them?”

Jeeny: “We do. Artists. Poets. Anyone who dares to see differently.”

Host: Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. The light caught the edges of his profile, and for a moment, he looked younger, softer — the kind of man who once believed in something before the world taught him the cost of it.

Jack: “You think beauty’s in the eye, Jeeny. But I think it’s in the need. We call things beautiful when we need them to mean something.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it’s subjective — because what we need is different for each of us. A man might find beauty in a sunset because it reminds him of what he’s lost. Another might see it and feel hope. It’s never about the sunset — it’s about what it awakens.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but steady, like a final note at the end of a long song. Jack turned toward the window, watching the faint lights flicker on in the distant buildings — a million lives unfolding, each chasing its own version of beauty.

Jack: “Maybe Alek Wek was right. Maybe beauty shouldn’t be limited to what we see. But it’s hard, Jeeny — the world keeps teaching us to look instead of feel.”

Jeeny: “Then we have to teach it back. Every painting, every word, every song — they’re all ways of saying, Look again.”

Host: The light finally faded, leaving the room wrapped in gentle darkness, the only glow now coming from the streetlamps outside. Jeeny stepped back from her painting, wiping her hands on a rag, while Jack stood beside her.

Together, they looked at the woman on the canvas — her lines, her wrinkles, her imperfect, undeniable grace.

Jack: “She’s not beautiful in the usual way.”

Jeeny: “No. She’s beautiful in the human way.”

Host: A quiet settled between them, a kind of peace that felt earned, not given. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the room, illuminating the portrait for a fleeting second — a flash of light across truth.

And then, as the darkness returned, so did the understanding:

That beauty isn’t what we’re shown — it’s what we finally have the courage to see.