Critics? Don't talk to me of critics! You think some jackanapes

Host: The theater was nearly empty, save for the echo of footsteps and the faint smell of dust and old velvet. A single light burned on the stage — a lonely spotlight illuminating a forgotten set piece: a broken chair, a torn curtain, and the ghosts of applause that once filled the air.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, his hands stained with paint and tobacco, staring into the darkness where the audience once was. Jeeny, her coat pulled close against the chill, stood near the orchestra pit, holding a stack of newspapers — each with the same headline, the same reviews.

The night had the silence of disappointment.

Jeeny: “Jonathan Raban once said — ‘Critics? Don’t talk to me of critics! You think some jackanapes journalist, his soul eaten away by the maggots of jealousy and failure, has anything worthwhile to say of art? I don’t.’”

Her voice trembled between admiration and unease. “He was furious when he said that. But sometimes I think he wasn’t wrong.”

Jack: “He wasn’t wrong at all.”
He spat the words out like ashes, his grey eyes hard with contempt. “Look at this,” he said, flicking a newspaper from her hands. “They called it ‘self-indulgent,’ ‘confused,’ ‘a waste of ambition.’ What do they know about ambition? They’ve never built anything that bleeds.”

Host: The paper fell open on the floor, the print black and final. The wind from a cracked window stirred it faintly, like a wounded bird trying to move.

Jeeny: “They have their job, Jack. To observe. To challenge.”

Jack: “To destroy,” he snapped. “To stand in the ashes of what others create and call it analysis. They’re parasites, Jeeny — feeding on what they can’t make.”

Host: He rose from the stage, his shadow stretching long and twisted across the boards. The light caught his face — sharp, haunted, a man carved out of both anger and pride.

Jeeny: “You think no one has the right to criticize you?”

Jack: “Not unless they’ve tried. You can’t speak of pain if you’ve never risked it. You can’t dissect art from the safety of detachment.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes criticism valuable? Distance — the ability to see what the artist can’t?”

Jack: “Distance kills truth,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “You can’t understand the fire unless you’ve been burned by it.”

Host: The stage light flickered, humming softly. Jeeny moved closer, her boots creaking against the wood.

Jeeny: “Jack, Van Gogh died thinking he was a failure. Kafka, too. Their critics dismissed them. But if no one had written about them later, if no one had looked again — they might still be forgotten. Doesn’t that mean something?”

Jack: “No,” he said bitterly. “It means critics are like vultures — they circle once the artist’s dead, and suddenly they call it genius because it’s safe to admire a ghost.”

Jeeny: “That’s cruel.”

Jack: “So is the truth.”

Host: He turned away, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. The smoke rose in thin threads, curling in the cold air like exhausted dreams.

Jeeny: “You’re angry because they didn’t love your work.”

Jack: “I’m angry because they didn’t see it. Because they wanted me to fit their categories, their expectations. They judge with formulas, not feelings.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that also your pride talking? Maybe art needs someone to hold it accountable. To remind it it’s not above the world it comes from.”

Jack: “Accountable to whom? The ones who sell words about things they can’t make? Critics don’t love art — they love their reflections in it.”

Host: Jeeny’s brow furrowed. Her eyes, soft but unflinching, searched his face for something more — something human behind the rage.

Jeeny: “And yet, you read every review. Every word. You say they don’t matter, but you feed on them like poison.”

Jack: “Because I want to understand how people can be so blind.”

Jeeny: “Or because you want their validation.”

Host: The sound of her words hung heavy in the air. Jack froze, the cigarette halfway to his lips. A long moment passed before he answered.

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe I do. But that’s the curse, isn’t it? Every artist wants to be understood — even by those they despise.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe critics aren’t your enemies, Jack. Maybe they’re your mirror. The one you hate looking into, because it reflects your fear.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed slightly, its glow turning amber, softer — as though the room itself leaned in to listen. Jack’s shoulders slumped, the weight of unspoken years pressing down.

Jack: “You talk like it’s that simple. But when they tear apart what you’ve poured your life into — your nights, your heart — it feels like they’re cutting through you. Tell me, Jeeny, how do you forgive that?”

Jeeny: “You don’t. You transform it. You make the next piece so alive, so undeniable, that their words turn hollow.”

Host: Her voice grew steadier, brighter. There was fire in it now, the kind that warms instead of burns.

Jeeny: “Remember when Picasso said, ‘Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life’? You’re letting their dust cover you. You’ve forgotten why you started painting in the first place.”

Jack: “To be seen,” he murmured.

Jeeny: “No. To feel alive.”

Host: The words cut through the silence like the strike of a match. Jack looked up, his eyes reflecting both defiance and dawning recognition.

Jeeny walked to the edge of the stage, picking up the discarded newspaper. She tore it in half, slowly, deliberately — the sound sharp and final.

Jeeny: “These people don’t define you. Their words will fade, but your work — your truth — will stay.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Because if I didn’t, the world would belong only to those who judge, not those who dare.”

Host: The cigarette in Jack’s hand burned to its end, the ash trembling before it fell. He looked out into the empty seats — the unseen faces of all who’d ever doubted, dismissed, forgotten — and then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You know, I used to sit there,” he said, pointing to the front row. “Watching others perform. Writing reviews for the school paper. I thought I understood art back then.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I know I was blind.”

Host: A faint smile ghosted across Jeeny’s lips — not triumph, but tenderness. She reached out, touching his paint-stained hand.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what critics are for, in the end. To teach us what blindness feels like — so that when we create, we create with eyes open.”

Host: The light dimmed further, narrowing until it held only the two of them — two figures in the fragile glow of reconciliation.

Jack exhaled, slow and deep. “Maybe I needed them,” he admitted. “Even if only to remind me what it means to fight for what I love.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already won.”

Host: The spotlight flickered once, twice, then faded entirely, leaving them in darkness. But the silence that followed was no longer bitter — it was full, alive, humming with the invisible pulse of something redeemed.

And as the curtain fell, unseen by any audience, the truth lingered quietly in the air:

that art, at its purest,
needs no applause —
only the courage to endure the noise of misunderstanding,
and keep creating in spite of it.