Experience was my only teacher; I knew little of the modern art

Host: The studio was dim except for the yellow light of a single hanging bulb, swaying faintly from an unseen draft. The air smelled of turpentine, linseed oil, and the quiet desperation of creation. Across the walls, canvases leaned — some blank, some fractured with color, some unfinished as if paused mid-thought.

The floor was a battlefield of paint stains and cigarette ash. The window at the far end showed a gray, almost metallic sky, and beyond it, the endless hum of the city.

Jack stood before a half-finished painting — an abstract mess of lines and tension — his hands streaked with red and blue, his expression caught somewhere between defiance and defeat. Jeeny sat nearby on a wooden stool, a sketchpad resting on her knees, watching him with that quiet empathy she reserved for those lost in pursuit of meaning.

Jeeny: Softly. “Piet Mondrian once said, ‘Experience was my only teacher; I knew little of the modern art movement. When I first saw the works of the Impressionists, van Gogh, van Dongen, and Fauves, I admired it. But I had to seek the true way alone.’”

Host: The sound of her voice seemed to brush against the silence like a whisper on glass. Jack didn’t look at her immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the painting — a tangle of geometry searching for purity.

Jack: Quietly. “To seek the true way alone. That’s the part that gets me.”

Jeeny: Gently. “Because you understand it.”

Jack: Turns to her. “Because I’ve lived it.”

Host: A pause. Somewhere outside, a car horn echoed faintly — a reminder that the world continued its rhythm while they lingered in this timeless room.

Jack: Half-smiling, half-aching. “You know what’s strange? Everyone talks about influence — who taught you, who inspired you, who you follow. But no one talks about solitude — how creation feels when it’s just you, your instincts, and your ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Because solitude doesn’t sell. People love the myth of genius, not the loneliness that shapes it.”

Jack: Nods slowly. “Mondrian wasn’t following a trend. He wasn’t trying to fit in with the Impressionists or the Fauves. He admired them — but then he left. That’s the hardest thing, Jeeny — to admire something and still walk away from it.”

Jeeny: Eyes softening. “Because admiration is comfortable. Searching alone isn’t.”

Host: The light bulb flickered once — briefly illuminating the dust particles floating in the air like fragments of forgotten ideas. Jack rubbed his hands together, leaving faint streaks of color across his palms.

Jack: Quietly. “You ever feel like you’re chasing something that doesn’t want to be found? Like truth’s a moving target, and every time you get close, it changes shape?”

Jeeny: Thoughtfully. “All the time. But maybe truth isn’t something you find — it’s something you build. Every color, every failure, every silence adds a layer.”

Jack: Bitter laugh. “Yeah, but what if the layers just make it murkier?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe clarity isn’t the point. Maybe honesty is.”

Host: The studio clock ticked faintly — each second stretching. The room felt suspended, timeless, like they were trapped inside one of Mondrian’s grids, every line holding tension between chaos and control.

Jack: Looking at the painting again. “He simplified everything — lines, colors, form. But simplicity takes courage. To strip away everything until only essence remains.”

Jeeny: “Because essence is truth. But truth looks empty until you understand it.”

Jack: Pausing. “Do you think that’s what he meant by ‘the true way’? The search for essence?”

Jeeny: “I think he meant faith — in your own eye, your own rhythm. To listen inward when the world is shouting.”

Host: The rain began against the window — light at first, then steadier, washing the gray sky into liquid silver. The sound filled the space like applause for persistence.

Jack: “When I started painting, I wanted to imitate everything I loved — Van Gogh’s fire, Kandinsky’s chaos, even Picasso’s arrogance. But then I realized imitation is worship without understanding.”

Jeeny: “And creation is worship with surrender.”

Jack: Looking at her, softly. “That’s beautiful.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “So is failure, if it’s honest.”

Host: He turned back to the canvas, running his fingers down the rough texture. The paint, still wet, gleamed faintly under the bulb — imperfect but alive.

Jack: “You think it’s possible to really find your own way?”

Jeeny: After a pause. “Only if you’re willing to get lost first.”

Jack: Whispering. “Then I’m halfway there.”

Jeeny: Laughs softly. “Good. That means you’re still searching — and that’s where art breathes.”

Host: The rain grew louder, drumming against the window, blending with the hum of the city and the low buzz of electricity. The world outside was movement; inside, stillness ruled.

Jeeny: Gently. “You know, Mondrian painted lines, but what he was really drawing was balance — between spirit and structure, chaos and order. That’s the struggle, isn’t it? To find peace without losing pulse.”

Jack: Softly. “To live between control and creation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The true way isn’t a destination — it’s that in-between place where art meets acceptance.”

Host: Jack stood quietly, his eyes tracing the lines he had drawn earlier, the imperfect geometry that suddenly felt less like failure and more like confession.

Jack: Murmuring. “Experience was my only teacher…” He smiles faintly. “That’s both comforting and terrifying.”

Jeeny: Nods. “It means your mistakes are sacred. Every wrong stroke is a whisper from your teacher.”

Jack: Laughing softly. “Then I’ve had a long education.”

Jeeny: “And you’re still enrolled.”

Host: The camera slowly drifted upward, the sound of rain now softer, almost soothing. The studio glowed — not brightly, but warmly — a sanctuary built from imperfection and persistence.

Jack dipped his brush once more, the bristles trembling slightly, and drew a single clean line across the canvas — deliberate, unhurried, final.

Jeeny watched quietly, smiling.

Jeeny: Softly. “There it is. The true way. Not out there — in here.”

Host: The frame froze for a moment — Jack, Jeeny, and the painting between them — the eternal triangle of artist, witness, and creation.

And as the scene faded, Piet Mondrian’s words lingered, like a signature painted not in ink but in understanding:

That experience is the artist’s truest mentor,
that solitude is not emptiness but discipline,
and that to seek the “true way” alone
is not to walk apart from others —
but to walk deeper into oneself,
until the world finally learns
to see in lines and color
what the soul already knew.