I don't listen to what art critics say. I don't know anybody who

Host: The gallery was nearly empty, save for the echo of soft jazz bleeding from a half-hidden speaker and the hum of fluorescent lights suspended above white walls. The room smelled faintly of paint, dust, and the quiet arrogance of modern art — where silence was currency and opinion was weapon.

A single canvas hung in the center — wild, chaotic, pulsing with color and energy. Reds and blacks clashed like two memories fighting for air. Beneath it stood Jack, hands in his pockets, his grey eyes sharp with skepticism. Jeeny stood beside him, her arms folded, eyes luminous with something between awe and defiance.

The plaque beside the piece read: Untitled (Homage to Noise) — inspired by Jean-Michel Basquiat.

Jeeny: (softly) “Basquiat once said — ‘I don’t listen to what art critics say. I don’t know anybody who needs a critic to find out what art is.’”

Jack: (smirking) “And yet, here we are — surrounded by people who pay thousands to be told what to feel.”

Jeeny: “That’s the irony, isn’t it? We’ve turned art into a sermon — and critics into priests.”

Host: A gust of air drifted through the gallery as the door opened and closed again. A few late visitors moved quietly, their footsteps careful, reverent. But the painting before them — it didn’t care for reverence. It screamed, unapologetically, even in stillness.

Jack: “You know what I like about Basquiat? He didn’t need permission. He painted like a man trying to rip truth out of chaos.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He didn’t paint for people — he painted through himself. The critics came later, to explain what they couldn’t feel.”

Jack: “That’s the problem with criticism. It turns wonder into language. It dissects what was meant to be lived.”

Jeeny: “But sometimes language is how people find their way in. Not everyone can stand in front of chaos and recognize beauty.”

Jack: “Maybe they shouldn’t have to. Maybe art’s not supposed to be understood — just survived.”

Host: The lights buzzed, faintly trembling, like nervous stars. Jack stepped closer to the painting, eyes tracing the frantic brushstrokes — layers of graffiti, fragments of words, ghosts of figures clawing toward meaning.

Jack: “You ever think critics exist because people are afraid of their own reactions? It’s safer to borrow someone else’s opinion than to trust what your gut tells you.”

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But that’s not just art — that’s life. People outsource their truths because thinking for yourself is terrifying.”

Jack: “Basquiat never did that. He painted like he was bleeding.”

Jeeny: “And the world loved him for it — until it didn’t. That’s the other side of not caring about critics. You become the art they want to consume.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, though her expression stayed calm. Jack turned toward her, noticing something raw beneath her composure.

Jack: “You’re talking about him — or yourself?”

Jeeny: “Both. I used to write poems I never showed anyone. Then one day, someone told me I had a ‘voice.’ After that, I started writing for the people who said it — not for the silence that made me write in the first place.”

Jack: “And it ruined it?”

Jeeny: “No. It changed it. Art’s like that. It starts pure, but the moment you let someone else name it, it becomes something else.”

Jack: “So what’s the answer? Create and stay invisible?”

Jeeny: “No. Create and stay honest. Visibility isn’t the problem — validation is.”

Host: The room fell silent again. The two of them stood before the painting as if it were a mirror — a reflection of all the parts of themselves they couldn’t quite articulate.

Jack: “You think Basquiat believed that? That honesty mattered more than praise?”

Jeeny: “I think he lived it. He painted like he knew beauty and pain were twins. He didn’t need critics because he was already in conversation with his own ghosts.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s why the critics hated him — he didn’t need them to exist.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. True art doesn’t beg to be understood. It demands to be felt.”

Host: Jack took a slow step back, his eyes never leaving the piece. The reds seemed redder now, the blacks deeper, as if the painting itself had been listening.

Jack: “You know, maybe art critics are just historians of missed emotion. They record what they couldn’t feel in time.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful — and cruel.”

Jack: “So is art.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then maybe you’re more of an artist than you think.”

Jack: “No. I’m just a man who hates when people pretend to understand what can’t be explained.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, explaining it beautifully.”

Host: The spotlight above them dimmed slightly, the gallery preparing to close. The guard moved quietly through the aisles, his footsteps steady, unhurried.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Basquiat was really saying? That art isn’t for the critics — it’s for the ones who need it to survive another day.”

Jack: “Yeah. Like oxygen that smells like paint.”

Jeeny: “Or truth that doesn’t need translation.”

Host: The last song faded — a soft trumpet note dissolving into silence. The gallery lights cooled, leaving the room bathed in faint gold. The painting loomed before them — wild, flawed, and immortal.

Jeeny: “Art doesn’t ask to be understood. It just asks not to be ignored.”

Jack: “And critics confuse the two.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Basquiat didn’t paint for the applause. He painted because the noise inside him refused to shut up.”

Jack: “And the rest of us… we spend our lives pretending we can explain that kind of noise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe art isn’t meant to be explained. Maybe it’s meant to echo.”

Host: The camera lingered on the painting — the reds bleeding into black, the words half-erased but eternal. Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, small against its wildness, both humbled by its refusal to fit neatly into meaning.

And as the lights dimmed completely, Basquiat’s defiant spirit seemed to hum through the silence — unfiltered, unpolished, alive:

That art does not seek permission,
nor bow to interpretation.

That the truest creation is not critique-proof —
it is critic-proof.

Because beauty, in its rawest form,
is not consensus —
it is confession.

And those who dare to make it
speak not to be understood,
but to remind the world —

that feeling
is the only truth that never lies.