I think of my peace paintings as one long poem, with each

Host: The warehouse smelled of paint, iron, and a faint trace of dust that glittered in the late afternoon light. Sunlight streamed through the tall, cracked windows, cutting across half-finished canvases that leaned against the walls like waiting souls. The air was heavy with color — blues bleeding into reds, golds into gray. It was quiet except for the slow hum of a radiator and the sound of brushes being cleaned in a tin jar of murky water.

Jack stood near a large canvas — abstract, layered, restless — his hands stained with streaks of cobalt and crimson. Jeeny sat cross-legged on a stool, her notebook open, a pencil tucked behind her ear.

They hadn’t spoken for a while. The silence felt alive, like a third presence breathing between them.

Jeeny: “You’ve been at that one for hours.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s not finished.”

Jeeny: “It never is with you.”

Jack: (smirks) “Perfection’s a myth. I just keep chasing what it feels like to be done.”

Host: He stepped back, eyes narrowing at the canvas — a storm of colors and shapes, all colliding, refusing to settle. The sunlight slid across the paint, making parts of it shimmer, others sink into shadow.

Jeeny: “You know, I read something by Robert Indiana today. He said, ‘I think of my peace paintings as one long poem, with each painting being a single stanza.’”

Jack: “A poem? That’s cute. Painters pretending to be poets now?”

Jeeny: “Not pretending — expressing. He meant that every piece is connected. Each one adds to a larger story. Like chapters in a life, or lines in a confession.”

Jack: “Maybe for him. For me, each painting’s its own fight. No harmony, no grand design. Just survival in color.”

Host: The light dimmed as a cloud passed over the sun, the whole room shifting to a softer gray. Jeeny watched him — his sharp profile, the flicker of frustration in his eyes, the loneliness wrapped inside his confidence.

Jeeny: “That’s still poetry, Jack. Even if you don’t call it that. Every fight leaves a mark, and when you line them all up — that’s your poem. You’re just writing it in paint instead of words.”

Jack: “Then what’s it say? That I’m angry? That I can’t fix what’s broken?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it says you’re trying. And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: Jack looked down, wiping his hands on a rag already soaked with color. He didn’t reply. The radiator hissed softly, filling the pause like a breath held too long.

Jack: “You sound like you think art means something. Like it saves people.”

Jeeny: “I think it does. Not always loudly, not for everyone — but quietly, for the ones who need it most. Look at Indiana. He painted ‘LOVE’ — just four letters — and the world recognized itself in it. That wasn’t decoration, Jack. That was salvation in color.”

Jack: “Yeah, but that was him. He had belief. I’ve got… noise.”

Jeeny: “No, you’ve got truth. And truth’s messy. Art isn’t meant to fix peace, it’s meant to seek it. That’s why he called them peace paintings — not because they are peaceful, but because they reach for it.”

Host: The sun broke through again, cutting across Jack’s face. He looked up, eyes flickering as if the light had caught him off guard.

Jack: “So, you think my chaos counts as peace?”

Jeeny: “I think peace isn’t absence of chaos. It’s the rhythm you find inside it — like a heartbeat under a war drum.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You and your metaphors.”

Jeeny: “You started it. You’re the one painting stanzas without knowing it.”

Host: She rose, walked over to one of his earlier canvases — a swirl of dark reds and silver. Her fingers hovered just above the surface, not touching, but tracing the air around it as if feeling its pulse.

Jeeny: “This one — this feels like grief.”

Jack: “It was. My mother had just passed. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Jeeny: “And this?” (she gestured to a blue and gold one)

Jack: “Hope, maybe. Or the memory of it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Each one’s a stanza. Different emotions, same poem. You’re writing your life in layers.”

Host: Her voice softened, the room breathing with her words. Jack stood still, eyes traveling across the collection of canvases — each one a different scar, a different moment frozen in pigment.

Jack: “You really think art’s that personal? That it says who we are?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Art is autobiography disguised as abstraction.”

Jack: “Then I guess my autobiography’s a mess.”

Jeeny: “Mess is human. That’s why people understand it. Nobody really connects to perfection, Jack — they connect to the cracks.”

Host: The light shifted again, the sky outside blushing with sunset. The walls glowed gold, turning every painting into something alive — breathing, almost trembling.

Jack: “You ever feel like you’re trying to say something too big for words?”

Jeeny: “Every day. That’s why I write. And that’s why you paint.”

Jack: “But what if nobody ever hears it?”

Jeeny: “Then say it anyway. The act itself is the peace.”

Host: The air thickened with the quiet weight of understanding. Jack looked at the latest canvas again — chaotic swirls, lines breaking into light. His hand hovered over it, almost tenderly.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That all your paintings are one long apology — to yourself, to the people you’ve lost, to the silence you can’t forgive.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe. Or maybe they’re just echoes. Fragments that don’t know how to end.”

Jeeny: “Then keep painting. Let them become sentences, paragraphs — until they stop echoing.”

Host: She moved closer, standing beside him now. The two of them faced the wall of canvases — a mosaic of turmoil and beauty. Together, they looked like readers before a sacred text.

Jeeny: “You know, Indiana wasn’t just painting peace. He was searching for meaning in repetition. Each piece was an attempt to rewrite the same feeling — until it finally spoke.”

Jack: “So maybe all artists are translators — trying to turn pain into language.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And the language doesn’t matter — words, colors, silence — as long as it’s honest.”

Host: The last rays of sunlight hit the highest corner of the wall, catching a fragment of paint that shimmered like a hidden signature. Jack’s face softened.

Jack: “If this is one long poem, Jeeny, I’m not sure how it ends.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s the point.”

Host: She smiled, that gentle, knowing smile that made time slow for a moment. Jack looked at her — and for once, the tension in his shoulders eased.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to finish the poem, Jack. You just have to live it.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because peace isn’t something you paint once. It’s something you keep painting — stanza after stanza — until your soul recognizes its own color.”

Host: The sun slipped below the horizon. The room dimmed into a soft twilight, the canvases now silhouettes against the glow. Jack picked up his brush again — not in frustration this time, but quiet purpose.

He dipped it into blue, then gold. His strokes slowed, deliberate.

Jeeny stepped back, watching him work.

Host: In the growing stillness, the faint sound of the brush against canvas became the rhythm of a heartbeat — steady, alive, forgiving.

The camera pulled back, showing the two figures — one painting, one witnessing — surrounded by colors that seemed to breathe.

And on the wall, a single phrase written in soft pencil beneath the newest canvas:

“Each peace is a stanza — together, they form the poem of becoming.”

Host: The light faded completely now, leaving behind only the glow of the paintings — each one a verse, each one unfinished, each one whole in its imperfection.

The warehouse exhaled quietly, like a body finding rest.

And in that silence, Robert Indiana’s words found their reflection — not in sound, but in color:
a poem of peace, still being written.