I want to abolish time, especially in the contemplation of

Host: The museum was almost empty. Only the soft buzz of the lights and the distant hiss of a janitor’s broom filled the air. In the center of the gallery, a single painting hung beneath a muted spotlight — a grid of black lines and primary colors, calm yet electrifying. Jack stood before it, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes tracing the lines with surgical precision. Jeeny lingered a few steps behind, her silhouette framed against the white wall, her hair catching the faintest shimmer of the artificial light.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? Something so still, and yet it feels like it’s moving.”

Jack: “That’s geometry for you. Balance and illusion. Nothing really moves—our eyes just think it does.”

Host: A faint echo drifted through the hall, the sound of a door closing somewhere far behind them. The silence that followed was thick, almost sacred. Outside, the city pulsed in neon rhythm, but inside, time seemed suspended, caught in Mondrian’s web of order and chaos.

Jeeny: “Mondrian once said he wanted to abolish time, especially in architecture. What do you think he meant?”

Jack: “He meant he hated entropy. Hated change. Artists—especially ones obsessed with perfection—always try to freeze the moment before decay begins.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he wanted to create something beyond decay. A space where human breath doesn’t fade. A place untouched by death.”

Jack: “That’s the same thing. An illusion of eternity. Nothing human escapes time.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost tender, as if he were confessing something rather than arguing. He took a slow step toward the painting, the soles of his shoes whispering against the marble floor.

Jack: “Architecture is time’s favorite victim. Every building crumbles eventually. Even the pyramids are dying—just slower than we are.”

Jeeny: “But they still stand. After four thousand years. Isn’t that what Mondrian meant? That we can create something that transcends our own limits, even if time keeps moving?”

Jack: “Transcendence is vanity. The pyramids weren’t built to abolish time; they were built to deny death. Big difference.”

Host: The light caught the edge of Jack’s face, casting half of it in shadow, as though the line between cynicism and yearning itself had been drawn across his cheek. Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes reflecting both the painting and him — structure and soul, logic and feeling.

Jeeny: “You think wanting to outlast death is vanity?”

Jack: “It’s arrogance. Like trying to stop a river with your bare hands.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about stopping it. Maybe it’s about building a bridge. Architecture as remembrance, not rebellion.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her gaze stayed firm. The museum light glimmered on the painting behind her, its colors — red, blue, yellow — seeming to hum with unseen electricity.

Jack: “Remembrance fades too. Time eats that as well.”

Jeeny: “But not the feeling. When you stand in front of a cathedral, or under a dome, or even here—in front of Mondrian’s grid—don’t you feel something eternal? Like the structure itself holds its breath for you?”

Host: Jack didn’t answer at first. He tilted his head slightly, studying the canvas. The lines, so sharp and clinical, seemed to tremble under his gaze. He remembered the old house where he grew up—the cracked wallpaper, the uneven wooden floors. He had watched that house fall apart, brick by brick, as the years gnawed at it.

Jack: “Feel eternal? No. I feel the opposite. The stillness reminds me of how loud time really is.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what he wanted us to see—to make us aware of the silence beneath time’s noise.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but impractical. You can’t live in stillness. You can’t build a city out of silence.”

Jeeny: “You can build peace.”

Host: Her words lingered, vibrating softly in the space between them. Outside, a car horn blared distantly—time’s reminder that life was still moving. But inside, the moment felt sealed, preserved.

Jeeny: “You know the Pantheon in Rome? When you stand beneath the oculus and the light pours in—it doesn’t matter what century you’re in. That shaft of light abolishes time. It makes you feel like you’re standing inside the eternal.”

Jack: “Until the sun sets.”

Jeeny: “But while it shines, Jack—while it shines—it’s eternity.”

Host: Her eyes glowed with quiet conviction. Jack exhaled, his breath visible in the cool, climate-controlled air. He looked again at the painting—at the perfection of the grid, at the absolute absence of emotion, and yet, the overwhelming presence of order.

Jack: “Maybe Mondrian didn’t want to abolish time. Maybe he wanted to control it. Make it behave. Line it up neatly in black and white, the way a man arranges thoughts to avoid feeling.”

Jeeny: “Control is another illusion. Maybe he was trying to surrender—to something purer than time. Look at this grid—it’s not about control. It’s about faith. Faith that beauty can exist without movement.”

Host: The light above flickered, just once. The colors seemed to shimmer—red pulsing like a heart, yellow burning like memory. Jack turned, his eyes narrowing, not at Jeeny, but at himself.

Jack: “Faith. That’s your answer to everything.”

Jeeny: “And logic is yours. But sometimes, Jack, faith is logic at a higher frequency.”

Host: His brow furrowed, not in anger, but in reflection. The room seemed to contract around them, drawing their voices into the heartbeat of the painting. The air felt thick—charged with something that had nothing to do with art and everything to do with human need.

Jack: “You can’t live outside time, Jeeny. You can’t abolish it, no matter how beautifully you draw your lines.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can meet it halfway. You can build something that lets you touch the infinite for a second.”

Jack: “And then it’s gone.”

Jeeny: “But it was there.”

Host: Silence. A silence heavy with meaning. Jeeny took a step closer to him, their reflections now overlapping on the glass that covered the painting. For a moment, they were part of Mondrian’s grid—two human figures framed by his eternal geometry.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack… time isn’t the enemy. Forgetting is. Mondrian wanted to abolish the forgetfulness of time. That’s what architecture does—it remembers for us.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet trapped in a scientist’s body.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And you sound like a scientist afraid he might still have a soul.”

Host: The tension broke—not with laughter, but with something gentler: a recognition. Outside, the rain began to fall, slow and deliberate, the way memories return. The museum lights dimmed slightly as closing hour neared.

Jack: “You really think art can cheat time?”

Jeeny: “Not cheat it. Converse with it.”

Jack: “And what do we say?”

Jeeny: “We say: ‘I was here. I saw beauty. I tried to make something that could last.’”

Host: Jack let those words settle, like dust finding rest after years of drifting. He looked at the grid again—not as lines or colors, but as heartbeat and breath, frozen in place, refusing to die.

Jack: “Maybe that’s enough. Not to abolish time—but to speak against it. Even for a moment.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe that’s all Mondrian ever wanted—to build a silence that could still be heard after everything else fades.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, and the painting seemed to glow, its colors burning brighter than before. Jack turned toward Jeeny, and in that quiet instant, both looked less like strangers debating art and more like two souls standing at the edge of eternity, sharing its reflection.

Jack: “So, time wins—but we still draw the line.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what makes it art.”

Host: They walked toward the exit, their footsteps echoing softly across the marble floor. The hall behind them returned to stillness, the painting untouched, unwavering. Outside, the city clock struck midnight—marking another second lost, another moment gained.

The camera lingered on Mondrian’s grid—its lines clean, its colors eternal. And though time moved outside, within those four white walls, it had, for just a breath, been abolished.