I wouldn't be where I am today without the amazing public arts

Host: The rain was falling in silver sheets, washing the city streets clean of their usual neon fatigue. A dim lamppost flickered outside an old community theater, its brick walls darkened with time and memory. Inside, the air smelled of dust, paint, and faint applause — the ghosts of a thousand performances still lingering between the rows of red seats.

On stage, a single spotlight burned, illuminating Jack and Jeeny as they sat side by side on the edge of the wooden platform. Their shadows stretched across the floor, long and blurred, like the echo of youth itself.

Jack’s grey eyes watched the empty audience with quiet intensity. Jeeny’s hands rested on her lap, her fingers brushing the rough grain of the stage — reverent, almost tender.

Host: They had wandered into this abandoned theater after a long walk through the rain, drawn not by purpose, but by nostalgia — the kind that catches you off guard when you see an old poster, a stage light, a door left ajar.

Jeeny: (softly) “Matthew Morrison once said, ‘I wouldn’t be where I am today without the amazing public arts education that I had.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s a nice sentiment. But it’s also a dying one.”

Host: His voice carried through the empty hall, low, steady, tinged with the kind of realism that bruises hope but still sounds like truth.

Jeeny: “You really think so?”

Jack: “Look around, Jeeny. How many of these theaters still exist? How many schools still fund art programs? Kids are being told to code, not to create. Art’s becoming an elective luxury, not a foundation.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “But it’s still a foundation — for the soul, if not the system. Art teaches you how to feel, how to think, how to see the world. Isn’t that just as vital?”

Jack: “Vital, sure. But not profitable. And in this world, what isn’t profitable dies quietly.”

Host: The rain drummed harder on the roof, its rhythm echoing the uneasy beat between their words. The spotlight flickered, catching a faint dust cloud — like glitter from a forgotten curtain call.

Jeeny: “Do you really believe that, Jack? That art has to justify its existence in dollars and data?”

Jack: “I believe that’s how the system works. Passion doesn’t pay rent. Try telling a struggling artist that expression matters more than income. Try telling a kid in a poor district that theater will change their life when their school can’t even afford textbooks.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “But it does change their life. It changed mine.”

Host: Her eyes glistened, not from tears, but from memory — a memory she didn’t have to explain, because the stage beneath her already did.

Jack: (watching her) “You were one of the lucky ones, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I was one of the believed-in ones. Someone somewhere decided that art mattered enough to invest in it — in me. That’s what Morrison meant. Public arts education isn’t charity. It’s faith — faith in the potential of the ordinary.”

Host: Her words lingered, warm against the cold theater air. The light buzzed, dimming slightly, as if to listen.

Jack: “Faith. That’s a beautiful word. But tell me, where does that faith live now? Governments cut funding every year. Theaters close. Art teachers are laid off. It’s a war of survival, and art’s losing.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “No, Jack. Art never loses. It adapts. It finds new stages — streets, walls, screens, even phones. It’s what people turn to in crisis. Remember during the lockdowns? When the world stopped, what kept people sane? Music. Film. Drawing. Dance. That wasn’t profit — that was survival.”

Host: A pause. The sound of rain softened, replaced by the faint hum of a leaking speaker somewhere backstage.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But the truth is, the world only remembers the few who make it big. Everyone else — all those dreamers who never get their break — they fade.”

Jeeny: “Not fade. Influence. You think every teacher gets famous? No. But they shape the minds that do. The ones who wrote, composed, painted — even if they vanished, their work didn’t.”

Host: Jeeny stood, her footsteps echoing softly on the wood. She walked toward the center of the stage, where the light caught her face in a golden half-glow.

Jeeny: “When I was twelve, my school had one of those programs — free after-school drama. We performed The Tempest in the gym. I was Miranda, terrified out of my mind. But when I finished that last line, when the lights hit, when people clapped… I felt like I existed. Like I had a place in the world. That moment — that’s what built me.”

Jack: (softly) “And if that program hadn’t existed?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe I’d still be looking for myself.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, almost sacred. Jack’s eyes lowered, and his expression shifted — from argument to understanding, from logic to something like remorse.

Jack: “You’re right. I can’t argue with that. I grew up in a factory town. No theater, no music class. My world was noise, not sound. Maybe that’s why I chase numbers instead of melodies — because no one ever told me I could.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him again) “And that’s why this matters. Because every child deserves to be told they can. That’s what public arts education is — not just about art, but about access. About telling every kid, rich or poor, that their imagination matters.”

Host: Her voice trembled with conviction, and even the rain seemed to hush for a moment, as if the world itself paused to listen.

Jack: “You think imagination can fix the system?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not fix it. But it can reimagine it. Every change — every revolution — started in someone’s imagination. That’s art, Jack. That’s what builds civilizations.”

Host: The words struck him — not with force, but with weight. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, and looked up at the ceiling, where the light flickered like a heartbeat.

Jack: “So you’re saying art isn’t just expression — it’s evolution.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Without art, we’re just efficient animals. With it, we’re something else entirely — something capable of empathy, of reflection, of hope.”

Host: The stage light buzzed, then dimmed, casting them both in soft twilight. Outside, the rain slowed, gentle, like applause winding down after a final act.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You know, maybe Morrison was right. Maybe none of us would be where we are without the ones who handed us a brush, or a song, or a line to speak.”

Jeeny: “And maybe our job now is to hand it forward.”

Host: The words settled between them like dust motes in the light, quiet but luminous. Jeeny reached over, placing her hand on Jack’s — a small gesture, but in that old theater, it felt like a vow.

Jack: “Do you think it’s too late? For the world to remember?”

Jeeny: “No. Art has survived wars, famines, and ignorance. It’s the one rebellion that never dies. It just waits — for someone to listen again.”

Host: The rain stopped. A thin ray of moonlight found its way through a crack in the roof, touching the stage floor. It looked almost like a curtain call.

Jack: “Then maybe we start here. In the ruins. Build again.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s what art’s always done.”

Host: They stood, side by side, two silhouettes framed in the light — one born of logic, one of faith — and for a moment, the theater breathed again. The air warmed, the silence softened, and the memory of laughter and applause seemed to awaken from the walls.

As they walked out, the doors creaked, and the moonlight followed, falling gently across the empty seats — like a promise left behind.

Host: “Perhaps the truest art isn’t performed on stage, but preserved in the hearts of those who remember what it gave them — courage, wonder, and the permission to dream.”

And as the camera pulls back, the theater fades into darkness, but the sound of faint music, like a child humming backstage, lingers — a quiet reminder that art, though fragile, is eternal.