In a decaying society, art, if it is truthful, must also reflect

Host: The factory stood silent at the edge of the city, its windows shattered, its walls tattooed with graffiti and memory. The sky above was a bruise of purple smoke and ash, as if the air itself carried the ghost of what was once industry, once hope. Inside, the echo of dripping water and distant sirens filled the emptiness.

Jack and Jeeny sat on a broken beam, surrounded by old paint cans, crumbling murals, and scattered pages of a forgotten newspaper. A burned-out bulb swung above them, creaking softly with the wind.

Host: The place smelled of rust, rain, and something else — the faint, stubborn scent of creation that refused to die.

Jeeny: “Ernst Fischer once said — ‘In a decaying society, art, if it is truthful, must also reflect decay. And unless it wants to break faith with its social function, art must show the world as changeable, and help to change it.’”

Host: Her voice carried through the dust, each word landing softly against the ruins, as if the factory itself were listening.

Jack: “You quote him like a prophet, Jeeny. But what’s left to change? The world’s rot goes deeper than any painting or poem. Art doesn’t change the system. It just decorates the collapse.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It documents it. It reminds us that we’re still alive inside the collapse. That’s what truthful art does — it doesn’t hide the decay, it reveals the humanity struggling underneath.”

Host: The light flickered — for an instant, Jeeny’s eyes glowed with fierce conviction, while Jack’s remained cold, analytical, tracing the cracks in the floor.

Jack: “You talk like truth is enough. But truth doesn’t feed people. Art can’t fix the economy, can’t rebuild these walls. Look around you — this factory used to employ two hundred workers. Now it’s just a backdrop for your murals.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s a tomb, and someone has to speak for the dead. My murals aren’t decoration — they’re testimony. Do you remember that one down by the rail yard? The child holding a flower out of a broken window? That’s truth too. Not the truth of numbers, but of spirit.”

Host: The wind howled through the steel ribs of the building, scattering ash like snowflakes.

Jack: “You think beauty can fight corruption? You think paint can challenge policy? It’s naïve. People see your art, they nod, they post a photo, and then they go home. The system doesn’t blink.”

Jeeny: “And yet — every revolution started with an image. A song, a poem, a cry. When Picasso painted Guernica, he didn’t stop the bombs, but he showed the world what bombs meant. That painting became proof — that truth could be witnessed, that suffering had a face.”

Jack: “Guernica didn’t end war.”

Jeeny: “No — but it gave it a name. And sometimes, that’s the first step toward change.”

Host: The air grew heavier, as though memory itself had entered the room. The sound of dripping water slowed, echoing in time with their words.

Jack: “You talk like art is some moral weapon. But what if decay is just inevitable? Every empire, every system, every ideal — they all crumble. Maybe art should just accept that.”

Jeeny: “If it accepts, it betrays. Fischer said that — to be truthful, art must show decay, but it must also help change it. That means it has to refuse despair. It has to believe the world can still transform.”

Host: The light bulb finally went out, plunging the room into shadows. For a moment, only the streetlight outside cast a faint orange glow through the cracks.

Jack: “You think the world can still transform? Look at the politics, the violence, the polarization. People don’t even agree on what’s true anymore. How can art help that?”

Jeeny: “Because art speaks in emotion, not data. It’s the last language we all still understand. You show a man a statistic, he shrugs. You show him a child’s face in the rubble, and his heart moves. That’s change. It starts small.”

Host: Her voice trembled now, carrying both defiance and grief.

Jeeny: “When George Floyd was killed, it wasn’t just the video that woke people up — it was the murals, the poems, the music. The world painted its mourning into action. That’s art’s rebellion — to make pain visible until someone has to answer for it.”

Jack: “And yet the system goes on. The machines keep turning. The same injustices, the same cycles.”

Jeeny: “Then art keeps painting, keeps singing, keeps writing — until the machines choke on their own noise. That’s the faith it keeps. Not blind hope, but stubborn witness.”

Host: The wind rattled the metal sheets, the sound like distant applause. Jack picked up a piece of chalk lying on the floor, rubbing it between his fingers.

Jack: “You always see meaning in ruin.”

Jeeny: “Because ruin is where truth hides. Look at this factory — it’s an autopsy of progress. The paintings I make here aren’t for the elite, they’re for the ghosts who built this place with their hands.”

Jack: “You romanticize suffering.”

Jeeny: “No — I humanize it. There’s a difference. One escapes, the other stays. I stay.”

Host: The tension between them pulsed like a living thing, raw and almost sacred.

Jack: “And what if your truthful art is too late? What if society is already beyond repair?”

Jeeny: “Then at least art can remember what honesty felt like. Even if the world forgets.”

Host: A long silence stretched — only the distant hum of a passing train filled the void. Then, slowly, Jack took the piece of chalk and drew a crooked line on the wall.

Jack: “What if I told you that I used to paint too?”

Jeeny: “I’d say you still can.”

Jack: “No. I used to believe. Then I started to see how easily beauty gets bought and sold. How every truth ends up as advertising.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you should paint again — to undo that. To remind people that not every stroke is for profit. That some are for redemption.”

Host: Jack looked at the wall, at the faded murals peeling like skin, and for the first time, his expression softened — a quiet vulnerability replacing his usual armor.

Jack: “Redemption... that’s a heavy word.”

Jeeny: “So is decay. And yet both are truth.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through the factory, lifting dust and papers in a slow, swirling dance — like the ghosts themselves had risen to listen.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe art’s not about saving the world. Maybe it’s about refusing to let it die quietly.”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. To refuse silence — that’s the artist’s rebellion. Even in decay, there’s music left to play.”

Host: Jack set the chalk to the wall again, drawing a rough outline — a face, cracked but recognizable, half in shadow, half in light.

Jeeny watched, eyes wide, her breath catching.

Jeeny: “Who is it?”

Jack: “No one. Everyone. Maybe just the world, waiting to be changed.”

Host: The sun began to rise through the broken windows, spilling amber light across the factory floor. The chalk dust shimmered in the beam, turning the ruins into a temporary cathedral of color and silence.

Jeeny: “Then let it be seen, Jack. Let it be seen.”

Host: Outside, the city still groaned under the weight of its decay, but inside that abandoned factory, something shifted — not the world, perhaps, but the faith that it could still change.

And for a brief, luminous moment, even decay looked like beginning.