In the modern world of business, it is useless to be a creative

Host: The rain was still falling, slow and reluctant, as if even the sky had grown tired of its own tears. A dim light flickered inside the café, casting reflections across the wet pavement outside. The city hummed in the distance—cars, neon signs, and the low growl of commerce still awake past midnight. Inside, Jack sat at the corner table, his grey eyes fixed on a notebook littered with sketches and scribbles. Jeeny sat across from him, fingers wrapped around a cup of tea, her brow furrowed with a quiet fire.

The quote from David Ogilvy had been scribbled in the margin of Jack’s page:
“In the modern world of business, it is useless to be a creative, original thinker unless you can also sell what you create.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that line for ten minutes, Jack. Do you really believe that? That creativity means nothing unless it can be sold?”

Jack: “I don’t just believe it, Jeeny. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. In this world, ideas don’t survive unless they earn their keep. You can paint the most brilliant mural, but if no one pays to see it, it’ll crumble in the rain.”

Host: A train passed in the distance, its sound like a long sigh rolling through the night air. The café light trembled on Jeeny’s face, revealing the soft sadness in her eyes.

Jeeny: “But what about art, Jack? About purpose? Van Gogh sold almost nothing in his lifetime, yet his paintings changed how the world saw color. Should his worth have been measured in francs?”

Jack: “Van Gogh is the exception, Jeeny, not the rule. For every Van Gogh, there are a thousand dreamers who starve believing passion will feed them. The world doesn’t reward purity; it rewards visibility. You want to make change? You have to play the game.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that tragic? That we’ve built a world where truth has to dress up as marketing to be heard?”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the windows. A couple laughed at the bar, their voices like distant echoes from a happier world. Jack closed his notebook and leaned back, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “It’s not tragic. It’s reality. Look at Steve Jobs. He wasn’t just a creator; he was a salesman of dreams. If he hadn’t sold that vision, Apple would have been another garage project buried under dust.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying truth means nothing without a price tag?”

Jack: “I’m saying truth needs a medium. And in our world, that medium is commerce.”

Host: Silence hung between them like a curtain. The steam from Jeeny’s tea rose slowly, curling like ghosts above the table. Her voice was soft when she finally spoke again, but it cut through the air like glass.

Jeeny: “But what happens when the medium becomes the message? When we start creating not because we believe, but because we think it will sell?”

Jack: “Then we adapt. That’s what evolution is. You either adjust, or you fade. Do you think Ogilvy would’ve built his empire if he only wrote poetry about advertising instead of mastering it?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think he understood something you don’t. He knew persuasion was a tool, not a soul. The moment you start measuring creativity by profit, you’ve already corrupted it.”

Host: The lights from passing cars swept across their faces, first washing them in blue, then gold, like flickering moods across a canvas. Jack tapped his fingers on the table, his voice dropping lower.

Jack: “You talk like purity ever fed anyone, Jeeny. The world doesn’t run on passion. It runs on exchange. Ideas need wheels to move, and money is the only fuel left.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s the one fuel that leaves everything else burning.”

Host: The rain softened, as if listening. The streetlights outside blurred, turning the city into a watercolor of grey and amber.

Jeeny: “Let me tell you a story, Jack. Do you know about the Cuban musician, Compay Segundo? He played for decades in small bars, unknown, poor, forgotten. Then one album — Buena Vista Social Club — and the world finally listened. But he didn’t change his music to fit the market. The market came to him. Isn’t that proof that authenticity still matters?”

Jack: “Or proof that luck does. For every Compay Segundo, there are thousands who never got their recording. History only remembers the few that sold.”

Jeeny: “No, history remembers the ones who meant something.”

Jack: “Only after someone markets them as meaningful.”

Host: The air between them vibrated with tension now, like the moment before a storm breaks. The clock above the counter ticked, each second sharper than the last. Jack’s jaw was tight; Jeeny’s eyes were wet, but defiant.

Jeeny: “So tell me, Jack — if your soul had a price, would you sell that too?”

Jack: “If it meant survival, maybe I would.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of surviving, if you’ve already sold the part of you that lives?”

Host: Jack’s silence was long, almost painful. His eyes flicked toward the window, where the reflection of his face looked like a stranger — half shadow, half light. He took a breath, slow, measured, as if weighing her words.

Jack: “You think I don’t know what that feels like? I used to write — real stories. Before the agency, before the clients and the targets. But then one day, I realized no one was reading them. The only words that reached anyone were the ones that sold something.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t with creativity, Jack. Maybe it’s with the audience we’ve taught to consume instead of feel.”

Jack: “Maybe. But we can’t change the audience by ignoring them.”

Jeeny: “Nor can we heal the world by imitating its disease.”

Host: Her voice trembled with fury now, not from anger, but from love — for the things that matter, the things that can’t be bought. Jack’s gaze softened. The fight had bled out of him, replaced by a strange calm.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe we need both. The artist and the salesman. The dream and the distribution. Maybe the trick is not letting one devour the other.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To sell without selling out.”

Jack: “To create something beautiful, then find a way to make it heard.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. A single drop slid down the glass, catching the streetlight like a tear of light. The city was quiet, as if the debate itself had calmed its pulse.

Jeeny: “Maybe Ogilvy wasn’t cynical, after all. Maybe he was just warning us — that creativity is a flame, and commerce is the lantern. Without one, the other is either blind or burned.”

Jack: “Then maybe the real art is learning how to carry both — the fire and the glass — without shattering either.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The café lights dimmed. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the echo of their conversation lingering like the aftertaste of truth. Outside, the streets gleamed — not with gold, but with reflection.