It is as necessary for man to live in beauty rather than ugliness

Host: The afternoon lay heavy upon the city, the kind of light that turns everything into muted gold—dust, bricks, even disappointment. The river flowed lazily beneath the bridge, its surface fractured by the wind. On the far bank stood a row of half-finished apartment towers, grey and skeletal, a skyline of fatigue rather than aspiration.

Jeeny sat on the edge of the bridge, her legs dangling over the drop, a half-eaten sandwich resting on a napkin beside her. Jack stood a few feet away, leaning against the railing, smoking in silence.

A faint breeze brushed against them, carrying the scent of metal, rain, and something else—faintly floral, like memory.

Jeeny: softly “Maslow once said, ‘It is as necessary for man to live in beauty rather than ugliness as it is necessary for him to have food for an aching belly or rest for a weary body.’”

Host: The words slipped into the air with a kind of reverence, soft but unyielding.

Jack: without looking at her “Maslow? The hierarchy guy?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “The same. But people only remember his pyramid. Not his poetry.”

Jack: “Beauty’s not a need, Jeeny. It’s a luxury. You can’t eat sunsets or pay rent with aesthetics.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without beauty, you starve differently.”

Host: The river murmured beneath them, its sound both soothing and indifferent. A train passed in the distance, its rumble vibrating through the steel.

Jack: “You sound like one of those idealists who think flowers can fix poverty.”

Jeeny: “No. But I believe ugliness—of place, of spirit—makes poverty worse. You ever notice how slums look like despair turned solid? Crumbling walls, grey skies, broken light? It seeps into people.”

Jack: “And painting a wall fixes that?”

Jeeny: “Not alone. But it reminds people they deserve better. When Bogotá painted its poorest neighborhoods in color, crime dropped. People started planting gardens, cleaning streets. Beauty doesn’t feed the body—but it can feed the will to live.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered—just slightly—toward her. Smoke drifted from his cigarette, curling into abstract shapes before fading into nothing.

Jack: “So beauty’s therapy now?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s dignity.”

Host: The word landed between them with the weight of something ancient, something that didn’t need explaining.

Jack: “You think dignity lives in colors and design?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Sometimes it lives in small things—a window with light, a tree by a road, a mural on a wall. Things that tell you someone cared. That you matter enough for the world to look nice around you.”

Jack: takes a slow drag “That sounds nice on paper. But I’ve worked construction in ten cities. You know what people ask for? Hot water, locks that work, no mold. Nobody says, ‘Give me beauty.’”

Jeeny: “Because they’ve forgotten they’re allowed to.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering a few old papers down the bridge. Jeeny reached out, catching one mid-air—a discarded ad for luxury condos promising “Urban Perfection.” She smiled wryly.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, we’ve reserved beauty for the rich. We treat it like it’s earned. But it’s a right. Just like warmth, just like sleep.”

Jack: exhales smoke through his teeth “And who pays for that right?”

Jeeny: “All of us. Because the cost of ugliness is higher.”

Host: He turned to face her now, his eyes sharp, his voice edged.

Jack: “You talk like a philosopher, but the world runs on economics, not ethics. We can’t design paradise for everyone.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve defined paradise too narrowly.”

Host: The sky began to shift—the gold turning to amber, the light thinning. A pair of children ran across the far end of the bridge, laughing, their shoes slapping against the concrete, a bright sound in a weary world.

Jack: “So what—you think beauty’s a basic human need? Like food, air, water?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it gives meaning to all those things. Food fills you. Beauty reminds you why you eat.”

Host: Jack’s hand froze halfway to his cigarette pack. For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes drifted to the river, following the ripples as though searching for something he’d lost.

Jack: “I used to think that way once.”

Jeeny: turns toward him “Used to?”

Jack: “Yeah. Back when I designed homes instead of housing. Before the numbers crushed the dreams. Before deadlines became commandments.”

Jeeny: “And what happened?”

Jack: quietly “Someone told me beauty didn’t scale.”

Host: His voice cracked slightly at the edge, a sound almost swallowed by the wind. Jeeny looked at him—really looked—and saw the fatigue he never admitted: the quiet corrosion of someone who once dreamed in shapes and light but now spoke only in budgets.

Jeeny: “Whoever told you that lied.”

Jack: “Maybe. But lies pay better than beauty.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still build. So maybe some part of you still believes.”

Host: The sun slid lower, casting long shadows across the bridge. A faint orange glow touched Jack’s face, softening the lines etched by cynicism.

Jack: “You ever seen those refugee camps? Rows of tents, endless grey. The NGOs brought architects once—said they’d redesign the layout to make it more ‘humane.’ You know what the refugees asked for first? Curtains. Just curtains. A way to make the space theirs. That’s your beauty, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: nods “Exactly. Even in suffering, people crave form, order, grace. They want to feel seen.”

Host: Jack dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. His eyes softened, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “Maybe beauty’s the only thing that makes the world bearable.”

Jeeny: “Not maybe, Jack. Definitely. We build walls to keep out the cold, but beauty keeps out despair.”

Host: A long silence followed. The river glittered under the dying light, a thousand tiny reflections dancing like stubborn hope.

Jack: “You really think it’s a necessity?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the absence of beauty isn’t neutral—it’s cruelty.”

Host: Her words trembled in the air. Jack turned to face the city again, the buildings now silhouetted in gold.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I first started out, I wanted to make things beautiful. Then the work got harder, the clients colder, the deadlines shorter. Somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing beauty as a need and started treating it like a luxury. Maybe that’s when I stopped loving the work.”

Jeeny: “Then start again. Start with one building, one space, one corner of light that matters.”

Jack: half-smile “You make it sound like redemption.”

Jeeny: “It is.”

Host: The sun sank lower, painting the river in liquid bronze. The city hummed in the distance, weary but alive.

Jack: “You think we can build a world like that—where beauty isn’t privilege, but birthright?”

Jeeny: “We can. If we remember that to live beautifully isn’t to escape ugliness, but to transform it.”

Host: He looked at her then—truly looked—as though her words had opened a small, impossible window in his chest.

Jack: “Maybe Maslow was right. Maybe beauty feeds something deeper than hunger.”

Jeeny: “It feeds the soul’s appetite for meaning.”

Host: The sky flared briefly, then dimmed into the bruised violet of evening. The river swallowed the last of the light.

Jack picked up the half-eaten sandwich beside her, took a bite, then smiled faintly.

Jack: “Food for the belly. Beauty for the spirit. Guess both are necessary to stay human.”

Jeeny: smiling back “And sometimes, one teaches you how to taste the other.”

Host: The city lights flickered on, one by one, like the slow awakening of a tired heart. Beneath them, Jack and Jeeny sat quietly, their faces illuminated by a world that—though scarred and imperfect—still shimmered with the stubborn persistence of beauty.

Host: And in that moment, the bridge, the river, the unfinished towers, even the weary light—all seemed to whisper the same truth Maslow once knew:

That beauty is not escape.
It is survival.