It is the artist's business to create sunshine when the sun

Host: The sky outside was the color of smoke, a restless gray that pressed low against the city’s skyline. The café’s windows were fogged with condensation, softening the glare of the neon signs and the shuffle of people rushing through rain puddles like scattered ghosts. Inside, the air smelled of wet coats, espresso, and something faintly sweet — a refuge for dreamers who still believed that art could mean something.

Jack sat in the corner booth, coat damp, collar up, a sketchbook half-open beside his cold coffee. His pencil hovered, but the page stayed blank. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hair glistening from the rain, a small journal resting in her lap. She looked at him quietly for a long moment — the kind of look that didn’t need words to ask, what’s happened to you?

Outside, the rain thickened, tracing crooked lines of silver down the glass.

Jeeny: (softly) “You’re staring at that page like it insulted you.”

Jack: (smirks without humor) “Feels like it did. Blankness always does. It’s the most honest critic I’ve ever met.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not judging you. Maybe it’s waiting for you.”

Jack: (leans back, sighs) “Waiting for what? Inspiration? Sunlight? Those things have been in short supply lately.”

Jeeny: (quoting softly) “‘It is the artist’s business to create sunshine when the sun fails.’ Romain Rolland.”

Host: The words hung between them like a fragile flame, trembling but bright. The light from the streetlamps flickered across Jack’s face, catching the faint trace of exhaustion in his eyes.

Jack: “Sunshine, huh? Easy to say when you’re not sitting in the dark.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly when it matters, Jack. Anyone can paint when it’s bright outside — but when the light dies, that’s when the artist’s promise begins.”

Jack: (laughs bitterly) “You sound like a Hallmark card. You know what it’s really like? You pour everything you’ve got into the canvas — your time, your heart, your sanity — and people scroll past it in three seconds. The world’s too numb to feel the light anymore.”

Jeeny: (leans forward) “Then you make them remember what it feels like.”

Host: The rain beat harder now, a soft, insistent drumming that filled the small café with the rhythm of restless thoughts. Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she turned her journal, revealing a page filled with handwritten lines, words half-crossed out, rewritten, alive.

Jeeny: “Do you know why Rolland said that, Jack? He wrote those words during the First World War — when Europe was on fire, and the world was bleeding hope. He wasn’t talking about painting pretty skies. He meant that the artist’s job is to build light out of ruin.”

Jack: (quietly) “To pretend things aren’t as bad as they are?”

Jeeny: “No — to remind people they’re more than what’s broken. That’s not pretending. That’s resurrection.”

Jack: “You think art can resurrect a world that doesn’t want to be saved?”

Jeeny: “I think art saves the people who make it — and the few who dare to feel it. That’s enough.”

Host: The steam from their cups swirled upward, curling like ghosts of warmth, mingling with the soft hum of a jazz record playing in the background. The saxophone’s cry carried through the air — wounded, beautiful, stubbornly alive.

Jack: “You always talk like hope is a switch you can just turn on. But some days… I don’t have it in me to light anything. I can’t make sunshine when I’m the one fading.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Then borrow someone else’s. That’s what we’re here for.”

Jack: (shakes his head, half-smiling) “You think you can loan me optimism?”

Jeeny: “No. But I can remind you what it looked like when you had it. Remember that mural you painted on the old subway wall? The one with the hands reaching through the cracks? People still talk about it. You didn’t just paint color — you painted courage.”

Jack: “That was years ago.”

Jeeny: “And it still breathes. That’s what art does — it outlives our moods.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the room for a brief second, throwing their faces into sharp relief — the weariness in Jack’s, the quiet faith in Jeeny’s. Outside, the rain began to ease, the world exhaling softly.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the world still needs art. But what if the artist needs something first — someone to remind him why it mattered in the first place?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Then that’s why we have each other.”

Jack: (leans forward, resting his hands on the table) “You really believe light can be created out of nothing?”

Jeeny: “Not nothing. Out of pain. Out of longing. Out of the parts of us that refuse to die.”

Host: The clock ticked, each second a heartbeat against the silence. Jack’s hand moved, almost involuntarily, toward his sketchbook. The pencil touched the page, hesitant — then certain. Lines began to form: not perfect, not complete, but alive.

Jack: (without looking up) “You ever notice, Jeeny… when the sun’s gone, everything depends on reflections? Streetlights on puddles, moonlight on glass… maybe art’s like that — it’s not the sun, but it keeps us from forgetting the light.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. The artist doesn’t chase the sun — he becomes it.”

Jack: “And when he burns out?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else carries the flame.”

Host: The rain had stopped now, leaving behind the faint smell of earth and electricity. The neon lights outside blurred into soft color trails, painting the window like a half-finished dream. Jack’s pencil moved faster, the scratch of graphite on paper mingling with the low hum of the café’s lights.

Jeeny: (after a while) “What are you drawing?”

Jack: (glances up, a quiet smile forming) “A window. Half-open. Light spilling in from somewhere you can’t see.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s not finished yet.”

Jeeny: “Neither are we.”

Host: For a long moment, they sat in silence, the kind that isn’t empty but full — of shared warmth, mutual recognition, and the quiet realization that even in a world dimmed by uncertainty, creation was still an act of defiance.

The sun hadn’t returned, but inside the café, the light had changed.

Host: Jack tore the page gently from his sketchbook, placed it on the table between them. The drawing glowed faintly in the dimness — a window, open to invisible light, surrounded by shadows that seemed less threatening now.

Jeeny reached out, her fingers tracing the lines, her smile soft and real.

Jeeny: “See? The sun didn’t fail. It just moved inside.”

Host: Outside, the clouds parted slightly, revealing a narrow band of pale moonlight that slid across the café floor, finding its way to their table. It rested there for a moment — delicate, almost intentional — before fading into the night.

And as the last drop of rain fell, two souls sat beneath that fragile glow, proving that even when the world turns gray, the artist’s heart — restless, stubborn, infinite — will always find a way to create sunshine when the sun fails.