Lesser artists borrow, great artists steal.

Host: The night was heavy with rain, the kind that made streetlights bloom into golden halos through the fog. In a quiet studio above the city, the walls were lined with canvases, half-finished paintings, and the faint smell of turpentine hung like a ghost in the air. A single lamp illuminated the room, its light trembling over the edges of scattered sketches and coffee cups. Jack stood by the window, his reflection cut between shadows and rain. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, her hands stained with paint, her eyes lost in the dance of color and thought.

Jeeny: “Do you remember what Stravinsky once said? ‘Lesser artists borrow, great artists steal.’ I’ve been thinking about that all week.”

Jack: “Ah, yes. The glorious permission slip for every artist to plagiarize and call it genius.”
He smirked, his voice low and gravelly, as he sipped the last of his coffee.
“Stravinsky knew how to justify a theft.”

Host: The rain beat harder against the window, a rhythm like a heartbeat echoing the tension between them.

Jeeny: “You twist it too literally. He didn’t mean theft as in stealing without honor. He meant to make something yours — to transform it so completely that the origin dissolves into your spirit.”

Jack: “Transform it, huh? That’s a romantic way of saying you can’t come up with something original. Artists just dress up other people’s ideas and call it creation.”

Jeeny: “And what is originality, Jack? Every idea, every note, every word we speak is born from something before it. Shakespeare borrowed plots, Picasso reimagined African masks, Jobs redefined technology others had already invented. Isn’t that what evolution looks like in art?”

Host: Jack turned, his silhouette framed against the city’s glow. His eyes, grey and piercing, met hers like flint against flame.

Jack: “So what—you’re saying there’s no such thing as originality? That everything’s just a remix of the past?”

Jeeny: “Not a remix. A resurrection. A conversation across time. The great ones don’t borrow—they steal because they take the soul of something and breathe new life into it.”

Host: A silence fell. The clock ticked with lazy defiance. Somewhere below, a car horn wailed like a lonely animal.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But if you strip it down, it’s still theft. No matter how you paint it, you’re taking what isn’t yours.”

Jeeny: “Then explain innovation, Jack. Do you think Einstein invented relativity from thin air? Or that Beethoven never heard another composer before writing his symphonies? We build on the bones of others. That’s not theft—it’s inheritance.”

Jack: “Inheritance implies permission.”

Jeeny: “And art never asks for permission. It takes what it needs.”

Host: The lamp flickered, casting shadows that swayed across Jeeny’s face. Her eyes burned with quiet conviction, while Jack’s jaw tightened, as if holding back a storm of words.

Jack: “So if I take your painting, rework it, and sign my name—would you still call it art?”

Jeeny: “No. Because you’d take the surface, not the soul. You’d borrow. Not steal.”

Jack: “Ah, so now we have levels of theft.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Borrowing is imitation. Stealing is transformation.”

Host: Her voice rose, trembling slightly with emotion. The rain softened, its rhythm turning almost like applause against the glass.

Jack: “You idealize it. The truth is, people steal because they lack imagination. Because it’s easier to copy than to create.”

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. It takes courage to steal properly. To absorb, to dismantle, to reshape something until it becomes your truth. It’s not cowardice—it’s communion.”

Jack: “Communion with someone else’s work.”

Jeeny: “No—with humanity itself.”

Host: Jack laughed, a short, sharp sound that sliced the air.

Jack: “You make it sound like a religion.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Art has always been a form of worship. Not of gods, but of the eternal act of creation. When an artist steals, they’re not robbing—they’re reaching for that divine spark that’s already in everything.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, shimmering like dust in the lamplight. Jack turned away again, his hands in his pockets, his reflection fractured by the raindrops sliding down the windowpane.

Jack: “You speak of divinity. But tell me, Jeeny—what happens when that stealing turns into exploitation? When artists mine cultures not their own, and call it inspiration? When it’s no longer about connection but profit?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not art—it’s colonization. There’s a difference between stealing with love and stealing with greed.”

Jack: “And who decides that? The artist? The audience? History?”

Jeeny: “The intention decides it. The heart behind the act. You can feel the difference in the work—whether it’s an echo or a rebirth.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled across the city, its sound rattling the window. Jack turned, his voice softer now, though the skepticism still lingered.

Jack: “You really think intention justifies it? That if I mean well, I can take what I please?”

Jeeny: “Not take what you please—take what speaks to you, what moves you, what you can transform into something more. Stravinsky, when he said that, wasn’t talking about permission. He was talking about possession—the kind that transforms both the art and the artist.”

Jack: “Possession… like a ghost inhabiting a body.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Art isn’t born—it reincarnates.”

Host: The light caught her eyes then, a glimmer like embers refusing to die. Jack’s face softened, the hard lines of cynicism bending into quiet reflection.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why true originality feels impossible. Because every thought is haunted.”

Jeeny: “Haunted, yes—but beautifully so. Every artist is a medium for those who came before.”

Host: The rain stopped. The room seemed to exhale, the silence swelling like a final note.

Jack: “So you’re saying a great artist steals… not from others, but from eternity?”

Jeeny: “From eternity. From memory. From the collective dream we all share.”

Host: Jack stepped closer to the table, his fingers brushing over one of Jeeny’s canvases—a swirl of colors, chaotic yet alive. His expression shifted, the faintest smile crossing his lips.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe stealing isn’t about taking. Maybe it’s about becoming.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Theft that creates more than it destroys—that’s the kind of stealing Stravinsky meant.”

Host: A quiet peace settled between them. The city below glittered like a field of stars fallen to earth. Jeeny rose, her hands still stained with paint, and moved to the window beside him. For a moment, they stood in silence, their reflections merging in the glass—two faces blurred into one image, caught between shadow and light.

Jeeny: “Art isn’t about owning, Jack. It’s about becoming part of something larger. We don’t create—we continue.”

Jack: “And we steal from the silence that came before us.”

Host: The lamp hummed, its light steady now. Outside, the rain had ceased, and the first hint of dawn began to stain the sky with faint silver. Jack and Jeeny stood together, no longer opponents but co-conspirators in the same eternal crime—the theft of meaning from the void.

Host: And as the sunlight slowly spilled across the studio, illuminating the unfinished canvas, it was clear: what Stravinsky meant was never about stealing what exists, but claiming what was always ours—the shared, endless pulse of human creation.