Monsters are a departure from 'reality' in a way that allows for

Host:
The rain had just ended, leaving the streets slick and shining like a sheet of black glass. Inside an old warehouse turned studio, the air was thick with the smell of turpentine, charcoal, and coffee gone cold. Canvas after canvas leaned against the walls, each one crowded with half-born creatures—some grotesque, some beautiful, all aching to be understood.

Jack stood near a window, grey eyes fixed on the city lights, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His reflection in the glass looked like a ghost—half man, half memory.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, a paintbrush in hand, staring at the canvas in front of her—a face, distorted and aching, a monster with sad eyes.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of dripping water from the ceiling and the gentle hum of a neon sign outside. Then Jeeny broke the silence.

Jeeny:
Emil Ferris said, “Monsters are a departure from reality in a way that allows for a range of fantastic possibilities… When I sit down to draw, I'm energized by the possibility of creating a monster. That is where I find beauty and pathos.”

Jack:
Beauty in monsters. That’s new. Most people just find fear or revulsion.

Jeeny:
That’s because most people don’t look at them long enough. If you really see a monster—really see it—you find truth there. Pain, longing, even love.

Jack:
Or maybe that’s just projection. We see what we want to see in the things that terrify us.

Jeeny:
Maybe. But isn’t that what art is? The act of projecting what we fear, until it becomes something we can hold?

Host:
The rainlight from the window cast silver veins across the studio floor. Jack watched the shadows move like restless animals, his expression unreadable, but his jaw tight, as if holding back a thought too old to say.

Jack:
You know, when I was a kid, I used to draw monsters too. The kind that hid under the bed. My father used to tear up the drawings. Said I was feeding darkness.

Jeeny:
And what did you do?

Jack:
Stopped drawing. Started pretending I didn’t have any.

Jeeny:
Monsters?

Jack:
Yeah. And emotions too, for that matter.

Jeeny:
That’s the tragedy, Jack. The moment we stop creating monsters, we become them.

Host:
The rain began again, softly this time, tapping against the roof. The studio filled with its rhythm—a slow, almost heart-like pulse.

Jeeny stood, her bare feet leaving faint prints of paint on the floor. She walked to the wall, gestured toward a sketch—a figure half human, half beast, its eyes filled with something heartbreakingly human.

Jeeny:
See this? This isn’t a monster to me. It’s a mirror. Every tooth, every scar, every asymmetry—it’s just the truth of being imperfect made visible.

Jack:
You’re saying we all carry a beast inside?

Jeeny:
No, I’m saying we all are one. Some just hide it better.

Jack:
And you think that’s beautiful?

Jeeny:
Yes. Because it means we’re honest.

Host:
Jack turned, ash falling from his cigarette, his voice low, measured, like he was testing her conviction.

Jack:
You talk about monsters like they’re sacred. But let’s be real, Jeeny—monsters destroy. That’s what they do. They consume, they haunt, they devour what’s left of innocence.

Jeeny:
Only if you deny them. But when you acknowledge them, when you paint them, when you name them—something changes. You take power back.

Jack:
So art’s just a kind of therapy, then?

Jeeny:
No. It’s alchemy. It’s how we turn what’s ugly into what’s understandable.

Host:
The studio light flickered. A faint rumble of thunder rolled across the city. Jack walked closer, studying her monster painting. The eyes seemed to follow him—sad, forgiving, almost tender.

Jack:
There’s something about this one. It looks like it’s... hurting.

Jeeny:
It is. That’s where the pathos lives. In the hurt that refuses to hide.

Jack:
You really think there’s beauty in that?

Jeeny:
Absolutely. The most beautiful things are the ones that ache.

Jack:
That’s a dangerous philosophy.

Jeeny:
No, it’s a human one.

Host:
Jeeny picked up her brush, dipped it into the paint, and with a slow, deliberate stroke, she added a tear beneath the monster’s eye. The color was not blue, but a strange mix—grey, amber, a shade that seemed to shift as it caught the light.

Jack watched, silent, his eyes softening, the cigarette smoke curling between them like a thin veil.

Jeeny:
You know why Ferris says she’s energized by the act of creating monsters? Because in that space, you’re free. You’re not bound by what’s normal or acceptable. You can invent, destroy, heal, love—all at once.

Jack:
Sounds like chaos to me.

Jeeny:
No. It’s truth with the mask ripped off.

Jack:
And what if someone can’t handle the truth?

Jeeny:
Then they’ll pretend they don’t see it. But the monster will still be there, waiting, breathing.

Host:
The clock on the wall ticked, slow and steady. The rain deepened, washing the windowpane clean. Outside, a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the studio, and for an instant, all the painted monsters on the walls seemed to come alive—their faces trembling with emotion, their eyes gleaming.

Jack turned away, but not before one of them caught his gaze—a figure with a scar just like his, right across the chin.

Jack:
Tell me something, Jeeny. When you paint these... things—are you trying to exorcise them, or understand them?

Jeeny:
Both. Understanding is the only way to exorcise.

Jack:
And if you fail?

Jeeny:
Then you try again. That’s what artists do. We keep inviting the monsters to tea, until they stop scaring us.

Host:
Jack chuckled, but it wasn’t mockery this time—it was a small, tired laugh, the kind that comes from recognition.

He walked toward her canvas, reached out, but stopped an inch before the paint.

Jack:
You know... maybe Ferris is right. Maybe monsters are the purest reflection of what we can’t say out loud.

Jeeny:
Exactly. They carry our shame, our grief, our desire. And in that, they become beautiful.

Jack:
Beauty in monstrosity. Who would’ve thought?

Jeeny:
Only those who’ve met their own.

Host:
The storm outside softened, the thunder now just a distant murmur. The light in the studio turned warm, amber, almost forgiving.

Jeeny stepped back, her brush still wet, her eyes meeting his.

Jeeny:
You see, Jack... the world keeps telling us to hide our monsters—to smile, to be normal, to erase what’s strange. But Ferris understood something most people don’t: that monsters are the proof of our depth. Without them, we’re just flat drawings of what we think we should be.

Jack:
And maybe that’s the real monster—pretending we’re not.

Jeeny:
Exactly.

Host:
The rain stopped. A thin beam of moonlight slipped through the clouds, landing on the monster painting—its face now half-lit, half-shadowed, caught perfectly between terror and tenderness.

Jack and Jeeny stood before it, silent, breathing, as though waiting for it to speak.

Host (softly):
And maybe, in that moment, it already had.

The beauty, the pathos, the truth of being human—all humming quietly inside the monsters we make, and the ones we become.

Because, in the end, the real art is not in defeating the monsters—
but in loving them enough to see ourselves inside.