My art originates from hallucinations only I can see. I translate

Host: The night had already fallen over the narrow streets of Shinjuku. Neon lights flickered like hallucinations, painting the rain-soaked asphalt in colors too vivid to be real. Inside a small gallery, the air smelled of paint, metal, and the faint ache of solitude. Sculptures of mirrored dots and infinite reflections stood still, as if the universe itself had been trapped in repetition.

Jack stood near one of them, his hands buried deep in his coat, eyes fixed on the endless circles. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, her fingers resting on a small, glowing pumpkin sculpture that seemed to breathe with its own rhythm.

The rain outside beat softly against the window — a heartbeat of the city.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack, what it means to see what others can’t? Yayoi Kusama said, ‘My art originates from hallucinations only I can see. I translate them into sculptures and paintings.’ Isn’t that a kind of courage — to turn one’s madness into beauty?”

Jack: “Or a kind of madness itself, Jeeny. Hallucinations are illusions, symptoms of a fractured mind. If your art comes from that, then it’s not about truth — it’s about escape.”

Host: The flicker of a red neon sign reflected on Jack’s face, slicing his features into light and shadow. His voice was low, steady, almost too rational for the room that seemed alive with quiet ghosts.

Jeeny: “Escape? You make it sound like she’s running from something. I think she’s confronting it — transforming her own demons into something the world can see. That’s not illusion, Jack, that’s translation — the language of the soul when the world refuses to listen.”

Jack: “You romanticize madness too easily. Not every darkness can be turned into art. Some people just drown in it.”

Jeeny: “And some swim. Some build entire universes from it — like Kusama did. Her infinity rooms are not just artworks; they’re realities she created to survive. That’s more real than the cold world outside, don’t you think?”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, almost sacred. Jack’s reflection wavered infinitely in the mirrored sculpture — thousands of him, all looking back, all equally uncertain which was real.

Jack: “You’re saying her hallucinations are a kind of truth. But how can something that doesn’t exist be true?”

Jeeny: “Does it have to exist to be true? Pain exists in the mind, but it’s still real. Love, grief, faith — they live in the same invisible realm. If art comes from that space, it’s as real as anything we can touch.”

Jack: “You’re walking into dangerous territory there. That’s how religions, myths, and delusions all begin — believing your inner visions are universal truth.”

Jeeny: “But they are. Not because they’re objectively true, but because they resonate. When Kusama covered her world in dots, people saw themselves in her infinity. Isn’t that what truth means — something that makes us feel seen?”

Host: The sound of the rain grew heavier. The light inside the gallery dimmed, leaving the sculptures to glow faintly — like quiet stars caught in a glass sky.

Jack: “I can’t buy that. Art born from madness is unreliable. It’s a distortion, not revelation. Take Van Gogh — brilliant, yes, but his visions were fueled by mental illness, by pain. If he’d had a clearer mind, maybe he’d have lived longer. Maybe he’d have painted differently.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he wouldn’t have painted at all. You can’t separate the artist from the storm that creates them. Van Gogh’s Starry Night wasn’t a mistake — it was his mind finding a way to breathe.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but dangerous. You’re justifying suffering as a requirement for art.”

Jeeny: “Not justifying — recognizing. Some minds don’t create despite their pain, but because of it. Kusama didn’t choose her hallucinations, Jack. She used them. She turned her obsessions into something the world could touch, something that saved her. Isn’t that the ultimate alchemy?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes caught the light, deep and luminous, her voice trembling between tenderness and defiance. Jack’s jaw tightened — he was the skeptic, but even he could feel the strange pull of her conviction.

Jack: “So you believe that the artist’s role is to suffer so the rest of us can feel?”

Jeeny: “No. I believe the artist’s role is to witness. To translate the invisible into form. Kusama’s hallucinations weren’t just monsters — they were messages. She saw infinity, and she showed us how to see it too.”

Jack: “Infinity. Or repetition. Maybe her dots are just a symbol of her obsession, not the universe. Maybe it’s a mirror of her illness, not of any cosmic truth.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the two are the same. What if the universe is just one great obsession — atoms circling, stars spinning, patterns repeating endlessly? Her madness might not be a distortion, Jack. It might be a reflection.”

Host: A subway train rumbled somewhere beneath them, its distant vibration shaking the gallery floor — like a heartbeat echoing through the earth. Jack turned, staring at the glass walls, as if trying to find the edge of infinity.

Jack: “You’re saying madness holds truth.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying reality is not as solid as you think. What we call ‘madness’ might just be a different frequency of perception. Kusama’s hallucinations — her dots, her infinite mirrors — they force us to question what’s real. Isn’t that what all great art does?”

Jack: “But there’s a line, Jeeny. Between seeing differently and losing your grip on the world. Cross that, and you’re not a visionary — you’re lost.”

Jeeny: “Yet maybe you have to get lost to find something new. Galileo was called mad. So was Nietzsche. Even Tesla said he saw flashes of light that guided his inventions. The world has always feared those who see too much.”

Host: The wind howled outside, and the neon sign flickered again — red to white, white to darkness. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her words lingered in the air like smoke.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack — what if the hallucination isn’t a disease, but a door? What if the artist walks through it, and the rest of us just watch from behind?”

Jack: “And what if that door leads to nothing? To chaos, to delusion? Not all who wander are discovering new worlds, Jeeny. Some are just lost in their own minds.”

Jeeny: “And yet even that loss can be beautiful. Even the act of being lost can create meaning. Maybe Kusama’s hallucinations weren’t a curse, but an invitation — to feel the infinite, even if it hurts.”

Jack: “You talk like pain is sacred.”

Jeeny: “Not sacred. But necessary. Without it, we wouldn’t have art. Or love. Or compassion.”

Host: A soft silence fell. The rain outside began to slow, the sound now a delicate whisper on the glass. Jack walked closer to the sculpture, his reflection multiplying infinitely — thousands of him looking back, all asking the same question.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe what we call hallucination is just another way of seeing — one that strips the world of its mask. Maybe it’s not about truth or illusion. Maybe it’s about translation, like you said.”

Jeeny: “Translation. Yes. She didn’t ask us to believe in her visions — only to see them. To understand that even madness can speak the language of beauty.”

Jack: “So the artist becomes a kind of interpreter of chaos.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She turns the unseen into the visible, the pain into pattern, the fear into form. That’s not escape, Jack. That’s creation.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the first real one that evening. His eyes softened, as if the mirrors had finally shown him something he had been too afraid to see — himself, infinite and imperfect, yet still real.

Jack: “Maybe Kusama wasn’t mad after all. Maybe she was the only one who truly saw.”

Jeeny: “And maybe we’re all hallucinating, Jack — just agreeing on which illusions to call ‘reality.’”

Host: The rain stopped. A single beam of light broke through the glass ceiling, falling across the mirrored dots that surrounded them. They shimmered, infinite and tender, as if the universe had paused to listen.

Jeeny rose, her hand brushing lightly against the sculpture. Jack watched, silent, as the reflection of that single touch spread endlessly into every mirrored corner.

In that moment, the hallucination and the real became one.

And the room, filled with infinite dots, felt like the inside of a soul finally understood.