Painting is a faith, and it imposes the duty to disregard public

Host: The studio was a mess of colors, canvas, and chaos — the kind that only an artist could call order. Evening light spilled through a half-open window, slanting in gold and dust, cutting across the air thick with the smell of oil paint and turpentine. A storm rumbled far in the distance, rolling like an ancient drum beneath a darkening sky.

Host: Jack stood by the window, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, watching the rain begin to fall on the street below. Jeeny sat on a low stool, her hair pinned up messily, a streak of blue pigment across her cheek like an accidental mark of war.

Host: On the easel, a painting — unfinished — a woman’s face blurred in light and shadow, as if the artist had captured not a person but a feeling in motion.

Jeeny: “You know what Van Gogh said once?” she murmured, her voice as soft as the rain beyond the glass. “‘Painting is a faith, and it imposes the duty to disregard public opinion.’”

Jack: “Van Gogh also said a lot of things before cutting off his ear,” he replied, his tone half-mocking, half-worn. “I don’t know if that’s the best career advice to follow.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed on the canvas.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t talking about career advice. He was talking about truth. About doing something that means so much you stop caring who’s watching.”

Jack: “That’s what they all say — until they need to sell a painting, or feed themselves. You can’t live on faith, Jeeny. Not in the real world.”

Host: He exhaled, the smoke curling upward like a small ghost between them. The room was quiet except for the sound of rain tapping the window and the faint hum of city traffic below.

Jeeny: “Maybe you can’t live on faith,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “but you can’t live without it either. Not really. Look at Van Gogh — he painted in madness, in poverty, in isolation — and yet he believed in something no one else could see. Isn’t that faith?”

Jack: “Or delusion,” he countered. “He died poor, alone, unrecognized. You call that faith? I call that tragedy.”

Host: Jeeny turned, her eyes suddenly fierce, like lightning finding its mark.

Jeeny: “And yet here we are — a century later — saying his name. You think public opinion means anything when you’re creating eternity?”

Jack: “Eternity doesn’t pay rent,” he said sharply. “He may have been immortal in art, but he was miserable in life. I’ve seen too many people destroy themselves chasing purity — ignoring the world, pretending the world will catch up someday. It doesn’t. It eats them alive.”

Host: The thunder outside grew louder, the sky darkening further. The studio light flickered, casting their shadows against the wall — two figures at war in silence and belief.

Jeeny: “So what, Jack? You want artists to make what people want? To bow to the crowd? To paint the safe, the acceptable, the sellable?”

Jack: “I want them to survive. You can’t rebel against the system if you’re starving. Every rebel needs a stage, Jeeny — and someone to buy the tickets.”

Host: She rose, brush still in hand, her body taut with contained anger. The scent of paint and storm mingled in the air.

Jeeny: “But the stage doesn’t make the rebel. The rebel makes the stage. Van Gogh didn’t need permission to be great. He burned with his own light. Maybe that’s the point — maybe faith is the courage to burn, even if no one’s watching.”

Jack: “And die for it? That’s your idea of faith?”

Jeeny: “If the only choice is between dying unseen or living dishonest, yes — that’s faith.”

Host: Her words hung heavy in the air, their echo louder than the rain. Jack turned away, his jaw tight, his eyes reflecting both anger and something softer — recognition, perhaps.

Jack: “You sound just like my brother,” he muttered. “He was a musician. Played in bars, wrote songs no one cared about. He said the same thing — that his music was his truth. That art wasn’t supposed to please, it was supposed to be. You know what happened?”

Jeeny: “He gave up?”

Jack: “No. He didn’t. He played until he couldn’t anymore. Until the world drowned him out. And when he died, there was no record, no audience, no trace. Just silence.”

Host: A pause. The light flickered again. The sound of thunder rolled closer, like the voice of something ancient and unresolved.

Jeeny: “But did he die knowing he was true to himself?”

Jack: “What difference does that make? He’s still gone.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it makes all the difference,” she said softly. “Because maybe the only victory we get is the one inside — the one no one sees. Van Gogh didn’t paint for fame. He painted because he had to. Faith isn’t about reward, Jack. It’s about necessity.”

Host: Jack’s fingers twitched slightly — the cigarette burned low, almost forgotten. The storm outside was now in full voice, the windowpanes trembling with each rumble.

Jack: “Necessity? That’s a nice word for obsession. Faith, obsession — same disease, different symptoms.”

Jeeny: “Obsession is when you chase approval. Faith is when you let it go.”

Host: He turned, facing her. Their faces were inches apart now, the lamplight trembling between them. His eyes searched hers, looking for logic, for proof, for anything that would make sense of the ache beneath her words.

Jack: “You talk about letting go like it’s easy. You’ve never had to depend on what the world thinks of your work.”

Jeeny: “You think I paint for praise?” she said, her voice rising, trembling. “You think I haven’t been laughed at, dismissed, told I should find a ‘real’ job? Every artist I know carries that voice inside — the one that says, ‘You’re wasting your time.’ But we paint anyway. That’s faith.”

Host: The rain outside began to soften — the worst of the storm passing, though the room still carried its echo. The air between them was charged, but quieter now — the kind of quiet that comes after a confession.

Jack: “Maybe I envy that,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “That kind of certainty. That kind of madness.”

Jeeny: “It’s not certainty,” she said. “It’s surrender. Faith isn’t about knowing — it’s about doing, even when you’re blind.”

Host: Her voice was trembling now, but steady with conviction. Jack looked at the painting again — the woman’s face, half-finished, her eyes glowing faintly in the gold light. He stepped closer, studying it — the strokes, the imperfections, the raw, trembling life within it.

Jack: “It’s beautiful,” he said at last. “But it’s… unfinished.”

Jeeny: “So was Van Gogh,” she said quietly. “So are we.”

Host: The storm outside faded into a gentle drizzle, and the city lights began to flicker through the window, scattering reflections across the floor like fragments of a shattered halo.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally. “Maybe art isn’t about pleasing the world. Maybe it’s about surviving it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “And sometimes survival means defiance.”

Host: He nodded slowly, his gray eyes softening — the kind of softness that comes not from agreement, but from understanding. He walked to the easel, reached out, and gently touched the edge of the canvas with his fingers, leaving a faint smudge of ash there.

Jack: “Then keep painting, Jeeny,” he said. “Even if no one ever sees it.”

Jeeny: “Oh, someone will,” she whispered, smiling faintly. “Even if it’s only the sky.”

Host: Outside, the storm had broken. The clouds parted, revealing a strip of moonlight that fell through the window — soft, silver, and pure. It landed across the canvas, illuminating the unfinished face, giving it life — as if the universe itself had leaned closer to see.

Host: And in that moment, the world felt still — two souls suspended between doubt and belief, pragmatism and faith, both realizing that the only art worth making, and the only life worth living, are the ones made in defiance of public opinion — because faith, like painting, demands not applause, but courage.