People of art should never get married and have children, because

Host: The warehouse was half-lit, filled with unfinished paintings, unraveled canvases, and the faint smell of turpentine. Rain drummed on the metal roof, steady, like a metronome that kept the tempo of their breathing. In the center, beneath a single hanging bulb, Jack and Jeeny sat on the floor, a bottle of wine between them, surrounded by the wreckage of art and emotion.

The walls were covered in faces — portraits that seemed to watch, their eyes half alive, half trapped. It was Jack’s studio — a sanctuary for chaos, where brushes were weapons and silence was a muse.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here three nights in a row. No one’s seen you since the gallery.”

Jack: “I don’t like crowds. They clap, but they don’t see.”

Jeeny: “They saw enough to call you a genius.”

Jack: “That’s a polite word for ‘madman.’”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes wandered across the room, tracing the colors that bled across the floor. A painting of a woman — unfinished — leaned against the wall. The figure was soft, luminous, but her face was missing.

Jeeny: “She’s beautiful. Who is she?”

Jack: “No one. Or maybe everyone I couldn’t love.”

Jeeny: “You talk like love is a disease.”

Jack: “For people like me, it is. Mikhail Baryshnikov said it right — ‘People of art should never get married and have children, because it’s a selfish experience.’”

Jeeny: “And you agree with that?”

Jack: “Completely. Art takes everything. Time, sleep, sanity, love — it drains you until there’s nothing left but the work. If you try to split yourself between a canvas and a child, you betray both.”

Jeeny: “That’s not truth, Jack. That’s fear.”

Host: A train passed in the distance, its sound vibrating through the metal walls. Jack poured another glass of wine, his hands stained with paint — blue, crimson, and a little black at the edges, like bruises.

Jeeny: “You think creating means you have to sacrifice being human?”

Jack: “You don’t understand. Creation isn’t a hobby — it’s a hunger. It eats everything you love if you let it. You can’t paint honestly when someone’s waiting for you to come home.”

Jeeny: “So the only way to be authentic is to be alone?”

Jack: “It’s the only way to stay free. A family is an anchor. You start worrying about bills, school, safety — next thing you know, you’re painting smiles instead of truth.”

Jeeny: “And what good is truth if it comes at the cost of love?”

Jack: “Love is temporary. Art is eternal.”

Jeeny: “That’s something people say to make loneliness sound noble.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice cracked slightly on the last word. Jack looked up, but didn’t answer. The rain intensified, echoing like applause for a performance no one wanted to watch.

Jeeny: “You know, Van Gogh once said, ‘What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?’ But he didn’t mean just painting. He meant feeling, too. You can’t make art out of emptiness, Jack.”

Jack: “You think I’m empty?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re hiding behind your art. It’s easier to love a canvas than a person — because it never leaves.”

Jack: “You talk like love fixes everything.”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives you a reason to survive the parts that don’t.”

Jack: “I survive because I create.”

Jeeny: “You exist because you create. But you only live when you connect.”

Host: The words hung in the air, heavy, unwelcome, yet true. Jack stood, walking to the unfinished painting. He stared at the blank face, brush in hand, but didn’t move.

Jack: “Do you know why I never finish her?”

Jeeny: “Because she’s not real?”

Jack: “Because every time I try to give her a face, she becomes someone I could lose.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re not protecting your art, Jack. Maybe you’re protecting your fear.”

Host: A gust of wind shook the windows. The bulb swayed, casting their shadows across the walls — distorted, larger than life, like ghosts of people they used to be.

Jack: “You want to know what art really is? It’s selfishness turned holy. Every artist steals — time, love, attention. We take what others give and turn it into something that can’t give back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe art isn’t supposed to take. Maybe it’s supposed to give.”

Jack: “You sound naïve.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’ve seen what love can create, too. A child’s laughter. A moment of kindness. A life that makes the world a little softer. Isn’t that art, too?”

Jack: “That’s survival. It’s not the same.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe your definition of art is too small.”

Host: Silence. The kind that makes you aware of your own breathing. Jack set the brush down, exhaling slowly. His hands trembled, the wine and fatigue catching up.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think, Jack?”

Jack: “I’m afraid to ask.”

Jeeny: “I think artists like you confuse pain for purity. You think you have to suffer to make something real. But what if joy could make something real, too?”

Jack: “Joy doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: “Neither did Van Gogh’s paintings, while he was alive.”

Host: Jack laughed, a low, bitter sound, but there was crack in it — a note of something like surrender.

Jack: “You think I could ever be that kind of artist? One who paints happiness?”

Jeeny: “Not happiness. Honesty. They’re not the same.”

Jack: “And what if honesty means being alone?”

Jeeny: “Then at least be alone for the right reasons.”

Host: The rain had slowed, tapering into a gentle drizzle. A faint blue light filtered through the window, touching the canvas — the woman’s face, still blank, now glimmering faintly in the silence.

Jeeny: “You know, I don’t think Baryshnikov meant art was too selfish for love. I think he meant love demands the same kind of devotion — the same kind of risk. You can’t serve two gods.”

Jack: “So which one do you serve?”

Jeeny: “Both. Because both make me feel alive. And maybe that’s all we’re here to do — to feel, and leave something behind that feels, too.”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed her words, as if they were brushstrokes he could never quite replicate. He reached for the brush again, hesitated, then painted — just a single line, a curve, enough to suggest a smile on the unfinished face.

He stepped back.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe she doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Jeeny: “No one ever is. Not even art.”

Host: The light flickered, the room glowed. Outside, the storm had passed, and the city hummed softly, like a tired orchestra finding its final note. Jack stood beside Jeeny, both staring at the canvas — her hand resting gently on his arm, his silence no longer empty, but full of something new.

And for the first time, Jack didn’t look like a man who’d lost to his art.

He looked like one who’d learned to share it.