That's why people listen to music or look at paintings. To get in

Host: The gallery was quiet, sacred almost — the kind of quiet that hums beneath the surface, like the world is holding its breath. The lights above the paintings glowed softly, golden halos over color and chaos. The faint echo of a cello from the museum’s sound system floated through the air — slow, reverent, tender.

Jack stood before a massive abstract painting, all bold strokes of crimson and cobalt. He stared at it like a man trying to remember a dream. Jeeny stood a few paces behind, her arms crossed loosely, eyes following his silence more than the art.

Jeeny: “Corita Kent once said — ‘That’s why people listen to music or look at paintings. To get in touch with that wholeness.’”

Jack: (softly) “Wholeness. That’s a dangerous word.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because nobody’s whole. Not really. We’re all patchwork — regret stitched to memory, love fraying at the edges.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why we reach for art. To feel whole again, even if just for three minutes of a song or one glance at a painting.”

Host: The light shifted, sliding across the polished floor in a slow ripple. Somewhere, a child’s laughter echoed faintly from another gallery — a sound both innocent and haunting in its purity.

Jack: “You think art can do that? Make us whole?”

Jeeny: “Not make — remind. Art doesn’t fix you; it reminds you that you were never truly broken.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Tell that to the people who paint to survive their pain. Van Gogh didn’t paint sunflowers because he was whole. He painted them because he was desperate to be.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Art is the reaching — not the arrival. The brushstroke is the prayer.”

Host: The painting before them seemed to pulse in the dim light, its colors vibrating with unseen rhythm. Jack tilted his head, his reflection faint in the glass — fractured by the texture of the canvas, as if the art itself refused to let him be singular.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought people turn to art because reality’s unbearable. It’s an escape.”

Jeeny: “Maybe once. But I think art isn’t an escape — it’s a mirror. You look long enough, and you see the part of yourself you forgot existed.”

Jack: “And what if you see something ugly?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve still found truth. And truth, even when it hurts, is holy.”

Host: A group of visitors passed behind them, whispering. One pointed at the painting, said something about “understanding the meaning.” Jeeny smiled faintly, as if she’d heard it all before.

Jeeny: “People always want to ‘understand’ art — like it’s a riddle to be solved. They forget it’s meant to be felt. Corita Kent knew that. She believed art was communion — not analysis.”

Jack: “Communion. That’s a word that makes me uneasy. It sounds… religious.”

Jeeny: “So is art.”

Jack: (turning to her) “You don’t really believe that.”

Jeeny: “I do. Think about it — what’s more divine than creation? To take chaos and shape it into beauty — that’s resurrection.”

Host: The music changed — a shift in tempo, the cello fading into a soft piano melody. The light on the next wall dimmed as another brightened, revealing a new piece — a canvas filled with gentle pastels and words scrawled faintly beneath the paint: “Everything is a miracle.”

Jeeny moved closer, her eyes tracing the phrase.

Jeeny: “Corita Kent was a nun, but she saw divinity in color, not dogma. Her art wasn’t about worshiping something distant — it was about recognizing holiness in the ordinary.”

Jack: “So wholeness is what? Seeing the divine in spilled paint?”

Jeeny: “Seeing the divine in yourself.”

Jack: “That sounds like vanity.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s the opposite. It’s surrender. Wholeness isn’t about being perfect. It’s about accepting that you already are — even in the chaos.”

Host: Jack stared at the pastel painting, his reflection overlapping with the faint words. He looked smaller now, quieter — a man wrestling with the possibility of grace.

Jack: “You really think that’s what people feel when they hear music? When they stare at paintings?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That small, impossible moment where everything aligns — when the noise quiets, and you remember who you are beneath the static.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Even cynics like you have sacred moments. You just call them something else — ‘clarity,’ ‘peace,’ ‘good coffee.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Touché.”

Host: The gallery lights dimmed further, signaling closing time. The few remaining visitors drifted toward the exit, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble floor.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Wholeness isn’t something you find. It’s something that finds you — in music, in color, in silence, even in pain. The art just opens the door.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And what if you’re afraid to walk through?”

Jeeny: “Then the art waits. It never stops calling.”

Host: They stood in silence. The last light rested on the painting before them — crimson and cobalt still burning softly against the canvas. Jack exhaled slowly, as if releasing something old.

Jack: “You know… I felt that once. A song I heard in my car — no words, just piano. For a second, I didn’t feel… separate. Like the world and I were the same breath.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. That’s the wholeness she was talking about.”

Jack: “And it disappeared as soon as the song ended.”

Jeeny: “It always does. That’s what makes it precious.”

Host: The security guard walked by, polite but firm: “We’re closing in five minutes.” Jeeny nodded, still staring at the painting.

Jack: “You think Corita Kent believed that wholeness lasts beyond the moment?”

Jeeny: “I think she believed the moment is eternity — it just happens in pieces.”

Host: They began to walk toward the exit, their footsteps soft on the marble floor. The music faded entirely, replaced by the hum of the night waiting beyond the doors.

At the threshold, Jack turned back one last time — the paintings now half-hidden in shadow, yet somehow glowing even more deeply because of it.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… for someone who doesn’t believe in religion, you talk like a preacher.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe art’s my gospel.”

Jack: “And wholeness your heaven?”

Jeeny: “No. Wholeness is right here — when you finally stop pretending you’re broken.”

Host: The doors closed behind them, and the night air hit their faces — cool, real, alive. The street outside shimmered with the reflection of streetlights in puddles, every drop of water carrying a piece of the world’s light.

And as they walked away from the gallery, the echo of Corita Kent’s words lingered — quiet, resolute, and luminous:

That art is not escape,
but reunion.

That every song, every painting, every act of creation
is a map back to the center of ourselves.

And that we do not seek beauty
to forget the world —

but to remember, if only for a moment,
that the world — and we —
were whole all along.