The industry's changed so much that you can't just design

Host:
The night lay thick and electric over the city, like a velvet cloak stitched with neon veins. The air pulsed with music, movement, and the restless hum of human ambition. Through the glass walls of a rooftop studio, the skyline burned — a constellation of billboards, screens, and dreams for sale.

Jack stood by the window, his reflection split between light and shadow. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a charcoal coat, his eyes tracing the digital storm below. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a wooden stool, her hair spilling like black ink across her shoulders, her fingers wrapped around a cup of tea gone cold.

The fashion show had just ended. Applause had faded, the models had left, and what remained was the echo — of art, expectation, and emptiness.

Jack: ("Alexander Wang said, ‘The industry’s changed so much that you can’t just design something, put on a great show, and say, Okay, my job is done.’”) He was right. The game isn’t about creation anymore — it’s about continuation. You build, you sell, you perform — endlessly.

Jeeny: smiles faintly Maybe that’s the problem, Jack. We’ve turned art into an algorithm. The heart of it — the spark — gets swallowed by strategy.

Host:
A gust of wind rattled the window, carrying the distant roar of traffic. Somewhere below, a billboard changed its face — a new brand, a new promise. The city blinked, alive and hungry.

Jack: You talk like that’s new. The world has always been hungry. Artists have always been consumed by it. Back then it was patrons; now it’s followers and funding. What’s the difference?

Jeeny: The difference is purpose. Back then, even under patronage, there was still awe — a devotion to the idea itself. Now we worship metrics. We chase virality, not vision.

Jack: snorts Vision doesn’t pay the bills. You think the industry runs on passion? It runs on attention, currency, and momentum. You can’t survive if you stop moving.

Host:
The studio lights hummed — a steady white buzz. The camera rigs loomed like silent ghosts, watching, waiting. Jack’s shadow stretched across the floor, cutting through the light that fell softly around Jeeny.

Jeeny: Maybe the point isn’t to survive. Maybe it’s to mean something. To create something that doesn’t need to trend to exist.

Jack: laughs bitterly And who decides what means something? You? The critics? The audience that scrolls past in two seconds? Meaning isn’t built; it’s bought — by whoever has the loudest platform.

Jeeny: You don’t believe that. leans forward, her eyes burning softly You’ve seen real creation, Jack. You’ve felt it. The moment when a design, a song, or a word breathes — that can’t be bought.

Jack: turns away It’s not enough anymore, Jeeny. Breath doesn’t keep the lights on.

Host:
The silence that followed was thick, palpable. In the distance, a sirens wail curved through the air, fading into the drone of the city’s pulse. Jack’s reflection flickered in the window, fractured by the lights below — half man, half machine.

Jeeny: Do you ever wonder — what’s lost when we stop seeing art as sacred?

Jack: quietly Sacred? That word doesn’t fit here anymore. Not in an era where every idea is a product, every image a campaign.

Jeeny: Then maybe the sacred has just changed. Maybe it’s not about what we make, but why. Maybe the new devotion is connection — even if it’s just one moment of truth between creator and audience.

Jack: turns, his voice rougher now Connection? You think a million likes mean connection? It’s a mirage. They click, they scroll, they forget. The machine moves on.

Jeeny: softly Maybe. But even a mirage is born from thirst. That’s something real — the need behind it.

Host:
Her voice trembled, not from weakness, but from belief. The room seemed to tighten, the air heavy with unsaid truths. Jack’s jaw clenched, a small crack forming in his usual armor of logic.

Jack: You think belief can fix an industry that devours its own dreamers? Every designer, every artist, burns out because they can’t keep feeding the beast. You can’t just make something beautiful anymore — you have to make it profitable.

Jeeny: Then maybe the answer isn’t to feed it — maybe it’s to starve it. To step back. To create for truth, not for traction.

Jack: That’s idealism, Jeeny. And idealism doesn’t scale.

Jeeny: smiles sadly Maybe it’s not supposed to. Maybe truth isn’t meant to scale. Maybe it’s meant to stay small, intimate, human.

Host:
The lights flickered, and for a moment, the city beyond seemed to pause — the billboards, the cars, the screens, all frozen in a breathless stillness. Jack looked at Jeeny then, as if seeing her through the noise for the first time.

Jack: What if you’re wrong? What if the world doesn’t want truth — just novelty? What if all they want is to be distracted?

Jeeny: Then we still try. Because even distraction hides hunger — a yearning for something real. We can’t control the industry, but we can choose the intention behind our work.

Jack: after a long pause Intention. You really think that’s enough?

Jeeny: nods slowly It has to be. Otherwise, we become the machine ourselves.

Host:
A faint rain began to fall against the glass, soft and persistent, like a quiet applause from the sky. The city lights blurred, melting into watercolors of gold and blue.

Jack walked toward Jeeny, the weight in his steps less certain now. He picked up a discarded sketchbook from the table, its pages filled with designs — raw, imperfect, alive.

Jack: murmurs I used to draw like this. Before the deadlines, before the metrics. Just… because I needed to.

Jeeny: smiles softly That’s the truth I’m talking about. That need — that’s what makes it real.

Jack: looks down Maybe somewhere along the way, I started designing for the machine, not the moment.

Jeeny: Then start again. Not to escape the industry, but to remind it what creation feels like.

Host:
The rain grew steadier, its rhythm washing through the room, through their silence, through the tension that had held them apart.

For the first time, Jack’s expression softened — not in defeat, but in recognition. Jeeny’s eyes, luminous and unwavering, met his, and between them hung a fragile truce — an understanding that art and commerce, heart and hunger, must somehow coexist.

Jack: quietly Maybe Wang was right. You can’t just design, perform, and leave. The job never really ends. But maybe that’s not a curse. Maybe it’s a calling.

Jeeny: nods To keep creating, not because we must, but because we can — and because the world, even when it forgets, still needs what we make.

Host:
The camera would have lingered there — on the two figures, silhouetted against the city’s glow, their faces reflected in the rain-dappled glass. The storm outside softened, the neon dimmed, and the silence that remained was not empty, but full — of resolve, of grace, of a shared belief that even in a machine-driven world, the human pulse still beats, quietly but defiantly, beneath it all.

Fade out.