The people who make art their business are mostly imposters.

Host: The night was restless — a long stretch of rain whispering against the rooftops, a slow heartbeat echoing through the narrow streets of the old quarter. Inside a half-forgotten studio café, lit only by the amber glow of hanging lamps, the air smelled of paint, wine, and the faint dust of forgotten genius.

At a table near the back, surrounded by empty canvases and half-smoked cigarettes, sat Jack, his shirt sleeves rolled, his hands stained with the ghosts of charcoal and ink. Across from him, Jeeny swirled the last of her red wine in a chipped glass, her eyes dark and alive, reflecting the flicker of the candles like restless fire.

On the wooden table between them lay a wrinkled newspaper clipping — a quote scrawled in bold italics:

“The people who make art their business are mostly imposters.” — Pablo Picasso

The words lay there like a wound — raw, smug, daring them to disagree.

Jeeny: “Imposters. He said it like he knew what that meant better than anyone else.”

Jack: half-smiling, dryly “He did. Picasso made a business out of being an imposter. That’s why it worked.”

Jeeny: “You mean he performed genius?”

Jack: “No — he understood that genius is performance. That art and deception share the same language. Every artist sells illusion — even when they call it truth.”

Jeeny: “That’s too cynical, even for you. He wasn’t dismissing artists. He was warning them. About what happens when art stops being creation and starts being currency.”

Jack: “Creation’s been currency since cavemen traded paintings for protection. You think art was ever pure? Even Michelangelo negotiated with popes. Van Gogh begged his brother for paint money. Business is the parasite that keeps the artist fed.”

Jeeny: “That doesn’t make it sacred. It makes it transactional.”

Jack: “So what? Why pretend otherwise? We all sell something — talent, time, soul. The difference is, artists call it inspiration.”

Host: The rain deepened, running down the window in thin, trembling veins. A jazz record played faintly in the corner, its melody half-melancholy, half defiant. Jeeny’s voice softened — the tone of someone preparing to defend not a principle, but a faith.

Jeeny: “You think commerce corrupts art. But what if it preserves it? The business side — the galleries, the patrons — they make sure the work survives long after the artist dies. Without the machine, beauty stays buried.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. The machine embalms it. Turns it into a product, lifeless but marketable. You walk into a museum, and you’re not looking at art — you’re looking at a corpse in perfect lighting.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. People still feel something.”

Jack: “Do they? Or are they just performing reverence? Half of them are there for selfies, the other half for validation. No one’s seeing anymore — they’re consuming.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still paint?”

Jack: “Because I can’t not. But that doesn’t mean I respect the gallery that sells it.”

Host: Thunder rolled outside, low and tired, as though even the sky had opinions on art and hypocrisy. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her wine glass, the candlelight trembling across her knuckles.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong, Jack. Making art a business doesn’t make you an imposter. It makes you visible. Do you know how many women painted for centuries only to be forgotten because they couldn’t ‘sell’? Art that doesn’t survive the world’s economy dies with its maker. And that’s the real tragedy.”

Jack: “And yet the ones who sold survived — but their souls didn’t. Look at Warhol — built an empire of emptiness. Look at Dali — turned himself into a logo. The art world’s full of people who traded truth for attention.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they understood truth better than you think. Maybe truth needs attention to matter.”

Jack: bitterly “Truth doesn’t need applause.”

Jeeny: “No, but it needs witnesses. Otherwise, it’s just noise in the void.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, the flames of the candles leaning sideways. The tension between them crackled — not anger, but the electric pull between ideals and disillusionment.

Jack: “You know what bothers me most? Every artist starts as a child — drawing because they must. And then the world teaches them to measure it, brand it, sell it. Somewhere in that transaction, the soul gets lost. Picasso wasn’t sneering at art; he was mourning it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But mourning’s useless if it doesn’t lead to rebirth. The artist who refuses to adapt dies in obscurity. The one who learns the language of business — they stay alive long enough to evolve. That’s not imposture; that’s survival.”

Jack: “You sound like a PR manual.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a monk who’s afraid of the marketplace.”

Jack: leaning forward, voice sharp but low “Maybe I am. Because the marketplace doesn’t care about truth. It rewards noise, not nuance. The loudest sell; the deepest starve.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? That’s why we keep making it anyway — even knowing it’ll be misunderstood, misused, mispriced. That’s what makes art holy. The act itself, not the reception.”

Jack: quietly “Then why do you care so much about the reception?”

Jeeny: “Because I want art to reach the people who need it. Not just the ones who can afford it. That’s my rebellion.”

Host: The café door creaked open, letting in a gust of wet wind and the faint sound of passing footsteps. The candles flickered violently, then steadied. In that trembling light, both of their faces softened — the combat cooling into confession.

Jack: “You think Picasso was wrong, then?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was right — but for the wrong reasons. Maybe we’re all imposters. But not because we sell. Because we’re pretending to understand what creation even means.”

Jack: “You mean art’s a lie?”

Jeeny: “It’s the most honest lie there is. Every painting, every poem — it’s a version of the truth, not the truth itself. The artist is an imposter, but a necessary one — because without the imitation, we’d never glimpse the original.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You make fraud sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe to pretend — to create — is the highest form of faith.”

Host: The rain slowed to a hush. Outside, the streetlights glowed in soft halos, their reflections shimmering like melted gold in the puddles below. Jack reached for his sketchbook, flipping it open, his fingers moving as though remembering something ancient.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe being an imposter is part of the price. We fake mastery long enough to find sincerity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The faker who still feels — that’s the real artist.”

Jack: “And the one who stops feeling?”

Jeeny: “Becomes the business.”

Host: The clock behind the counter struck midnight. The last candle sputtered, collapsing into its own wax. Jeeny rose, slipping her coat over her shoulders, her eyes catching his one last time.

Jeeny: “We’re all imposters, Jack. The only difference is whether we lie to sell — or lie to discover.”

Jack: softly “And maybe the best ones do both.”

Host: She smiled — small, knowing, and left. The door closed behind her with a quiet click. Jack sat in the flickering dark, the rain returning as a whisper against the glass.

He turned the page, drew a single line — crooked, human, alive.

And for the first time that night, the art was honest.

It did not sell.
It simply existed.

And that, perhaps, was enough.