The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.

Host: The cathedral was almost empty, its vaulted arches lost in the darkness above. Only the candles near the altar still burned, their flames trembling against the stone walls. The smell of wax and dust hung in the air, ancient, holy.

Jack stood near a half-restored statue of an angel, his hands covered in marble dust, his gray eyes reflecting both fatigue and precision. He’d been working for weeks, chiseling, measuring, refining — and still, the angel’s face refused to be perfect.

Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps soft on the stone floor. She carried a sketchbook, the edges worn, the pages filled with lines of faith and feeling. She watched Jack for a long moment — the way his hands moved, steady but haunted, as though he was fighting a ghost that couldn’t be seen.

Outside, the rain fell lightly, the sound echoing through the arches like a whisper of the divine.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here all night again, haven’t you?”

Jack: “Almost done.” He steps back, eyes narrow in concentration. “Just a few more adjustments. The nose is off by a millimeter.”

Jeeny: “No one will see that but you.”

Jack: “That’s the point.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You sound like Michelangelo.”

Jack: “He said, ‘The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.’ I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be humbling or humiliating.”

Jeeny: “Humbling, I think. He meant that what we create — no matter how beautiful — is always just an echo of something greater.”

Jack: “Or he meant that perfection’s a trick. A divine taunt. Something we chase but never reach.”

Host: The candles flickered as a soft draft moved through the cathedral, like the breath of something invisible. Jack’s eyes were fixed on the statue, while Jeeny’s were fixed on him.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. That we’re not meant to reach it. Only to reflect it. Like light in a mirror — imperfect, fleeting.”

Jack: “But what’s the use of creating something you know will always fall short?”

Jeeny: “Because the act of reaching is the art itself.”

Jack: sighs, setting his chisel down “That sounds like something people say when they can’t finish.”

Jeeny: “Or when they realize finishing isn’t the same as fulfilling.”

Host: A bell tolled in the distance, its sound deep and ancient, rolling through the night. Dust drifted in the light like tiny stars, suspended between heaven and stone.

Jeeny: “Michelangelo saw his sculptures trapped inside the marble. He said he only set them free. Isn’t that what you do, Jack? You’re not creating perfection. You’re uncovering it.”

Jack: “That’s romantic. But I’m no Michelangelo. I can’t see angels in stone. I just see flaws — proportions that don’t align, symmetry that collapses under scrutiny.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re too close to it. You keep looking for perfection under the microscope of reason, when perfection lives in distance, in feeling.”

Jack: “Feeling doesn’t make a statue stand.”

Jeeny: “But it makes it breathe.”

Host: The light caught the angel’s face — the eyes unfinished, the mouth unformed — and yet there was something alive in it, something that felt like a soul half-awakened. Jeeny moved closer, her shadow merging with Jack’s on the wall.

Jeeny: “Look at it. You think it’s flawed, but I see humanity in it. The curve of the cheek, the tension in the hand — it’s almost divine, but still human enough to hurt. That’s what makes it beautiful.”

Jack: “But Michelangelo said it’s only a shadow of perfection. Isn’t that depressing? That everything we make is doomed to be less than the idea of it?”

Jeeny: “No. It means everything we make is evidence that perfection exists — somewhere beyond us. Shadows prove there’s light, Jack. That’s the whole miracle.”

Jack: quietly “And yet the shadow never touches the source.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not supposed to. Maybe our role isn’t to become gods — just to remember them.”

Host: The rain grew stronger, pattering on the cathedral’s roof, a slow, steady heartbeat. Jack’s hands were still, the chisel resting at his side. His eyes softened, though they carried the same storm the sky did.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought artists were the closest thing to gods. They could create worlds out of nothing. Now I see how fragile it all is. How one wrong strike — one flake of stone — can destroy months of work. Doesn’t feel divine. Feels desperate.”

Jeeny: “But maybe desperation is part of divinity. To long for something greater than yourself — isn’t that the most human way to pray?”

Jack: “You think art is prayer?”

Jeeny: “I think every honest creation is. Every brushstroke, every note, every line that reaches for something it can’t quite grasp — it’s all faith in disguise.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “That the imperfect can still reflect the infinite.”

Host: The silence that followed was sacred. The air in the cathedral seemed to thicken, as if listening. The statue’s face, half-finished, seemed to change in the shifting light — not visibly, but spiritually.

Jeeny stepped closer, gently touching the marble. Her fingers left a faint trace of warmth on the cold surface.

Jeeny: “You don’t need to perfect it, Jack. You just need to honor what’s already inside.”

Jack: “You talk like the stone’s alive.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe everything is — if you care enough to listen.”

Jack: softly, almost to himself “A shadow of divine perfection…” He looks at the angel again, his voice quieter now. “Maybe that’s all any of us are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The candles began to burn lower, their light flickering, painting the walls in waves of gold and darkness. The angel’s face — still unfinished — now seemed to glow with quiet serenity, as though aware that its imperfection was its own kind of grace.

Jack’s shoulders relaxed, the chisel finally set down. Jeeny stood beside him, her hand resting on his arm, both of them watching in silence.

Jack: “You think Michelangelo ever believed he got close?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he knew the closer he came, the more he saw how far away it really was. That’s what kept him going.”

Jack: nods slowly “Maybe that’s the curse — and the gift.”

Jeeny: “The divine always hides in the unfinished. Maybe that’s where we meet it — in what we can’t quite complete.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The air was still, heavy with silence and dust, but something had shifted — a kind of quiet reverence filling the room.

The angel stood there — incomplete, imperfect — and yet it seemed alive, as though the divine had breathed into its shadow.

Jack and Jeeny watched, neither speaking, both knowing that Michelangelo’s words were not a warning, but a truth:

That the true work of art — like the human soul — can only ever be a shadow of the divine,
and that within that shadow,
perfection finally becomes real.