Theatre is the art form of the present: it exists only in the

Host: The theater was almost empty, its velvet seats fading into the shadows like rows of forgotten prayers. A single lamp swung gently above the stage, casting a circle of amber light on the worn floorboards. The faint smell of paint, dust, and memory lingered — the scent of a place that had held too many voices, too many ghosts.

Jack stood at center stage, his hands in his pockets, his jacket slightly rumpled. His grey eyes scanned the dark auditorium as if searching for something — or someone — that wasn’t there.

In the front row, Jeeny sat with her knees drawn together, a notebook on her lap, her dark hair tied loosely, falling in strands that caught the dim light.

The curtain, half drawn, moved faintly with the breath of the night air, whispering like a memory refusing to leave.

Jeeny: “Simon McBurney once said, ‘Theatre is the art form of the present: it exists only in the present, and then it's gone.’”

Jack: (a wry smile) “And that’s exactly why I never trusted it. Too fleeting. Too dependent on fragile things — time, emotion, people showing up.”

Host: His voice echoed slightly, filling the hollow space of the stage, a voice both defiant and tired.

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it beautiful, Jack. Theatre is the only art that dies as it lives. Every night it’s reborn and gone again. Like a heartbeat — like life itself.”

Jack: “Or like smoke. You can admire it, but you can’t hold it. Art should last. It should outlive the artist — leave a mark, a proof that it was ever real.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You think permanence makes something more real?”

Jack: “Of course. We build monuments, we record symphonies, we print books — because we want to remember.”

Jeeny: “But theatre isn’t about remembering. It’s about being there. It’s the only form that demands presence. No rewind, no replay. Just now. And then silence.”

Host: A faint wind slipped through a broken door, brushing across the stage, lifting a piece of script paper that fluttered and fell at Jack’s feet. He bent to pick it up — an old prop list, smudged with ink and time.

Jack: “You call that art? Something that disappears? How can something that vanishes matter?”

Jeeny: “How can anything matter if it doesn’t vanish? Isn’t that what makes it matter — the fact that it ends?”

Jack: (pausing, his tone sharp) “That’s sentimental philosophy. I deal in things that stay. A good film — it’s immortal. A book — you can revisit it, reinterpret it. Theatre’s like a whisper in a hurricane. No record, no evidence.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the point. It’s the human art. It only exists when we’re together — when actors breathe the same air as the audience. You can’t separate one from the other.”

Host: Her words carried softly, bouncing off the walls, as though the theatre itself were listening, breathing with her.

Jack: “So you’d rather something vanish than be remembered?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather something live than be embalmed. Look at all those recordings of old plays — sterile, flat. The magic isn’t in the words, Jack. It’s in the moment the actor’s voice trembles, when a line breaks a silence in the room. You can’t preserve that — and you shouldn’t try.”

Jack: “That’s romantic nonsense. Art that dies is art wasted.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to a sunset.”

Host: The lamp flickered as her words landed, painting his face in sharp contrast — the skeptic, caught momentarily between reason and revelation.

Jack: “A sunset doesn’t need to prove anything. It’s nature. Theatre’s man-made — it should strive for more.”

Jeeny: “Maybe theatre’s the closest thing we have to nature. It reminds us that presence is temporary. That every performance is like breathing — you inhale it, and then it’s gone. You don’t keep your breath, Jack. You live it.”

Host: The rain began outside — soft at first, then harder, drumming against the roof of the old theatre. The sound merged with the hum of the lights, creating a strange kind of rhythm — a heartbeat echoing through the hollow room.

Jack walked slowly to the edge of the stage, peering into the empty seats.

Jack: “You know, I used to perform once. Years ago. College play. ‘Hamlet.’ I thought it’d change me — standing in front of all those people, saying words that had survived centuries. But when it ended, and the applause faded… it felt meaningless. Gone. Like it never happened.”

Jeeny: “Did it feel meaningless? Or did it hurt because it was real — and you couldn’t keep it?”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe both.”

Jeeny: “That’s what McBurney meant. Theatre exists in the moment of contact. Between performer and audience, story and silence. It doesn’t need to last. It needs to happen.”

Host: The stage light dimmed slightly, turning the air into a soft gold mist. The dust shimmered like tiny ghosts dancing to the rhythm of the rain.

Jack: “You sound like you worship impermanence.”

Jeeny: “No. I just don’t fear it. We spend our lives trying to hold on to things — love, people, achievements — as if permanence makes them real. But maybe what’s real is what we experience fully, even if it disappears right after.”

Jack: “So theatre’s just a metaphor for mortality now?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t everything?”

Host: Her voice softened on the last word, the syllables falling like rain against glass.

Jack: (leaning against the proscenium arch) “You talk about theatre like it’s sacred. But it’s flawed, Jeeny. It’s unreliable. Actors forget lines, lights fail, someone coughs in the audience — and it all collapses.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s alive. It’s not a monument, it’s a pulse. Every mistake, every breath makes it human. That’s why when it ends, it means something.”

Jack: “And then everyone leaves and forgets.”

Jeeny: “No. They remember feeling. And that’s more powerful than remembering lines.”

Host: The sound of the rain softened again, tapering into a whisper. The silence that followed was thick, filled with the echo of truths neither could unhear.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know… when I left acting, I thought I’d found something more permanent. Management, planning, systems — things that don’t vanish after a curtain call. But lately… even those feel temporary.”

Jeeny: “Because they are. Every company, every system — even the biggest ones — they’re all performances. Meetings are scenes. Strategies are scripts. We pretend it’s stable, but deep down we know it’s not.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So, we’re all just actors in an endless play?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And when the lights go out, the only thing that matters is whether you were present while it lasted.”

Host: The lamp above them buzzed once more, then finally went dark. Only the moonlight through the broken window remained, a thin silver ribbon across the stage.

Jeeny stood, walked up to him, and looked around the empty theatre.

Jeeny: “This place will close one day. The seats will be torn out, the walls repainted, the stage rebuilt. But for now, it’s ours. That’s what theatre gives us — not eternity, but now.”

Jack: (softly, almost to himself) “Maybe that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because that’s all we ever really have — the scene we’re in.”

Host: She reached out, took his hand, and led him to the center stage. Together they stood in the last circle of light, surrounded by silence and the faint smell of rain.

Jeeny whispered, “Say something. Anything. Just for this moment.”

Jack looked around, then let the words escape: “We were here.”

Host: And for a fleeting instant, it felt like the entire theatre breathed — the walls, the curtains, even the shadows listening, alive with presence. Then the light flickered out completely, and the moment — like all theatre — was gone.

Outside, the night opened into a clear sky, and the city lights shimmered like the final bow of a performance that would never repeat.

And in that vanishing, the truth remained — the art of the present had lived, and that was enough.