There ought to be an artistic depot where the artist need only

Host: The studio smelled of turpentine, coffee, and defeat. The walls were covered in half-finished canvases—faces without eyes, cities without skies, emotions caught halfway between despair and brilliance. A single lamp swung from the ceiling, its light trembling like an uncertain heartbeat.

Jack stood near the window, his jacket thrown over a stool, staring at a painting that refused to be finished. His hands were streaked with charcoal and frustration. Behind him, Jeeny moved quietly, her hair tied back, her fingers tracing the edge of an old violin on the table beside her. The rain outside came soft but steady, the kind of rain that blurs both streets and thoughts.

Jeeny: (reading softly from a crumpled page) “There ought to be an artistic depot where the artist need only hand in his artwork in order to receive what he asks for. As things are, one must be half a business man, and how can one understand—good heavens!—that’s what I really call troublesome.” — Beethoven.

Host: The words lingered in the air like smoke—bitter, truthful, and timeless.

Jack: (snorts) Beethoven. Complaining about business. Imagine that—genius whining about invoices.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Even genius has to eat, Jack.

Jack: Yeah, but he didn’t have to send emails or post reels to sell his symphonies.

Jeeny: (teasing) No, he just had to revolutionize music and survive deafness.

Jack: (grinning) Fair point. But he’s right, you know. The world doesn’t want artists—it wants entrepreneurs who happen to paint.

Jeeny: Maybe that’s just evolution. The artist used to depend on kings; now they depend on algorithms.

Host: The lamp flickered, catching the edge of Jack’s unfinished canvas—a swirl of grey and amber, the ghost of a face disappearing into abstraction.

Jack: I didn’t start painting to sell something. I started because I couldn’t stand silence.

Jeeny: Then why do you keep checking your phone for offers?

Jack: Because silence doesn’t pay the rent.

Host: The wind pressed against the window, making the glass shiver slightly. Somewhere, a car horn bled into the night, then vanished again into the rain.

Jeeny: (softly) You sound like every artist who’s ever lived. Wanting to stay pure while the world demands a price tag.

Jack: (bitterly) Purity doesn’t keep the lights on.

Jeeny: No—but it keeps the soul alive. And maybe that’s the harder thing to afford.

Jack: You ever think maybe art was never meant to survive capitalism?

Jeeny: Maybe capitalism was never meant to understand art.

Host: The silence between them stretched, filled with the soft hum of the rain. Jack’s jaw tightened as he stared at his canvas, the weight of the unfinished piece pressing on him like a confession.

Jack: You know what’s funny? When I was younger, I thought being an artist meant being free. No bosses, no rules. But now? I feel more enslaved than when I had a desk job.

Jeeny: (gently) Because you’ve made the world your boss.

Jack: (turning toward her) What does that mean?

Jeeny: You’ve let other people decide what your art is worth. Every like, every sale, every rejection—it’s like you’re asking permission to exist.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe I am.

Jeeny: Beethoven wasn’t asking for permission. He was angry because he wanted fairness, not validation. There’s a difference.

Jack: (laughs softly) Fairness. That’s a good one. You think the world owes artists fairness?

Jeeny: No. But it owes them space—the kind of space where creation isn’t chained to survival.

Jack: That’s a fantasy. There’s no depot. There’s no magic counter where you hand over your work and get dignity in return.

Jeeny: Maybe not. But there should be.

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from conviction—the kind that carries centuries of unsung creators in its echo.

Jack: (sits down heavily) You ever feel like you’re bargaining with yourself just to keep creating?

Jeeny: Every day. “If I finish this one, I’ll rest.” “If I get one more commission, I’ll stop worrying.” It’s a dialogue every artist has with their ghosts.

Jack: (half-smiling) You make it sound noble.

Jeeny: It’s not noble. It’s survival disguised as purpose.

Host: The lamp buzzed again, its light pooling across the floor, glinting off a puddle of turpentine that looked like spilled silver.

Jack: (murmurs) Maybe that’s what Beethoven was saying. That art’s supposed to be sacred—but it always gets dragged through the mud on the way to the altar.

Jeeny: (nods) Exactly. Creation is divine. Selling it is mortal.

Jack: (leans back, sighing) Then maybe I’m tired of being both.

Jeeny: You can’t separate them, Jack. The moment you bring something beautiful into the world, the world will try to own it. That’s the tax on creation.

Jack: (looking up) So what do we do?

Jeeny: We keep creating anyway.

Jack: Even if no one cares?

Jeeny: Especially then.

Host: A long silence followed, broken only by the rain softening to mist. Jack stood, walked to his canvas, and picked up a brush. The sound of the bristles against the surface was faint but electric—like a whisper of defiance.

Jack: You know, sometimes I think the real masterpiece isn’t the painting. It’s the persistence.

Jeeny: (smiling) That’s the artist talking again.

Jack: (grins faintly) The businessman took the night off.

Host: He painted now—not furiously, but deliberately, each stroke carrying something like faith. Jeeny watched, her eyes reflecting the movement, the quiet resurrection of purpose.

Jeeny: You know, Beethoven didn’t get the depot he wanted. But maybe every time an artist refuses to quit, they build a piece of it.

Jack: (pausing) A depot made of stubborn hearts.

Jeeny: And unpaid bills.

Jack: (laughs) The architecture of genius.

Host: They both laughed then, and the laughter felt rare, like light breaking through clouded glass. The rain stopped. The city exhaled.

Jeeny: (after a moment) You ever think maybe art’s not about being understood at all?

Jack: What else would it be about?

Jeeny: Being felt. Even if no one can explain why.

Host: Jack set his brush down, looked at her, and then at his painting—still imperfect, still alive.

Jack: (softly) Maybe that’s enough payment.

Jeeny: It always was.

Host: The lamp finally steadied, its light soft and unwavering. Outside, the pavement shimmered under the streetlights. Inside, two creators sat in the quiet after the storm—one painting, one watching, both knowing that what they did might never make them rich, but it made them real.

The world still had no artistic depot.

But in that fragile, flickering moment—this room was one.

Fade out.