Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is therefore

Host: The rain had just ceased, leaving the streets of SoHo glistening under the dim amber streetlights. A faint steam rose from the pavement, curling like ghosts of forgotten ambitions. Inside a small, cluttered café, the air was heavy with the smell of coffee, ink, and old paper. Paintings — some vivid, some unfinished — leaned against walls, abandoned by their creators.

Jack sat by the window, sleeves rolled up, grey eyes fixed on the street outside. His fingers drummed lightly on his cup, an old habit of a man trying to control an inner restlessness. Jeeny sat opposite him, her long black hair damp from the rain, her hands cradling a cup of chamomile tea, steam rising between them like a veil of thought.

Host: The evening was thick with silence — that kind of silence that feels almost alive, waiting for words to carve meaning into it. Outside, a neon sign flickered, and its light painted their faces in pale, shifting colors.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Fran Lebowitz once said, Jack? ‘Very few people possess true artistic ability. It’s unseemly and unproductive to make an effort. If you have a burning urge to write or paint, eat something sweet and it will pass.’”

Jack: (a short laugh) “Ah, Lebowitz. Always the queen of cynicism. She’s right, though. Art has become a disease — everyone thinks they have something to say, but most of it is just noise. We’d be better off if more people just... ate the cake.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed slightly. The rain had left a shine on the glass, and her reflection flickered beside Jack’s — two faces, two philosophies, caught in one moment.

Jeeny: “You think the world would be better without people trying? Without the urge to create, to express, to reach beyond themselves?”

Jack: “Not without the urge — without the delusion. You see, Jeeny, not every voice deserves a microphone. Not every brushstroke belongs on a canvas. The truth is, talent is rare, and most people mistake their feelings for genius.”

Jeeny: “But how do you define ‘true artistic ability’? Who decides that? You sound like one of those critics who dismiss Van Gogh because he didn’t sell a painting in his lifetime.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking. His eyes softened, but his tone stayed sharp.

Jack: “Van Gogh was the exception, Jeeny, not the rule. For every Van Gogh, there are a thousand amateurs drowning in mediocrity, painting their pain as if pain alone equals art. Art isn’t about suffering or expression — it’s about execution, discipline, and, yes, talent.”

Jeeny: “But where does that talent come from, Jack? From a discipline that’s born of love. Even the mediocre ones — they’re searching, aren’t they? Searching for meaning, for release. Isn’t that search itself part of the human experience worth respecting?”

Host: The sound of rain returned, faint against the window. The café buzzed softly — a barista grinding beans, a couple laughing in the corner, a record crackling on the turntable. Yet within their corner, the air was tense, vibrating with opposing belief.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing failure. Society doesn’t thrive on failed artists, Jeeny. It thrives on engineers, on builders, on people who make things that last. This obsession with creativity — it’s just vanity in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Vanity?” (her voice rises) “Do you think Beethoven was vain when he composed symphonies deaf? Or Frida Kahlo painting her broken body over and over again, turning her pain into color? They weren’t seeking applause, Jack. They were fighting for identity — for survival.”

Jack: “And what about the millions who imitate them badly? Who post poetry online about heartbreak as if it were philosophy? What good does that do? We’ve turned the sacred into the trivial. Everyone’s an artist now, and that means no one is.”

Host: The light from the window flickered as a bus passed outside. Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she set down her cup. A drop of tea slid down the porcelain, catching the light like a tear.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re afraid, Jack. Afraid that art means chaos — that too many voices will drown out yours.”

Jack: “(quietly) Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve seen too much of it — the wannabes, the pretenders. They flood galleries, self-publish nonsense, call themselves visionaries. It cheapens the real thing.”

Jeeny: “But maybe the ‘real thing’ isn’t yours to define. Maybe art is the collective heartbeat — messy, uneven, yes, but alive. Every bad poem, every clumsy song, every child’s crayon drawing — they remind us that creation isn’t the privilege of the talented. It’s the instinct of the living.”

Host: A pause hung between them. Jack’s eyes shifted to the paintings on the wall — some indeed terrible, others surprisingly beautiful. One in particular — a rough, stormy landscape, signed only with a first name — caught his gaze.

Jack: “That one’s not bad,” he murmured. “The brushwork — it’s almost desperate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Desperation can be beautiful, Jack. It’s what drives people to speak, to draw, to sing. Maybe the beauty isn’t in perfection — maybe it’s in persistence.”

Host: A truck rumbled by, shaking the windowpanes. The neon sign flickered again — this time steadier, like a heartbeat finding rhythm. Jack’s jaw tightened, his thoughts turning inward.

Jack: “I used to write, you know. Years ago. A few short stories. They were bad — painfully bad. I remember reading them back and feeling… embarrassed. So I stopped. Ate the cake, as Lebowitz said.”

Jeeny: “And did it help?”

Jack: (a small, hollow smile) “It made the hunger quieter. But it never went away.”

Host: The confession hung in the air, fragile and human. Jeeny’s eyes softened. The anger in her voice melted into empathy.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what she meant to warn us about — not to give up the hunger, but to understand it. Art isn’t for everyone, but neither is silence. Maybe the sweet she spoke of isn’t to cure us, but to test us — to see whose hunger survives the sugar.”

Jack: “You think the true artist is the one who can’t be silenced, even by comfort?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The one who eats the sweet, and still feels the ache.”

Host: The rain started again — a soft, persistent whisper against the glass. Jack looked at his reflection, the neon light washing his face in shades of rose and blue. He saw in it a man both rational and restless, anchored and yet adrift.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe art’s not about ability, but endurance. The willingness to keep creating even when the world — or your own judgment — tells you it’s pointless.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Talent is a gift. Art is a choice.”

Host: They sat there in quiet, the world moving around them — cars, laughter, the hiss of espresso, the heartbeat of a city that never stops creating. The café lights dimmed, and the last of the customers left.

Jack: “So what would you say to Lebowitz then?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I’d tell her — some of us eat something sweet… and still pick up the brush.”

Host: Jack laughed, a deep, warm sound that echoed softly in the empty room. He raised his cup, the steam curling up like a silent promise.

Jack: “Then here’s to those who keep painting — even when the sugar doesn’t help.”

Host: Outside, the rain slowed, and a faint light broke through the clouds, spilling onto the street like the first stroke of a new canvas.

The world, it seemed, would always find a way to create, no matter how many sweets it had eaten.