ART & MONEY

Art:
You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone said, “That’s not real art,” I could… well, I still wouldn’t care. Because I don’t do it for the nickels.

Money:
Of course you don’t. You do it for exposure, right? Which, last I checked, doesn’t pay rent unless you’re a polar bear.

Art:
Says the guy whose entire existence depends on people agreeing you’re worth something. You’re literally peer pressure in paper form.

Money:
Oh please, I move nations. I build skyscrapers. I fund your pretentious paint-slinging! Without me, your “immersive interpretive dance installation” would be a guy rolling on the floor in a dimly lit garage.

Art:
And yet somehow, people still pay $100 million for a banana duct-taped to a wall. Guess who made that happen? Not your spreadsheets, sweetie. Me.

Money:
Yeah, and I bought the wall. And the banana. And the duct tape. And the gallery. So technically… you’re a receipt with glitter on it.

Art:
At least I inspire people. What do you inspire? Greed? Anxiety? Midlife crises?

Money:
Excuse me—I inspire innovation! I motivate. I’m the reason people wake up at 5 a.m. and say “Let’s revolutionize toothbrushes.”

Art:
And I’m the reason they make toothbrushes look cool so they’ll actually sell. You’re the hustle, I’m the why. You’re the invoice—I’m the idea.

Money:
Without me, your ideas are just doodles in a broke poet’s notebook.

Art:
And without me, your bills are just… fancy napkins.

Money:
I’m backed by central banks!

Art:
I’m backed by emotion, baby. Try putting that on the Dow Jones.

Money:
At least I don’t spend five months crying over a color palette.

Art:
At least I don’t get printed with Benjamin Franklin’s face every time someone wants to impress a rapper.

Money:
Don’t be jealous—Ben’s got range.

Art:
Ben didn’t even smile on your face. Even he knew you were a little much.

Money:
Wow. Low blow.

Art:
High concept, actually.

Money:
You know what? You’re exhausting.

Art:
And you’re bankrupt—of imagination.

[They sip their lattes in silence. A barista walks by with a tray of golden donuts.]

Art:
You paying?

Money:
Only if you promise not to write a poem about it.

Art:
No deal.

[Curtain.]