That day, everyone stopped creating art. I knew something was odd early on, even when I took a morning walk through the streets around the park.
People looked a lot more content, a lot more at peace with themselves and the world. In the café, there was a lot more jovial laughter. Some of the patrons were clutching their mugs and singing old songs that they knew every word of.
When my coffee was served, I saw that it had the same cream fern as all I’d come to expect all these months. Outside, a stray dog looked up at passers-by with enough dignity to not beg. The sun shone through the café window, brightening its very essence.
“Good day,” someone said.
I turned to find my old professor looking over my shoulder. She still wore the same glasses, but her skin was a lot more creased now. Nevertheless, she looked barely any older than me.
With a smile, I invited her to sit.
“Did you hear?” she asked. “Word’s spreading fast that everyone has stopped making art. Isn’t that fascinating?”
“Do you believe it?” I steepled my fingers.
“Of course!” she beamed at me. “If that’s what everyone’s decided on, then that’s what’s happening.”
I watched the stray dog outside, scratching its body with a hind leg, occasionally pausing to stare down another passer-by.
“Who decided that, I wonder?”
“Why, everyone did,” she said, and then turned to the barista to order a coffee. She had a funny accent now, the kind you get from speaking too much of another language and having its sounds seep into yours. “It’s a lot more productive, if you ask me. Less time on frivolities, and more times on the serious stuff. Why, at this rate, we might even cure cancer or get to Mars!”
“Instead of…” I deliberately trailed off and she waited for me to continue before taking the cue.
“Instead of writing stories about getting to Mars and making up songs about curing cancer. Besides, billions of us have lived in this world already. Don’t you think we’ve had enough art already? Spending our resources on creating new art is not just wasteful, it’s ill-advised.”
“And if I say I want to write a story, or create a song, or draw a painting… what happens then?”
She shushed me. “Not so loud!” After looking around in the café and making sure no one looked our way, she leaned in closer. “Look, no one cares what you do in private. But if you’re in a society, it behoves you to act according to the public view.”
“No, I think I will paint a picture. Draw a drawing,” I said. “In fact, I think I’ll promote them, too. I’ll make sure the whole world can hear what I have to say.”
“You would do that even knowing that everyone there was to be said has already been said? That from here on, we and our culture is all really just derivative of the past?”
I finished my coffee, shrugged, and thanked the professor before leaving.
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