The spotlight followed the man across the stage, highlighting his natty, tailed tuxedo jacket and glinting off his highly polished wing-tipped shoes. He stopped in the middle of the cracked, peeling old stage, a man and a pool of light in an otherwise dark and hushed room.
With a flourish of his hand, he produced a startlingly white dove. He began to speak:
“Pay close attention. There is nothing up my sleeve. No trick mirror or secret compartments. There is only what I am about to show you. There is only the truth.
“For the memorable past, the powers that be in this world have been hiding this truth from you. They’ve been hoarding it to themselves and not letting you see it. They have stolen it from you, and I am here to give it back.”
His hands moved again, and there were two white doves, one in each hand. He continued:
“The fact is, creativity has been taken from you. Not the act. Just the word. For years you’ve been told that you are not creative unless you are artistic. Unless you are a painter, or a musician, or a writer. Only if you are one of the artistic elite, contributing to the greater cultural good are you creative.
“And I am here to tell you this is not the case! It is time we rise and take creativity back! The man working in the steel factory is creative. He is creating wealth for his employer. He is creating money with which to feed and clothe and educate and entertain his family. The police officer, creating stability and safety. The girl in the coffee shop, creating ripples of smiles that percolate through the days of her patrons!
“These people are creating! They are not creating some vapid, pretentious culture that is obscure and obnoxious and makes people feel stupid if they don’t agree with the “artist’s” point of view, if they don’t understand what they are hearing. They are creating!”
His hands flipped again, and a flock of brilliant white doves sat on his arms. He concluded with one final statement:
“They are creating life. You are creating life. You are creative. Never let them take it away.”
And then the spotlight was empty, except for the doves as they fluttered down toward the cracked, peeling hardwood stage.