When a Banjo Becomes a Political Weapon: Béla Fleck Slams the Door on the Kennedy Center

The History of an Iconic Institution

The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts was founded in 1971 as a living memorial to President John F. Kennedy, who was assassinated in 1963. The idea was simple yet powerful: to honor the memory of a president who had supported the arts by creating a space where American culture could flourish. A place where the world’s finest artists could perform, where citizens of all backgrounds could come to enjoy music, theater, and dance. A nonpartisan, neutral, universal space. For decades, the Kennedy Center has fulfilled this mission. It became one of the most prestigious cultural institutions in the United States, hosting world-renowned performances, Broadway premieres, symphony concerts, ballets, and operas. It was a symbol of American artistic excellence, a place where political differences faded in the face of the beauty of art. But in February 2025, everything changed. Donald Trump took control of the institution, ousting the former leadership and installing his own loyalists. And in December 2025, the board of directors voted to add Trump’s name to the building: “The Donald J. Trump and John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.” A name that immediately sparked massive controversy.

Because the Kennedy Center isn’t just a building. It’s a symbol. A memorial to an assassinated president, established by a federal law that designates it as a “living memorial” to Kennedy. And according to that law, the name can only be changed by an act of Congress. But Trump and his board of directors ignored this legal requirement, adding Trump’s name without congressional approval. The Kennedy family immediately denounced this decision. Joseph Kennedy III, a former member of Congress and JFK’s grandnephew, stated: “The Kennedy Center is a living memorial to a fallen president and is named for President Kennedy by federal law. It cannot be renamed any more than anyone can rename the Lincoln Memorial, no matter what anyone says.” ” Democratic Representative Joyce Beatty, an ex officio member of the board of directors, has even filed a lawsuit to challenge the name change. But for now, the name remains. And with it, all the controversy, all the division, all the politicization of an institution that was supposed to be above all that.

And I wonder: what would Kennedy think of all this? He who believed in art as a means to bring people together, to transcend divisions, to create something greater than ourselves. What would he think of seeing his name associated with Trump, with this administration, with this culture war? I think he’d be devastated. Because that’s not what he wanted. That’s not what he envisioned. And now, his legacy is being used as a political weapon. It’s a betrayal.

An Unprecedented Exodus of Artists

Since the name change in December 2025, the Kennedy Center has faced an unprecedented wave of cancellations. Béla Fleck is just the latest in a long list of artists who have refused to perform at the renamed institution. The first to cancel was Chuck Redd, a jazz drummer and vibraphonist who had been organizing an annual Christmas concert at the Kennedy Center since 2006. In December 2025, he announced that he would not be performing that year, citing the name change as the reason. The Kennedy Center’s response was harsh: the institution announced that it would sue Redd for $1 million for breach of contract. This decision shocked the arts community and sent a clear message: if you cancel, you will be punished. But that didn’t stop the others. The jazz group The Cookers canceled its New Year’s concert. The dance company Doug Varone and Dancers withdrew its show scheduled for April 2026. Then, in early January 2026, Stephen Schwartz, the composer of “Wicked,” “Pippin,” and “Godspell,” announced that he would not be hosting a gala scheduled for May for the Washington National Opera, which is based at the Kennedy Center.

In a statement, Schwartz explained: “The Kennedy Center was founded to be an apolitical home for free artistic expression for artists of all nationalities and ideologies. But appearing there has now become an ideological statement.” These words echo those of Fleck and show that this is not a matter of partisanship. It is a matter of principle. These artists are not refusing to perform for Republicans. They are refusing to perform at a venue that has been turned into a political tool. And they are not alone. Even before the name change, when Trump announced in February 2025 that he would take control of the Kennedy Center, there was a first wave of cancellations. The musical “Hamilton” pulled its scheduled performances. Pulitzer Prize- and Grammy Award-winning musician and composer Rhiannon Giddens canceled her concert. Actress Issa Rae, co-creator of the series “Insecure,” canceled her appearance. The list is growing, month after month, concert after concert. And the Kennedy Center, instead of seeking to ease tensions, instead of reaching out to artists, has chosen confrontation. Legal action. Public attacks. The rhetoric of the “woke mob.” A strategy that only makes the situation worse.

And I look at this list of artists who have canceled, and I see names I respect. People who have dedicated their lives to art, who have created beauty, who have touched millions of people with their work. And now, they’re forced to choose. To perform or not to perform. To endorse or to resist. And no matter what they choose, they’ll be attacked. It’s an impossible situation. And it breaks my heart.

When Culture Becomes Politics

What is happening at the Kennedy Center is not an isolated incident. It is a symptom of a deeper disease eating away at America: the culture war. For years, the United States has become increasingly divided, not only on traditional political issues such as the economy or foreign policy, but also on fundamental cultural issues. Who has the right to tell which stories? What values should be celebrated in the public sphere? What role should art play in society? These questions, once considered secondary, have become central to the American political debate. And cultural institutions, like the Kennedy Center, are caught in the middle. Because they cannot remain neutral. Every decision they make—who they invite, what shows they program, how they position themselves on social issues—is scrutinized, judged, and politicized. And in this context, the mere fact of existing becomes a political act. By adding Trump’s name, the Kennedy Center made a choice. A choice that says: we stand with Trump, his administration, and his vision of America. And the artists, by refusing to perform, are also making a choice. A choice that says: we do not endorse this vision.

But what is tragic about all this is that art itself becomes a victim. Because art, by its very nature, should transcend politics. It should be a space where people of all opinions can come together, where differences fade in the face of beauty, where our shared humanity is celebrated. But in the America of 2026, this ideal seems increasingly distant. Art has become a battlefield, a tool of propaganda, a means of marking one’s ideological territory. And artists, for their part, are forced to choose a side. Béla Fleck chose not to perform. Others, like those who continue to perform at the Kennedy Center, have chosen to perform. Neither choice is easy. Neither is without consequences. Because in such a polarized society, there is no neutral position. Even silence is interpreted as taking a stand. And it’s exhausting—for artists, for the audience, for everyone. Because we cannot live in a state of perpetual war. We cannot turn every aspect of life into an ideological battle. At some point, something has to give.

And I wonder: can we still save art? Can we still create spaces where beauty exists for its own sake, where people can come together without wondering who voted for whom? I want to believe so. But honestly, I don’t know. Because the division is so deep, the anger so intense, the mistrust so great. And art, as powerful as it may be, can’t heal that on its own. People have to want to be healed. And I’m not sure that’s the case.

The Role of Social Media in the Escalation

If the culture war at the Kennedy Center has reached such proportions, it’s largely because of social media. Because every statement, every cancellation, every reaction is immediately amplified, commented on, and turned into viral content. When Béla Fleck announced his cancellation on X (formerly Twitter), his statement was seen by millions of people within hours. And immediately, reactions poured in. Trump supporters accused him of cowardice, of caving in to the “woke mob,” and of wanting to exclude Republicans. Trump’s opponents hailed him as a hero, a courageous artist who refuses to compromise his integrity. And in between, there were thousands of comments, debates, insults, and threats. Because that’s what social media is like in 2026. A space where every issue, no matter how nuanced, is reduced to a binary battle. You’re either with us or against us. You’re either a hero or a coward. There’s no room for nuance, for complexity, for reflection. And Richard Grenell, the president of the Kennedy Center, understood perfectly how to exploit this dynamic. His response to Fleck wasn’t meant to convince the musician to change his mind. It was meant to mobilize his base, to turn the cancellation into a symbol of the culture war, to rally Trump supporters against the “cultural elites” who refuse to play along.

And it’s working. Because now, everyone is talking about the Kennedy Center. Conservative media outlets like Fox News have made the story their pet cause, accusing artists who cancel performances of partisanship, of wanting to exclude Republicans, and of turning art into a political tool. Progressive media, on the other hand, have praised the artists who refuse to perform, portraying them as courageous resisters in the face of Trump’s authoritarianism. And caught in the middle is the public—increasingly confused, increasingly divided, and increasingly exhausted by this never-ending war. Because social media doesn’t just create division. It amplifies it, fuels it, and turns it into a spectacle. Every controversy becomes a media event, every statement becomes a meme, every conflict becomes an opportunity to mobilize one’s base. And in this context, truth, nuance, complexity—all of that disappears. All that remains is rage, polarization, war. And art, for its part, is caught in the middle, transformed into a weapon, a symbol, a tool of propaganda. When it should be a refuge, a space of beauty, a way to remind us of our shared humanity.

And I’m tired. Tired of this endless war, of this constant rage, of this inability to simply appreciate something beautiful without wondering what political agenda lies behind it. I’m tired of seeing art turned into a weapon, artists forced to choose sides, cultural institutions becoming battlefields. I just want to listen to music. I just want to go to a concert and let myself be swept away by beauty, without wondering if my presence is a political act. But apparently, that’s no longer possible. And it makes me sad. So very sad.

The Moral Dilemma Facing Musicians

For artists like Béla Fleck, the decision to cancel a concert at the Kennedy Center is not a simple one. It is a profound moral dilemma that strikes at the heart of who they are as artists. On one hand, there is artistic integrity. The idea that art should be apolitical, that music should transcend divisions, that taking the stage should be an act of beauty, not a political act. From this perspective, performing at the Kennedy Center, in its current form, means endorsing the politicization of art, accepting that the institution has been transformed into a propaganda tool, and compromising one’s values. But on the other hand, there’s the audience. The people who bought tickets, who were eagerly looking forward to seeing Fleck perform with the National Symphony Orchestra, who just wanted to spend an evening enjoying beautiful music. These people don’t deserve to be punished for the Trump administration’s political decisions. They don’t deserve to be deprived of a concert because of a controversy they didn’t create. And then there are the orchestra musicians themselves—professionals who rehearsed, who prepared, who were counting on this concert. They, too, are affected by the cancellation.

So, what is an artist supposed to do? Perform and compromise their integrity? Or cancel and deprive the audience of an artistic experience? It’s an impossible choice, and that’s exactly what makes this situation so tragic. Because there is no right answer. Fleck chose to cancel, and he was attacked for it. Other artists chose to perform, and they were criticized for endorsing the politicization of the Kennedy Center. Whatever they do, they’ll be judged. And it’s exhausting. Because artists shouldn’t have to make these choices. They should be able to focus on their art, on creating beauty, on sharing their talent with the world. But in the America of 2026, that luxury no longer exists. Every decision is political. Every action is scrutinized. And artists, whether they like it or not, are forced to take a stand. Some, like Fleck, choose to resist. Others choose to keep performing, hoping their music can transcend politics. And still others choose to withdraw completely—to stop performing at controversial venues and focus on smaller, more intimate spaces where they can control the context of their art.

And I understand all of these choices. I understand Fleck, who refuses to perform. I understand the artists who continue to perform. I understand those who withdraw completely. Because there is no right answer. There are only difficult choices, painful compromises, and necessary sacrifices. And that’s what’s so tragic. Because artists shouldn’t have to make these choices. They should be able to create, perform, and share their art without wondering if they’re endorsing something wrong. But that’s no longer the world we live in. And it breaks my heart.

The Impact on the Public and American Culture

But beyond the artists, it’s the public that suffers the most from this situation. Because they’re the ones who find themselves deprived of concerts, performances, and artistic experiences. When Béla Fleck cancels his concerts at the Kennedy Center, it’s not the politicians who suffer. It’s the ordinary people who had bought tickets, who had made plans to attend, who were eagerly looking forward to seeing a banjo virtuoso play with a symphony orchestra. These people don’t deserve to be caught in the middle of this culture war. They just wanted to enjoy some music. But now, they’re forced to choose. Should they continue going to the Kennedy Center and be accused of supporting Trump? Or should they boycott the institution and deprive themselves of high-quality performances? It’s a choice no one should have to make. And yet, that’s the reality for millions of Americans. Because the culture war isn’t limited to the Kennedy Center. It extends to every aspect of American cultural life. Museums, theaters, concert halls, festivals—all are affected by this growing polarization. And the result is an American culture that is increasingly fragmented, increasingly divided, and increasingly unable to create shared spaces where people of all opinions can come together.

And that is an immense loss. Because culture is what unites us. It is what reminds us of our shared humanity, what allows us to see the world through the eyes of others, what gives us hope, joy, and beauty. But when culture becomes a battlefield, when every performance is turned into a political act, when every institution is forced to choose sides—then we lose something essential. We lose the ability to come together, to share common experiences, to create moments of connection that transcend our differences. And that is exactly what is happening in America right now. Culture is fragmenting, dividing, and turning into a series of ideological bubbles where everyone consumes only the art that confirms their own beliefs. Conservatives go to see conservative shows. Progressives go to see progressive shows. And between the two, there is no longer a bridge, no dialogue, no possibility of encounter. It’s a tragedy. Because art, at its best, should be a bridge. It should allow us to cross divisions, to understand different perspectives, to remind us that despite our differences, we share a common humanity. But in the America of 2026, that bridge is crumbling. And I don’t know how we’re going to rebuild it.

And I think of the audience. I think of those people who just wanted to go to a concert, who just wanted to have a nice evening, who just wanted to listen to beautiful music. And now, they’re caught in the middle of this war. They’re forced to choose, to take a stand, to wonder if their presence is a political act. And that makes me sad. Because they don’t deserve this. No one deserves this. We should be able to go to a concert without wondering if we’re condoning something wrong. We should be able to appreciate art for what it is: beauty, joy, connection. But apparently, that’s no longer possible. And it breaks my heart.

Artistic Boycotts Throughout History

The story of Béla Fleck and the Kennedy Center is not without precedent. Throughout history, artists have often faced similar dilemmas, forced to choose between their art and their principles. In the 1930s, many European artists refused to perform in Nazi Germany, even if it meant turning down lucrative and prestigious opportunities. Conductor Arturo Toscanini, for example, refused to conduct at the Bayreuth Festival in 1933 after Hitler came to power, despite his love for Wagner’s music. Violinist Jascha Heifetz boycotted Nazi Germany, as did many other Jewish and non-Jewish musicians who refused to endorse the regime. These decisions were not easy. They meant giving up careers, income, and artistic opportunities. But for these artists, there were limits to what they were willing to accept. And performing for a regime that persecuted millions of people crossed those lines. More recently, in the 1980s, many artists boycotted South Africa during apartheid. Musicians such as Bruce Springsteen, Peter Gabriel, and Stevie Wonder refused to perform in the country, despite requests from their South African fans.

The Artists Against Apartheid movement organized cultural boycotts that helped isolate the regime and build pressure for change. And it worked. The cultural boycott was one of many factors that led to the end of apartheid in 1994. But these boycotts were not without controversy. Some argued that artists should continue to perform in South Africa, that their music could bring hope to the oppressed, and that the boycott only punished innocent fans. It’s the same debate we’re seeing today with the Kennedy Center. Should artists boycott the institution to protest its politicization? Or should they continue to perform, hoping that their music can transcend politics? There is no easy answer. But history shows us that artistic boycotts can have an impact. They can draw attention to injustices, they can exert pressure for change, and they can send a powerful message that certain things are unacceptable. But they also come at a cost. They deprive the public of artistic experiences; they affect artists’ careers; they create division and controversy. And in the case of the Kennedy Center, it’s unclear whether boycotts will lead to change or whether they’ll simply exacerbate polarization.

And I think of those artists from the past—Toscanini, who refused to perform for the Nazis; Springsteen, who boycotted South Africa. And I wonder: Is Fleck in the same situation? Is the Kennedy Center under Trump comparable to Nazi Germany or apartheid-era South Africa? Honestly, I don’t know. But what I do know is that, for Fleck, a line has been crossed. For him, performing at the Kennedy Center in its current form would be a compromise he’s not willing to make. And I respect that. Because every artist must draw their own lines, must decide for themselves what is acceptable and what is not. And no one else can make that choice for them.

The Role of Art in Divided Societies

But beyond boycotts and controversies, there is a deeper question: what is the role of art in a divided society? Should art be a refuge, an apolitical space where people can escape the conflicts of the real world? Or should art be engaged, political—a tool for social change? This is a debate that has existed for centuries, and there is no definitive answer. Some artists believe that art should be pure, that it should exist for its own sake, that it should not be tainted by politics. Others believe that art has a social responsibility, that it should reflect the realities of the world, that it should be a tool for justice and change. And the truth is that both positions have merit. Art can be a refuge. It can offer a moment of beauty, peace, and transcendence in a chaotic world. But art can also be a mirror. It can reflect society’s injustices, it can provoke reflection, and it can inspire action. And often, the best art does both. It offers beauty while posing difficult questions. It transcends politics while being deeply political. It is this delicate balance that artists strive to maintain. And it is this balance that is threatened by the growing polarization of American society.

Because in a world where everything is political, where every decision is scrutinized, where every action is interpreted as taking a stance—it’s becoming increasingly difficult to create art that transcends divisions. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to create spaces where people of all opinions can come together. And that is an immense loss. Because it is precisely in times of division that we need art the most. We need moments of shared beauty, of human connection, of reminders of our common humanity. But to create these moments, we need cultural institutions that stand above the political fray, that can serve as neutral ground, that can welcome people of all views. And that is exactly what the Kennedy Center was supposed to be. But now, it is no longer that. It has become a symbol of division, a battleground in the culture war. And by losing the Kennedy Center as a neutral space, we lose something precious. We’re losing a place where art could exist for its own sake, where people could come together without wondering who voted for whom. And I don’t know if we can get that back. I don’t know if we can rebuild these shared spaces in such a divided society. But I hope we can. Because without them, I don’t know how we’re going to survive as a society.

And I wonder: can we still create art that brings people together? Can we still create moments of shared beauty in a world so divided? I want to believe so. I want to believe that art is stronger than politics, that beauty can transcend divisions, that music can remind us of our shared humanity. But honestly, I don’t know. Because the division is so deep, the anger so intense, the mistrust so great. And art, as powerful as it may be, cannot heal that on its own. People have to want to be healed. They have to be willing to set aside their differences, if only for a moment, to appreciate something beautiful together. And I’m not sure that’s still possible. But I hope so. I hope so very much.

Support for Béla Fleck from His Peers

Since Béla Fleck’s announcement, numerous artists have expressed their support for his decision. On social media, musicians, composers, and actors have praised his courage, his consistency, and his refusal to compromise his artistic integrity. Some have shared their own experiences with similar dilemmas, recounting moments when they had to choose between their careers and their principles. Others simply expressed their solidarity, acknowledging that Fleck’s decision was not an easy one, but that it was necessary. Composer Stephen Schwartz, who had himself canceled his gala at the Kennedy Center a few days earlier, posted a message of support, writing: “Béla Fleck did what every artist should do: listen to his conscience. The Kennedy Center was supposed to be a place for art, not politics. And until it becomes that place again, I fully understand why artists like Béla choose not to perform there.” Jazz, bluegrass, and classical musicians also expressed their support, acknowledging that Fleck had made a difficult but courageous decision. Some even suggested that they were considering following his example and refusing to perform at the Kennedy Center as long as the institution remained politicized.

But the support was not unanimous. Some artists criticized Fleck’s decision, arguing that he should have honored his commitment to the audience and the orchestra musicians. Others suggested that by canceling, Fleck was only exacerbating polarization, turning art into a political weapon, and contributing to division rather than unity. These criticisms reflect the broader dilemma facing artists: how to navigate a world where every decision is political, where there is no neutral ground, where even silence is interpreted as taking a stand? For some, the answer is to keep performing, to refuse to let politics dictate their artistic choices, to believe that music can transcend divisions. For others, like Fleck, the answer is to take a stand, to refuse to condone what they consider unacceptable, to believe that sometimes, silence is complicit. And between these two positions lies a chasm, a divide that seems increasingly difficult to bridge. Because in such a polarized society, there are no easy compromises, no solutions that satisfy everyone. There are only difficult choices, painful sacrifices, and unforeseen consequences.

And I watch this debate within the art world, and I see people acting in good faith who disagree. People who all want the same thing—a world where art can exist for its own sake, where beauty can transcend politics—but who have different ideas about how to get there. And I respect that. I respect Fleck for refusing to perform. I respect the artists who continue to perform. I respect those who are still making up their minds. Because there is no right answer. There are only difficult choices. And everyone has to make their own.

Dissenting Voices and the Complexity of the Debate

But beyond the support and criticism, there are also voices calling for a more nuanced reflection on this situation. Some commentators have pointed out that the debate surrounding the Kennedy Center is more complex than it appears. They have noted that the institution has always been, to some extent, political. After all, it is a memorial to a president, funded in part by the federal government, with a board of directors that includes members of Congress. The idea that it could be completely apolitical is perhaps an illusion. And if that is the case, then the question is not whether the Kennedy Center should be political, but rather what form that politics should take. Is adding Trump’s name really any different from naming it after Kennedy? Is the problem politicization itself, or is it simply that this is a form of politicization with which some artists disagree? These questions are uncomfortable, but they are important. Because they force us to acknowledge that our own biases influence our perception of what is “political” and what is not. For some, naming the Kennedy Center after JFK is an apolitical tribute to an assassinated president. For others, it is already a political statement—a celebration of a certain vision of America.

Similarly, for some, adding Trump’s name is a legitimate acknowledgment of his contributions to the institution (he raised significant funds for its renovation). For others, it is an unacceptable appropriation of a sacred memorial. And the truth is that both perspectives have some validity. The debate is not as simple as it seems. It’s not just a matter of good versus evil, or resistance versus complacency. It’s a complex issue that touches on fundamental questions about the role of art in society, the nature of neutrality, and the way we commemorate our history. And perhaps the most important lesson from this entire controversy is that there are no easy answers. There are only difficult questions, moral dilemmas, and impossible choices. And everyone—artist, viewer, citizen—must navigate these murky waters as best they can, trying to stay true to their values while acknowledging the complexity of the situation. It’s exhausting. It’s frustrating. But that’s the reality of living in a democratic and pluralistic society. And perhaps that is the real challenge: learning to live with this complexity, to accept that there aren’t always clear-cut answers, to respect others’ choices even when we disagree with them.

And I wonder: Can we still have nuanced conversations? Can we still acknowledge the complexity of situations without being accused of moral relativism? I want to believe so. But honestly, I don’t know. Because the world seems increasingly binary, increasingly divided between good and evil, between us and them. And in this context, nuance is often perceived as weakness, complexity as indecision. But I refuse to give up on nuance. I refuse to reduce the world to simple categories. Because life is complex. People are complex. And situations like the one at the Kennedy Center are complex. And if we truly want to understand what’s happening, if we truly want to find solutions, we must be willing to embrace that complexity. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if it’s difficult.

Lessons from the Béla Fleck Affair

So, what can we take away from all this? What does the story of Béla Fleck and the Kennedy Center teach us about the state of art and culture in America in 2026? First, it shows us that the culture war is real, and that it affects every aspect of American life, including the most prestigious cultural institutions. The Kennedy Center, which was supposed to be an apolitical space—a gathering place for all Americans—has become an ideological battleground. And this is not an isolated incident. It is a symptom of a deeper malaise, a polarization that extends to all areas of society. Second, it shows us that artists are caught in the middle of this war, forced to make impossible choices between their artistic integrity and their careers, between their principles and their audience. Fleck chose not to perform, and he was attacked for it. Other artists chose to continue performing, and they were criticized for endorsing the politicization of the Kennedy Center. Whatever they do, they will be judged. And that’s exhausting, frustrating, and demoralizing. Third, it shows us that the public is the real victim of this situation. They are the ones being deprived of concerts, shows, and artistic experiences. They are the ones forced to choose between their political values and their love of art. And they are the ones who suffer the most from the fragmentation of American culture.

But beyond these lessons, there is a deeper question: Can art still be saved? Can we still create spaces where beauty can exist for its own sake, where people can come together without wondering who voted for whom? Honestly, I don’t know. The division is so deep, the anger so intense, the mistrust so great. And art, as powerful as it may be, cannot heal this on its own. People have to want to be healed. They have to be willing to set aside their differences, if only for a moment, to appreciate something beautiful together. And I’m not sure that’s still possible. But I hope so. I hope that artists like Béla Fleck, by taking a stand and refusing to compromise their integrity, can inspire others to do the same. I hope their courage can spark a movement—a wave of resistance against the politicization of art. I hope their example can remind us that some things are more important than career, success, or money. That integrity matters. That principles matter. That art matters. And I hope that, perhaps, one day, the Kennedy Center can once again become what it was meant to be: a place for art, not for politics. A space where all Americans can come together, regardless of their political views, to celebrate beauty, creativity, and humanity. But for now, that day seems far off. And all we can do is keep fighting, keep resisting, and keep believing that art can still save us.

And when I look at Béla Fleck, I see a man who made a difficult choice. A man who sacrificed a prestigious opportunity to stay true to his values. A man who said no when it would have been easier to say yes. And I’m inspired. Because in a world where everyone seems ready to compromise, to adapt, to accept the unacceptable—there are still people who refuse. There are still people who believe that art is more important than politics, that beauty is more important than power, that integrity is more important than success. And as long as there are people like that, there will be hope. Not much, perhaps. But enough to keep fighting. Enough to keep believing. Enough to keep creating. And that’s all we can ask for, really. In a world so dark, so divided, so hopeless—that’s all we can ask for.