When Words Fail (Recap: January)

Words are difficult right now.

To be honest, I would love to be putting together the usual monthly recap of the latest in entertainment news...but I simply can't.

At the same time, we're being bombarded by so much heartbreaking news and so many devastating images that I don't want to add to that either.

So instead, I want to talk about something I love.

Art.

I humbly ask you follow me for a bit here.

A child admiring Guernica by Pablo Picasso at the Reina Sofia Museum

Last year, I found myself standing in front of Picasso's Guernica at the Reina Sofía. I remember the immediate wow the moment I stepped into the room where it lives. Its size alone inspires awe. The longer I stood there, that amazement shifted into something heavier and unsettling. Faces twisted in agony. Limbs fractured. Animals frozen mid-scream. A contorted and tortured scene.

It’s difficult to put that experience into words.

I imagine many of us are at a loss for words right now—not standing in front of art, but in the face of what’s happening around us, in our own backyard.

But sometimes words fail—and that’s precisely where art succeeds.

Art lives in the space between language. It lives beneath the surface.

What Guernica does—and what art does, especially in moments like this—is act as a bridge between lived experience and collective memory.

You don’t have to be Spanish.

You don’t have to know the details of the Civil War.

You don’t even have to like modern art.

You feel it anyway.

Art can evoke emotions the same way a familiar scent or a particular touch can—unlocking something that's been sitting quietly within us.

That’s the bridge.

And maybe that’s why it feels so present to me now, in a time when so much feels fractured—politically, socially, emotionally. When violence feels constant, when language is weaponized, when empathy feels almost impossible to access.

It may sound trivial (I'm sure some will scoff at all this...and that's fine too), but art matters.

Many years ago, I was in a play where I portrayed a troubled young man who was forced into therapy to confront his issues, including a deeply fractured relationship with his parents. At the end of Act One, my character sadly dies by suicide. The role was particularly meaningful—and difficult—for me, as I had lost someone I loved to suicide years earlier.

After one especially emotional performance, a woman approached me, hugged me tightly, and simply said, “Thank you.”

There's no way for me to know what that moment actually meant for her, but it felt like the story had helped her understand something and maybe even to find closure. I hope it did.

I'm not pretending art is the answer. People are suffering. People are dying. No painting, film, or play is going to magically fix that.

But there's no denying that stories are powerful.

Sure, that one performance didn't change the world, but it could have changed that person in some meaningful way. We each have the power to make an impact in a small way...every grain of sand adds up.

Art may not be the answer, but it is an opportunity; a path to connection and maybe even healing.

I will never forget watching Life is Beautiful or Grave of the Fireflies and the impact those films had on me. Sitting in those dark theaters, history stopped being abstract. It had a face. It had a heart. It had a smile. Those stories were able to reach a place that statistics and timelines never could.

Stories like Angels in America, Do the Right Thing, Parasite, and Moonlight don’t lecture or explain, but simply place you inside someone else’s life long enough that their fear, their longing, their dignity becomes undeniable. They don’t ask you to agree. They don’t tell you what to think. They ask you to stay. To sit with discomfort. To recognize parts of yourself in lives you may never otherwise encounter.

That’s not escapism. That’s exposure.

And exposure, when we let it in, has the power to connect us.

Art doesn’t exist to calm us down when the world is burning.

Sometimes it exists to make sure we don’t look away.

And that’s why, in moments like these—political violence, polarization, hate, genocide debates, moral exhaustion—art remains essential. Not because it fixes anything overnight, but because it keeps us human and connected long enough to notice what’s happening around us.

To question what we’re being told.

To question what we’re being asked to accept.

To question who benefits from our silence.

Disengagement doesn’t protect us. Looking away doesn’t keep anyone safe.

Sometimes engagement is a protest. Sometimes it’s supporting organizations like ACLU, RAICES, Doctors Without Borders, or International Rescue Committee doing direct, on-the-ground work—around immigration, civil rights, or humanitarian aid. Sometimes it’s supporting local businesses, spending more intentionally, or being careful with what we read, share, and amplify in a world where misinformation—and now AI—can shape reality faster than truth.

And sometimes, yes, it’s smaller than that.

Sometimes it’s inviting someone you don’t fully agree with over, watching a movie together, and letting art do what it does best—create a small bridge where words usually fail.

#stayfocused

I encourage you to listen to this audio clip from Adi Goldstein.