The Gift of One Listener

Reflections from an Empty Room

My recent one-panel comic I just drew for Modern Art hit a little too close to home. Our singer-songwriter character is onstage, mic in hand, sweat still drying on her brow as she calls out, “Thanks to everyone who came out tonight!” The panel pulls back, and we see a janitor mopping the floor. And he’s smiling like this is the best concert he’s ever seen.

It’s funny, but it’s also real.

Because I’ve been there. Too many times to count. I’ve loaded in gear, tuned up, and played full sets to audiences that could fit into a sedan. Sometimes it was a bartender half-listening as they wiped down the counter. Sometimes it was a sound guy who gave me a thumbs up before going back to reading his book. Sometimes—just once or twice—it was no one but the walls and my echo.

But here’s the thing. Every time, I played like it was Madison Square Garden. Not out of delusion, but out of respect—for the craft, for the venue, for myself. And for the person who might be listening.

And every so often, one person was. And they’d come up afterward, nervous, like they weren’t sure if they should say anything. But then they’d tell me how one of the songs hit them. Or how they’d never heard someone put those feelings into words before. Or they’d just smile and say, “Thanks. That was great.”

And I didn’t always appreciate it.

Back then, I was too busy counting heads. Too busy equating value with volume. I was measuring my success by how full the room was, not by how full I made someone feel.

That comic, with the smiling janitor? That’s not a punchline. That’s the truth. That’s art doing its job. And it made me wonder—how many beautiful moments have I missed because I was too disappointed in the turnout to notice I made one person’s day?

We all want to be heard by the masses. But maybe the real magic happens when we’re heard by one. Maybe the janitor goes home and tells his family, “You won’t believe the music I heard while working tonight.” Maybe he finds your album online. Maybe he becomes your biggest fan. Or maybe he doesn’t. But for those 45 minutes, you made his workday something different. Something memorable.

That matters.

So to all the artists out there—musicians, writers, painters, weirdos whispering your heart into the void—don’t discount the quiet wins. That one smile. That one DM. That one person clapping at the back of the room. That’s connection. That’s resonance. That’s success.

Art isn’t a stadium. It’s a moment.

And sometimes, that moment belongs to just one person.

And that’s enough.

Take it easy,

James