“No,” Jenny said. “I can no more live off that than off the supplementary unemployment benefits you give me.”

“Well, I’m not the one who determines or pays your benefits.” The woman typed on.

“You are the one, though, who evaluates whether I am still allowed to receive a subsidy to support my lifestyle. Isn’t that why you have me come to these meetings? To inspect my shabby clothes and hollow cheeks?”

The caseworker typed some more, her lips pursed sternly. Jenny knew she could never make the woman understand, but she couldn’t just sit by, couldn’t allow the woman’s ignorance to persist without commenting.

“The twenty-first century heralds the death of aesthetics. Fuck religion, science, and spirituality! But the human spirit has always dwelled in beauty. Art, words, music. When we lose that, we lose our very purpose for living. We are drowning in discount clothes and plastic boobs. People prefer watching talent shows on TV than listening to Prokofiev’s string quartets. La beauté sauvera le monde! If only.”

“From what I can see, Jenny, you have used up all the supplementary benefits you’re entitled to. You can only receive those for thirty out of every one hundred and four weeks; after that they’re discontinued.”

“What are you saying? I can’t get any money?”

The caseworker tilted her head back and squinted through greasy lenses.

“You can requalify for supplementary benefits by working no fewer than a hundred and forty-six hours every month for the next six months’ filings.”

“But what am I going to live off of?” A pulse started throbbing in Jenny’s throat.

“Your job.”

“I can’t live off the chump change Thorvaldsens pays me. I can’t even pay my rent and buy food with that!”

The caseworker propped her elbows on her desk, as if she were about to share a secret.

“Well, then you either have to work a little more or cut back on your expenses. It’s not the government’s fault if you can’t live within your means.”

Jenny looked down at her own rough hands. Her nails were short and dirty from the daily toils with canvasses and paints.

“Can’t I get cash assistance?”

“Not as long as you’re able to work.” The woman took off her glasses. “Maybe it’s about time you got a real job, Jenny!”

Jenny felt the doors slamming closed all around her. Felt the steadily growing chronic panic, clutching hold of her stomach and squeezing until she could taste the bile in the back of her mouth.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Forcing a lazy artist to take a job as a cleaning lady. But you’re forgetting one thing: What does art do for society? What kind of a place will the world be without the likes of me?”

“Thank you for coming in today!” The caseworker turned back to her screen and went back to typing.