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        "Where do you see art?"
        "What?  That's a dumb question," I replied.
        "Seriously, Mark, where do you see art?"
        "An art gallery I suppose."  She fixed me with compassionate eyes.  Or maybe it was pity.
        "That's not what I meant."
        "What do you mean, Sara?"  Some days her little word games were fun, some days they grated on my nerves and some days they went right over my head.
        "I mean when you look at art, what makes it art?"
        "Like paintings and stuff?" I asked.
        "No."
        I sighed, she could be dense sometimes.  "What do you mean, Sara?  You're not explaining yourself."
        "Okay, if you look at something and say 'hey, I find that artful' what makes you say that."
        "Artful?  You made that word up."  I stood out of my chair, "Want anything from the kitchen?"
        "Diet.  And I didn't make anything up, besides you know what I mean."
        I did, but I thought I could call her on her imaginary word.  For a moment the only sounds in our apartment were the fridge opening and her fingers flying across the computer keyboard.  I grabbed a regular soda and looked for something to eat.
        "Don't leave the door open like that."
        I hated being called to from another room, I rolled my eyes, but only a half-eaten sandwich saw my gesture, a moment later it was introduced to some mustard.  With the sandwich and a soda in hand I walked back to the living room where Sara was typing away.
        "I wanted a diet."
        "My bad."  I ran back to the kitchen to grab her soda.  In truth I had forgotten her soda and the regular was for me.
        "So?"
        There was a pause while I chewed a bite of my sandwich, some of the mustard spilled onto my pants.
        "I hope you're planning to wash those, Mark."
        The stain was just one more spot on these pants.  "Yeah, I'm putting a load in soon."  She gave me an inquisitive stare.  When I took another bite of my sandwich she cocked an eyebrow, she had asked a question.  "Ah, art."  She nodded her head sympathetically.  "I don't know.  I never thought about it.  Art's art."
        "What do you find beautiful?"
        I was tempted to say she was, but Sara wasn't the kind to fish for compliments.  "Art's not just beautiful things.  There's that guy who crapped in a can and called it art."
        "Do you think art's whatever an artist makes?"
        "No."  I finished the last bite of the sandwich to buy time.  "Since someone who isn't an artist can make art...I guess anyone can make art."
        "Is everyone an artist?"
        "No.  An artist is someone whose job is to make art."  I knew she was trapping me.  Sara had a way of lassoing me with my own words.
        "Then when does a regular person make art?"
        "I guess when they make something that captures emotion."  She didn't look convinced.  This was how her word games were played.
        "What about the crap in a can?  Does that capture emotion?"
        "No, he was probably doing that to get attention."  She was about to say something but I cut in, "And I think it worked, because even I've heard of it."  She nodded to that.
        "But it was still art?"
        "Yeah."
        "Why?"
        "Because it brought out emotions."  She cocked an eyebrow, her signal of victory.
        "Art is something that evokes emotions then?"
        "Sure, I guess that makes sense."  She smiled her victory smile.  It was a warm gesture because her word games were not meant to beat me, just convince me.
        "Let's go see some art."


        "What do you...?" Sara stopped me from talking by kissing me hard on the lips.  This was how she played her games.  She wouldn't let me speak, and if I tried she stopped me somehow.
        Sara grabbed her car keys and our jackets.  I held my hand up giving the 'give me a moment' sign and dashed to the bedroom.  Since I was still in my stained sleep pants, and a grungy shirt, I wanted to change first.  Sara would be annoyed at the delay, but couldn't argue because this was her 'no talking' game.  I knew this would make her anxious.
        From our closet I took a pair of jeans and a polo shirt.  The sleep pants were tossed in the hamper.
        Sara was tapping her foot, she already had her shoes and a light jacket on.  When I was in range she threw the jacket over the couch at me, not to me and shook her keys.  I slipped the jacket on and headed for my shoes.
        "Sorry I just..." she kissed me hard again and I kissed her back, then I kissed her for no reason, she looked calmer.
        When I had my shoes on we headed to the elevator.  The whole way down I kept trying to speak and Sara kept kissing me, not unintentionally.  At the ground floor I stopped because I didn't like public displays of affection.
        We walked to Sara's car silently while dodging puddles.
        Her old Trans-am was nothing to be jealous of and worth twice as much with a full tank of gas, she didn't even lock it.  With a sound nothing like a kitten purring we left the parking lot and headed north.
        I could have taken the opportunity to speak while we were driving because Sara would not have been able to stop me, but I played along.  The ride was boring because I had no idea where we were going.  I'd only lived in this city for three years.  The first two years I only went exactly four places: school, my apartment, a grocery store and Sara's apartment.  Now that we lived together I only went three places.
        It was twenty minutes before we got to where we were going.  We parked at a grand old building with pillars and wide stairs.  I was reminded of a bank.  Sara and I walked to the entrance.  Her enthusiasm was apparent by the spring in her step and the quick smiles she kept giving me.  She got like this on our little adventures.
        I walked up the stairs while she bounded ahead of me, her smile made me walk a bit faster.  Spending the day at an art museum was not what I expected when I woke up today.  My stomach was finished with the sandwich and wanted more.
At the entrance I saw Sara put a paper bill into a slot marked "Recommended Donation $5.00."  I drew a five dollar bill from my wallet and followed Sara's example.  She took my hand and pulled me through the doors, but once through she released my hand, she knew I didn't like holding hands in public.
The lobby of the museum could fit an entire bank.  The walls were white and the floor was dark marble.  Each step I took with my sneakers was muffled, but Sara's pumps made clacking sounds which echoed through the room.  The only other people in the lobby were two elderly women on a far off bench.  Next to them were two walkers fitted with tennis balls.  They noticed us but didn't let us interrupt them.
Sara studied a nearby map on the wall and motioned with her head that we should head down the hallway to the right.  With an even pace we walked toward the hallway, the whole way her footsteps announced us.
The walls of the hallway to the right were filled with paintings.  Sara walked ahead while I glanced at each one; fruit in a few, flowers in some and a couple of smiling children sitting on a bed.  Further down, an old man was having a staring contest with a painting of a cityscape.  Other than him, Sara and I were the only ones in the hallway.  He didn't pay any attention to us.  Sara grabbed my arm and pulled me along like a child who's just discovered a new bug.
When we got to a huge, white room with sculptures, each on a dais, she let go of my arm.  The room was deserted and well lit.  I thought these were much more interesting than the paintings.  There were nudes larger than life, carving of animals and colorful pieces which didn't make any sense to me.
        After I'd looked around for a few minutes Sara led me up to a piece in the corner.  It was a stone carving of a woman crawling but reaching up.  Her clothes were ragged and her face was twisted in agony.  The eyes were streaked with embossed tears and polished to be shiner than her face.  I was amazed at the messy hair which the artist carved convincingly.  When Sara had me stand in front of her, I locked eyes with the stone woman.  I felt compelled to give her whatever she wanted.  Pity for her made it difficult to stand there too long.
The statue was called Porai.
When I came away from the statue Sara kissed me but I hadn't spoken.
"You look hungry."
I nodded my head.


Back at our apartment I searched the refrigerator.  When I didn't see anything to eat in the fridge I grabbed two sodas, a regular and a diet.  I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Sara grabbed an unopened bag of croutons and the diet I handed her.
"What did you think of the art museum?"
I finished chewing a bite of the sandwich.  "I was impressed.  I see why you were asking about art now."
"Why was I asking?"
Her game wasn't over.  "You wanted me to know what art really is."
"Do you?  What's art?"
It was my turn to smile at her.  "Art's something different to everyone."  She took a couple of croutons from the bag and popped them in her mouth.  "Like, the paintings in the hallway were cool.  Some of them even looked like photographs.  Some of them had happy kids or pretty flowers; they were well done, but kind of boring."
"So?"
"Well, I didn't really feel impressed by them."
"So art is something that's impressive?"
        She was roping me in with my own words.  "No, the art I like is impressive.  What other people like doesn't have to be impressive."  She popped a few more croutons and waited for me to continue.  "Trying to define art is like trying to define love.  It's not something you can nail down."  I took a bite of my sandwich.
        "What isn't art?"
        "Um, stuff that...I don't know," I said with a shoulder shrug.
        "Well, if you look at that couch, is it art?"
        "No."
        "Why isn't it?"
        "Because it's not."  I didn't know where she was going with this.  "That's like saying 'why isn't this building art?'"
        "A lot of architecture is considered art."
        I thought for a minute and took another bite of my sandwich.  "This building isn't one of those.  It's built to hold people; for utility."
        "What if I told you I thought this building was artistic in many ways?"
        "What ways?" I asked.
        "Well, the people who designed it had to have had an idea of what they were doing, they applied their knowledge and skill to building the best building they could with the money and materials they had."
        I had to interrupt, "But it looks just like the three other buildings on this block."
        "So?  They were just designed the same way.  The people who built it had to apply their skill to the construction.  The people who decorated the building applied their skills, and so on until we moved in."
        "So, art is when people apply their skills, to something?"
        "That's how I see art."
        I pulled out my cell phone.  "All right.  You're an engineering student, tell me, is this phone art?"  My phone was nothing special.
        "Yes."
        Sara ate a few more croutons.  "Mind telling me how?" I asked, and handed her my phone.
        "The person who only designed the case had to keep a few things in mind.  He or she had to make sure it looked like the company wanted it to.  Then make sure it could contain everything that went inside.  Then after those criteria were satisfied and all the necessary details were taken into consideration they could apply their own touch.  These personal touches are the things that set him or her apart from someone who just fills criteria.  Look at this button, it's not just a rectangle, it doesn't fit the curve of the phone, it's a funny shape.  There's no logical reason for that."
        Sure enough the '5' button didn't look like the other buttons.  I had just figured it looked cools so they did it.  Sara popped another few croutons and looked triumphant.  "I guess," and took my phone back.
        "You don't seem convinced."
        I wasn't.  "It just seems like...technology and art can't be the same."
        "Think of it like this; if you give a muse a pencil and paper you get a drawer.  If you give a muse paint and a canvas you get a painter.  If you give a muse a pen and paper you get an author.  But, if you give a muse math you get an engineer."
        Sara smiled and crunched on a big handful of croutons, then choked on them a bit.  "You okay?" I asked.
        "I'm fine."
        I sat back and reached for my sandwich, but I had finished it while Sara was talking.  "Art is different for everyone," I said.  "Everyone has to define it for themselves, like love."
        "There's hope for you yet, my love."

Description
        "Where do you see art?"
        "What?  That's a dumb question," I replied.
        "Seriously, Mark, where do you see art?"
        "An art gallery I suppose."  She fixed me with compassionate eyes.  Or maybe it was pity.
        "That's not what I meant."
        "What do you mean, Sara?"  Some days her little word games were fun, some days they grated on my nerves and some days they went right over my head.
        "I mean when you look at art, what makes it art?"
        "Like paintings and stuff?" I asked.
        "No."
        I sighed, she could be dense sometimes.  "What do you mean, Sara?  You're not explaining yourself."
        "Okay, if you look at something and say 'hey, I find that artful' what makes you say that."
        "Artful?  You made that word up."  I stood out of my chair, "Want anything from the kitchen?"
        "Diet.  And I didn't make anything up, besides you know what I mean."
        I did, but I thought I could call her on her imaginary word.  For a moment the only sounds in our apartment were the fridge opening and her fingers flying across the computer keyboard.  I grabbed a regular soda and looked for something to eat.
        "Don't leave the door open like that."
        I hated being called to from another room, I rolled my eyes, but only a half-eaten sandwich saw my gesture, a moment later it was introduced to some mustard.  With the sandwich and a soda in hand I walked back to the living room where Sara was typing away.
        "I wanted a diet."
        "My bad."  I ran back to the kitchen to grab her soda.  In truth I had forgotten her soda and the regular was for me.
        "So?"
        There was a pause while I chewed a bite of my sandwich, some of the mustard spilled onto my pants.
        "I hope you're planning to wash those, Mark."
        The stain was just one more spot on these pants.  "Yeah, I'm putting a load in soon."  She gave me an inquisitive stare.  When I took another bite of my sandwich she cocked an eyebrow, she had asked a question.  "Ah, art."  She nodded her head sympathetically.  "I don't know.  I never thought about it.  Art's art."
        "What do you find beautiful?"
        I was tempted to say she was, but Sara wasn't the kind to fish for compliments.  "Art's not just beautiful things.  There's that guy who crapped in a can and called it art."
        "Do you think art's whatever an artist makes?"
        "No."  I finished the last bite of the sandwich to buy time.  "Since someone who isn't an artist can make art...I guess anyone can make art."
        "Is everyone an artist?"
        "No.  An artist is someone whose job is to make art."  I knew she was trapping me.  Sara had a way of lassoing me with my own words.
        "Then when does a regular person make art?"
        "I guess when they make something that captures emotion."  She didn't look convinced.  This was how her word games were played.
        "What about the crap in a can?  Does that capture emotion?"
        "No, he was probably doing that to get attention."  She was about to say something but I cut in, "And I think it worked, because even I've heard of it."  She nodded to that.
        "But it was still art?"
        "Yeah."
        "Why?"
        "Because it brought out emotions."  She cocked an eyebrow, her signal of victory.
        "Art is something that evokes emotions then?"
        "Sure, I guess that makes sense."  She smiled her victory smile.  It was a warm gesture because her word games were not meant to beat me, just convince me.
        "Let's go see some art."


        "What do you...?" Sara stopped me from talking by kissing me hard on the lips.  This was how she played her games.  She wouldn't let me speak, and if I tried she stopped me somehow.
        Sara grabbed her car keys and our jackets.  I held my hand up giving the 'give me a moment' sign and dashed to the bedroom.  Since I was still in my stained sleep pants, and a grungy shirt, I wanted to change first.  Sara would be annoyed at the delay, but couldn't argue because this was her 'no talking' game.  I knew this would make her anxious.
        From our closet I took a pair of jeans and a polo shirt.  The sleep pants were tossed in the hamper.
        Sara was tapping her foot, she already had her shoes and a light jacket on.  When I was in range she threw the jacket over the couch at me, not to me and shook her keys.  I slipped the jacket on and headed for my shoes.
        "Sorry I just..." she kissed me hard again and I kissed her back, then I kissed her for no reason, she looked calmer.
        When I had my shoes on we headed to the elevator.  The whole way down I kept trying to speak and Sara kept kissing me, not unintentionally.  At the ground floor I stopped because I didn't like public displays of affection.
        We walked to Sara's car silently while dodging puddles.
        Her old Trans-am was nothing to be jealous of and worth twice as much with a full tank of gas, she didn't even lock it.  With a sound nothing like a kitten purring we left the parking lot and headed north.
        I could have taken the opportunity to speak while we were driving because Sara would not have been able to stop me, but I played along.  The ride was boring because I had no idea where we were going.  I'd only lived in this city for three years.  The first two years I only went exactly four places: school, my apartment, a grocery store and Sara's apartment.  Now that we lived together I only went three places.
        It was twenty minutes before we got to where we were going.  We parked at a grand old building with pillars and wide stairs.  I was reminded of a bank.  Sara and I walked to the entrance.  Her enthusiasm was apparent by the spring in her step and the quick smiles she kept giving me.  She got like this on our little adventures.
        I walked up the stairs while she bounded ahead of me, her smile made me walk a bit faster.  Spending the day at an art museum was not what I expected when I woke up today.  My stomach was finished with the sandwich and wanted more.
At the entrance I saw Sara put a paper bill into a slot marked "Recommended Donation $5.00."  I drew a five dollar bill from my wallet and followed Sara's example.  She took my hand and pulled me through the doors, but once through she released my hand, she knew I didn't like holding hands in public.
The lobby of the museum could fit an entire bank.  The walls were white and the floor was dark marble.  Each step I took with my sneakers was muffled, but Sara's pumps made clacking sounds which echoed through the room.  The only other people in the lobby were two elderly women on a far off bench.  Next to them were two walkers fitted with tennis balls.  They noticed us but didn't let us interrupt them.
Sara studied a nearby map on the wall and motioned with her head that we should head down the hallway to the right.  With an even pace we walked toward the hallway, the whole way her footsteps announced us.
The walls of the hallway to the right were filled with paintings.  Sara walked ahead while I glanced at each one; fruit in a few, flowers in some and a couple of smiling children sitting on a bed.  Further down, an old man was having a staring contest with a painting of a cityscape.  Other than him, Sara and I were the only ones in the hallway.  He didn't pay any attention to us.  Sara grabbed my arm and pulled me along like a child who's just discovered a new bug.
When we got to a huge, white room with sculptures, each on a dais, she let go of my arm.  The room was deserted and well lit.  I thought these were much more interesting than the paintings.  There were nudes larger than life, carving of animals and colorful pieces which didn't make any sense to me.
        After I'd looked around for a few minutes Sara led me up to a piece in the corner.  It was a stone carving of a woman crawling but reaching up.  Her clothes were ragged and her face was twisted in agony.  The eyes were streaked with embossed tears and polished to be shiner than her face.  I was amazed at the messy hair which the artist carved convincingly.  When Sara had me stand in front of her, I locked eyes with the stone woman.  I felt compelled to give her whatever she wanted.  Pity for her made it difficult to stand there too long.
The statue was called Porai.
When I came away from the statue Sara kissed me but I hadn't spoken.
"You look hungry."
I nodded my head.


Back at our apartment I searched the refrigerator.  When I didn't see anything to eat in the fridge I grabbed two sodas, a regular and a diet.  I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Sara grabbed an unopened bag of croutons and the diet I handed her.
"What did you think of the art museum?"
I finished chewing a bite of the sandwich.  "I was impressed.  I see why you were asking about art now."
"Why was I asking?"
Her game wasn't over.  "You wanted me to know what art really is."
"Do you?  What's art?"
It was my turn to smile at her.  "Art's something different to everyone."  She took a couple of croutons from the bag and popped them in her mouth.  "Like, the paintings in the hallway were cool.  Some of them even looked like photographs.  Some of them had happy kids or pretty flowers; they were well done, but kind of boring."
"So?"
"Well, I didn't really feel impressed by them."
"So art is something that's impressive?"
        She was roping me in with my own words.  "No, the art I like is impressive.  What other people like doesn't have to be impressive."  She popped a few more croutons and waited for me to continue.  "Trying to define art is like trying to define love.  It's not something you can nail down."  I took a bite of my sandwich.
        "What isn't art?"
        "Um, stuff that...I don't know," I said with a shoulder shrug.
        "Well, if you look at that couch, is it art?"
        "No."
        "Why isn't it?"
        "Because it's not."  I didn't know where she was going with this.  "That's like saying 'why isn't this building art?'"
        "A lot of architecture is considered art."
        I thought for a minute and took another bite of my sandwich.  "This building isn't one of those.  It's built to hold people; for utility."
        "What if I told you I thought this building was artistic in many ways?"
        "What ways?" I asked.
        "Well, the people who designed it had to have had an idea of what they were doing, they applied their knowledge and skill to building the best building they could with the money and materials they had."
        I had to interrupt, "But it looks just like the three other buildings on this block."
        "So?  They were just designed the same way.  The people who built it had to apply their skill to the construction.  The people who decorated the building applied their skills, and so on until we moved in."
        "So, art is when people apply their skills, to something?"
        "That's how I see art."
        I pulled out my cell phone.  "All right.  You're an engineering student, tell me, is this phone art?"  My phone was nothing special.
        "Yes."
        Sara ate a few more croutons.  "Mind telling me how?" I asked, and handed her my phone.
        "The person who only designed the case had to keep a few things in mind.  He or she had to make sure it looked like the company wanted it to.  Then make sure it could contain everything that went inside.  Then after those criteria were satisfied and all the necessary details were taken into consideration they could apply their own touch.  These personal touches are the things that set him or her apart from someone who just fills criteria.  Look at this button, it's not just a rectangle, it doesn't fit the curve of the phone, it's a funny shape.  There's no logical reason for that."
        Sure enough the '5' button didn't look like the other buttons.  I had just figured it looked cools so they did it.  Sara popped another few croutons and looked triumphant.  "I guess," and took my phone back.
        "You don't seem convinced."
        I wasn't.  "It just seems like...technology and art can't be the same."
        "Think of it like this; if you give a muse a pencil and paper you get a drawer.  If you give a muse paint and a canvas you get a painter.  If you give a muse a pen and paper you get an author.  But, if you give a muse math you get an engineer."
        Sara smiled and crunched on a big handful of croutons, then choked on them a bit.  "You okay?" I asked.
        "I'm fine."
        I sat back and reached for my sandwich, but I had finished it while Sara was talking.  "Art is different for everyone," I said.  "Everyone has to define it for themselves, like love."
        "There's hope for you yet, my love."