From my novel, Attachment Patterns

It came from the back of the room, a soft, shy voice. “Mr. Boone, what is it you like about art?”

(Talk about questions.)

“Jesus, I don’t know, I just do it.” More giggles and grins and Dad smiled in return. He pondered a moment. What did he like about art? He hadn’t so much as thought about it in who knows how long. “Okay, what is there these days? What’s out there? You guys know better than I do. There’s video games and music and movies and all this, what, streaming stuff? There’s social media and computer web sites and everybody’s on their cell phones all the time and there are… pod things and bit things. What else, what am I missing?”

“Art!” cried the voice from the back.

“Yes. There is art. What there is, what there has always been” – Dad pointed at his eyes – “is what you see. And when you stand in front of a statue or a painting, a mural, a photo, any work of art – what you see stands alone. There’s no soundtrack, no voice over, no commercials telling you what to do or an announcer telling you how to feel. Hopefully you’re not taking pictures of yourself in front of it and sending them to friends. It’s a singular experience, all yours. You might like what you see, you might not like it, but if it’s true and honest, you react to it. You take it in, and you hang it on a wall inside your head and it stays there because it’s real and it means something to you.”  Dad hesitated, wondering if he should go on. Why not.  “And I wonder if it’s happening anymore. I think art today has become meaningless in the lives of most people. Yeah, they might go to a museum, but they go as tourists. It’s no different than the Empire State Building or The Eiffel Tower, you check it out when you pass through town. You walk from gallery to gallery, trying to take in hundreds and hundreds of years in a single afternoon. Do you really see anything? I don’t know how you can. Art can survive anything but not indifference.”

The room was very quiet. My father could feel all eyes upon him.

“Indifference. I’ve been guilty of it myself. But you people haven’t. You looked at my work today and you told me that it means something to you.” Bob glanced at Mr. John Murphy. “I get the feeling you do that a lot in this class. I think you’ll continue to do it. And if you can do it, how can I not do it as well?” Dad looked back at the young, attentive faces. “I want to thank you for reminding me today what it is I like about art.”

There was applause from John Murphy and the class joined in. It was nice but my father didn’t need it. He thanked the students again and told them he’d come back again soon to see what everyone was working on. Uncertainty felt very far away.