Millie, with mesmeric heart, arranged the shale bits, the marble slices, and the quartz chips into the sweeping forms of undulating color ablaze across the panel board.
“Seventy-six hundred for rocks on a board, that’s stiff,” says Carl.
“Do you like it?” asks Kate.
“Anyone could go to a crick and get those rocks.”
“Do the colors and forms speak to you?”
“How speak, say what?”
“Apparently, the piece doesn’t appeal to you.”
“What makes it special?”
“The composition, the color; do you like it?”
“Is this art?”
“To paraphrase Reinhardt, art is art, and everything else is everything else.”
“Seventy-six hundred for rocks on a board, that’s stiff,” says Carl.
“Do you like it?” asks Kate.
“Anyone could go to a crick and get those rocks.”
“Do the colors and forms speak to you?”
“How speak, say what?”
“Apparently, the piece doesn’t appeal to you.”
“What makes it special?”
“The composition, the color; do you like it?”
“Is this art?”
“To paraphrase Reinhardt, art is art, and everything else is everything else.”
