“The more I think it over, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.”—Vincent van Gogh
“Are you good at that?” she asked.
“Not every day,” he answered, “but, still, I try—even when I fail.”
She smiled with compassion in countenance, an empathy for effort and will, even when both should fail short of ideal and aim. Understanding, she followed, “That’s more than many can say.”
He smiled, a meekness rising in acknowledgment of his own limitations of expression and achievement. He shrugged away his confrontation of deeper self, smiling and making light admission.
“What’s it hurt to try?” he asked, rhetorical rather than seeking answer.
But still she gave, “Depends on how strong you try.”
Smile receded, and he felt deeply again. “Not all art is beautiful.”
“No,” she agreed, “and, sometimes, it is the ugly that hits us most.”
A silence fell between; melancholy lessened as hearts spoke art, imperfectly, across the silence.