Malcom knew that few things in life are definite or objectively true. So many idioms existed for the sole purpose of establishing this fact: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder being the chief example. And yet, Malcom was never fully comfortable with that knowledge, especially when it came to art. Art couldn’t be truly subjective. There were truths about art, aspects that governed real art and set it apart. Even people who weren’t educated in the arts could at least recognize when those rules were being followed versus when they were not adhered to.

This knowledge usually allowed Malcom to quickly assess a work of art and determine its quality. It was integral to his work as an art dealer. That wasn’t to say, however, that the best pieces of art always garnered the highest price. All it took was for the right person to decide they liked a particular piece or artist and suddenly people would begin falling over themselves in an effort to outbid one another. It was madness, sometimes, but it wasn’t Malcom’s place to tell people how they should spend their money. All he could do was give them his opinion, his very good and educated opinion, on which pieces were of true merit.

That was why he now found himself standing before a rather large and highly detailed oil painting in his otherwise artless loft. He only ever brought painting to his loft, his home, when he needed additional time to consider them. Otherwise there was never any art in his home. It was like a blank canvas, ever ready for the next masterpiece.

“So, what do you think?” Mrs. Carol, one of Malcom’s oldest clients, asked.

He didn’t answer right away. The level of realism in the painting was impressive, to be sure, though realism in and of itself was not art. Just as anyone could snap a photograph, it took actual skill and knowledge to capture a truly artful image.

The scene in the painting was that of an amalgamation of both city and naturalistic settings. It was not a city overgrown, left abandoned to time, but rather it was done to suggest the two environments overlapping, as though they were alternate potentialities of the same space. The one blending into the other while their respective inhabitant, people in the one, animals in the other, never aware of one another. The farther back Malcom stood to observe the piece, however, another element within the painting came to dominate the scene. The trees, buildings, cars, and creatures, all came together into the quite obvious suggestion of a smiling face.

“It’s,” Malcom searched for the words, “it’s certainly got me thinking.”

Whether he was thinking that he liked the piece or not was chief among his thoughts.

The smiling face was not that of a joyous, god of nature, nor was it an ironic smile. Both would have been more expected in Malcom’s opinion. Instead, the smile was placid, calm, almost sleepy. It spoke of contentment, of a lack of concern. Yet the juxtaposition of the natural and city scape felt like it should lend itself more towards conflict, each one vying for importance and acceptance at the expense of the other. Afterall, human development was practically always done at the expense of nature.

“Tell me about the smile,” Malcom finally said.

He usually hated asking for the artist to explain themselves, but he had been considering this piece for several days now and had gotten no where with it. That was usually not a good sign for a work of art but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the one missing something. That was why Mrs. Carol was even there. He’d invited her to come and meet with him about the piece.

“You should know me better than that by now,” Mrs. Carol responded. “I’m never one to give away my secrets. Besides, a piece should speak for itself.”

Malcom nodded, and he agreed with her sentiment. Art should be able to stand on its own. Still, that smile was not something he could simply ignore or move on from without figuring it out, if only for himself.

“Are you stumped?” Mrs. Carol asked with sudden glee. “You know I’ve been trying to stump you for years!”

Malcom gave her a weary smile.

“It’s more that I’m not sure if my hesitance is due to, as you put it, being stumped, or if the smile is a mistake on your part.”

Mrs. Carol bristled slightly but she apparently knew better than to take any serious offense. Malcom was always straight forward and blunt with his clients and Mrs. Carol would know that by now.

“Well I was entirely intentional with it,” she told him.

“Hmmm,” Malcom considered the face yet again. “But did you bury your intention too deeply?”

He was speaking more to himself than to Mrs. Carol and he shifted to one side and then another, trying to see it from every perspective in the hopes that it would give him some sort of new insight into the piece.

“Do you like it, though?” Mrs. Carol asked after a few more minutes had passed.

“That’s what I’m trying to decide,” Malcom admitted, “but this face…

“You can like a piece without fully understanding it,” Mrs. Carol stated. “You’ve said so yourself on countless occasions.”

That was true enough. He liked to use that line whenever he was working with an indecisive buyer. But he had always said that about pieces he himself did understand and like already. He knew those pieces had value, both artistic and intrinsic, and so he liked them.

“Of course I suppose you could have just been saying that and not ever really mean it,” Mrs. Carol said as though reading his thoughts.

“I would never lie about art!” Malcom insisted. “But I can’t stand behind a piece that I don’t fully understand!”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Mrs. Carol pressed him. “Do you like it?”

Malcom wavered.

“You enjoy a sunset, don’t you?” Mrs. Carol asked.

Malcom nodded dismissively.

“And do you know all of the how’s and why’s that go into producing a sunset?” Mrs. Carol continued, “How the sunlight is divided, why it produces the colors it does, why the atmosphere reacts in just the right way to give you that sunset?”

“No,” Malcom admitted, “but I do understand color relationships, form, composition! Those are what make the sunset beautiful, not the frivolous math.”

“I know many a mathematician who would disagree.”

“I don’t need to understand the science of paint to know when the right color was used or not,” Malcom insisted. “It’s about intention and presentation, not some, some…

He couldn’t find the words and so he trailed off, returning his gaze to the painting. It was beautifully done, he had to admit, but that face. That infuriatingly obvious, carefree smile was driving him insane. Why had she included it? What did it add to the piece? What else was she trying to say with it?

“I think you do like it,” Mrs. Carol finally stated. “If you hated it you would try to find a reason not to look at it. Instead you keep going back to it. You love it, even though you don’t know why.”

Malcom had no reply for her. She was right, he now realized, but he still had to understand the piece.

“Well, once you sell it you’ll never have to look at it again,” Mrs. Carol said and her words cut deeply into him.

He looked over to her in shock, unable to fully articulate why her words had affected him so powerfully. How could he just let it go and move on? This was made for him to figure out! Mrs. Carol had admitted as much.

“It means that much to you?” Mrs. Carol asked in surprise at Malcom’s reaction. “Then perhaps you should just hold onto it until you understand it.”

Malcom blinked a few times as he processed what she had said.

“I can’t buy my own client’s artwork,” he said finally.

“You aren’t buying it,” Mrs. Carol told him. “I’m giving it to you until you are satisfied. In the meantime you should hang it properly on your wall.”

She turned and left. Malcom wanted to stop her, to call her back or at least insist on having a contract drawn up stipulating the terms of his stewardship for the painting, but instead he just kept staring at the painting.

Long into the evening he sat and looked at the piece. He would have it hung properly in a day or two, but in the meantime he shifted his couch around to better face the piece. It was beautiful, even though he didn’t understand it. He would come to know it better, come to understand it eventually. Then he could move on, could sell it for Mrs. Carol. Although, the idea of letting it go, now that it was here, pained him. He’d always prided himself in having no art in his home and yet now, as he looked around, it felt empty and soulless with those baren and empty walls. No painting, no drawings, no sculptures, nothing. Now that he had the painting, really and truly had it, he saw that his loft wasn’t a blank canvas. It was just empty space.

Where he had sought to create infinite possibility he had instead created a void. No more. This piece was the beginning, but there would be more. He would find other pieces and bring them into his home, into his soul. He may have understood art before this day, but somehow he had never fully loved it. That would change as well. He would learn to love art.