I was proud. My first time having a painting on display in a gallery. Not a big gallery, not a famous one, but a gallery, none the less.

I wondered if anyone would want it. If I could sell it for $200, I could pay my phone bill this month. Or, at least, pay up the overdue amount.

“What does it mean?” asked a voice behind me. He was perhaps 70, and staring intently at my painting.

“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just a painting. I liked how the colours worked off each other.”

“Nonsense,” he snapped. “All art means something. Look how the colours blend.”

“I just liked…”

“The red slashes must mean something.”

“No, they…”

“The blues. Why that particular shade? And the gold. What does it all mean?!”

I snapped. “Fine! Fine! Blue means I’m depressed. Red means I want to kill the next person who asks me what it means. Gold means I had better make a truck load of money off it! That’s what it means!”

“Excellent! I’ll pay $5,000,000!”

All I could think was, What just happened?