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and... I don ’ t know, hostile? Primal? It ’ s angry. He was mad. That ’ s what he was trying to convey. I mean, does it look pretty to you? ”
    “ No, ” he tells me simply. “ That was my question. Shouldn ’ t art be attractive? ”
    “ Absolutely not, Dad, ” I tell him.
    “ Explain that to me, ” he says, not letting my patronizing attitude affect him.
    “ Art should make a statement. It should pull you in and make you feel something that the artist felt. ”
    “ Is that why you ’ re mad at me right now? ” I ’ m caught off-guard by his question, but consider it.
    “ I ’ m not mad, Dad, ” I tell him. “ It just frustrates me that you can ’ t see that, you know? Everything has to be beautiful to you. Anything less isn ’ t art to you, and I don ’ t know. I don ’ t relate to that. ”
    “ But Livvy, everything you ’ ve done is beautiful. Your art is beautiful. ”
    “ You always say that, ” I tell him. “ What if I painted this? ”
    He stands back again and analyzes Nate ’ s painting. “ You know, Tessa, I bet I would find it to be beautiful, because I know it came from somewhere deep inside of you. That ’ s what I love about what you do. ”
    “ That ’ s biased, then. That ’ s not objective. ”
    “ I don ’ t care if you think I ’ m biased, honey. I admire the talent you have, and it makes me so proud to know that you can speak to people through art. You ’ re right; I don ’ t understand art like you do or like your mother does, or like Nate obviously did. But I understand the confidence and courage it takes to put your heart out there, and I ’ m in awe of what you do, Livvy. But that ’ s as objective as I can be where you ’ re involved. If you just painted a big puddle of black ink, I ’ m sure I ’ d look at it differently than if Nate here had painted it. ” He gestures flippantly at the spectacular piece of art in between us. His motion offends me, but I continue to listen. “ I ’ d be worried about you, and I ’ d wonder what I could do to help you, but I would be so proud that my daughter was brave enough to bare her soul to the world in such a way. And to me, that ’ s beautiful. That ’ s what beauty is to me. It ’ s seeing you become this significant person not just in my world, but in the world. ”
    I consider what he ’ s just said to me, and actually am moved by it, but I ’ m not really sure how to respond. I give a faint smile and move on to the next painting, turning my back to him. I hear him walk out of the cavernous room, leaving me to my thoughts.
    Looking around the room slowly, none of the other pieces speaks to me like Nate ’ s does. I go back to it and study it closer, committing to memory some of the techniques he used.
    Dad comes back in the room as another family enters. He stands behind me, delivering to me a small gift shop bag, then puts one hand on my back. I open the bag to find postcards of all the paintings that I ’ d told him I liked–except for Nate ’ s. I ’ m impressed that he took note of the ones I found most compelling, but am irritated at his obvious omission.
    “ Thanks, Dad, but you forgot one. ” I turn around to show my disapproval, but am stunned by what I see. He ’ s holding a 3 ’ x 3 ’ canvas replica of Thursday Morning , Nate ’ s amazing work of art. “ Oh, thank you, Daddy! ” I exclaim, taking the painting from his grasp. It ’ s heavier than I expected, and so well done. I compare the colors to the original, and they ’ re spot on.
    “ Can you go a little easier on me, Livvy? I really am trying. ”
    I look up into his eyes and see a tinge of sadness there I ’ d never seen before.
    “ Okay, ” I tell him, a little remorseful.
    “ You ready for dinner? ”
    “ Yeah. ” He hands me the keys and picks up the canvas, carefully carrying it out to the car.

    Mom greets us at the door when we get home. The house is still and quiet, which normally means my brother is in