It's all about me. No, really. It is. And it's about you, too. But not about him or her. They can shove it.

We love the works of art that we do (as distinct from merely understanding the ones we don't love) because they answer the questions that we have.

Some of the most common questions are, "How can I replicate the feelings of contentment I had when I was a small child?" and "How can I get a really long-lasting emotional high without using illegal substances?" and "How can I invest my money in a way that will also increase my social standing with my peer group?" and "How can I be grossly self-indulgent while feeling that I am doing something that is worthwhile?"

Other questions include "How is it possible to portray a complex mathematical operation using only blocks of color?" and "How can I learn something real and also boost my sense of smug personal superiority at the same time?" and "How can I be less disgusting than the unsatisfactory creature that I ordinarily find myself being?" and "How can I learn that I am asking for answers to questions without knowing what it is that I am really asking for?" and "How can I learn that I usually ask two-thirds of these questions on the same day?" and "How can I learn that I ask the wrong questions, this one included?"

The answer to all of these questions is, "Art."

We never reach the realm of pure and unalloyed questions, much less answers. We shall always be self-aggrandizing two-year-olds learning how to solve ever more complex equations.

But we have the option of learning how to ask a wider and more self-aware variety of questions. And then we have at least the possibility of a few better answers.

Or at least we have the option of looking every once in a while at some better art.