The museum was silent, hours after its closing time. In the dead of night, only two people stayed in the abstract hall filled with artworks. An artist and a patron. The two stood in front of a framed canvas, upon it were splashes, swipes, and slices of a dozen colors. What stood out, however, was an outlined semi-circle of black paint at the very top, drips trickling down the art piece.

“It’s beautiful,” said the patron. “Had everyone talking, trying to figure it out.” The artist only hummed and continued to spin the pencil between her fingers. Her gaze was unfocused, staring forward at her work. The patron cleared his throat and fixed his tie. 

“I understand that you perhaps get this question a lot, but I couldn’t help to wonder. What does this piece mean, what’s the message you’re trying to send? You have all of these abstract works, yet you never give the audience an explanation.” He slightly nudged the artist with his elbow. “It can be a secret if you want, I won’t tell a soul.” The artist sighed, a cloud of hot air escaping from her mouth.

“You want me to tell you?”

“Dearly.”

“Then, I don’t know.”

The patron stilled, blinking a few times. “Excuse me?” He questioned. The artist smiled. “I said I don’t know.” The patron eyed her for a few seconds. “You don’t know?” He asked slowly. “That’s what I said.” The patron’s face twisted in bafflement, causing her to snicker.

“So you had no motivation to make this?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

The patron glanced between the full canvas and the artist, confusion clear in his eyes.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, miss.” The artist glared over to him, smile falling from her lips.

“Let me ask you this,” the artist stated as she pointed the pencil at him. “Why must my canvas possess a purpose?” The patron licked his lips before answering. “Well, why would you paint something with no purpose? It’s like writing a letter and sending it to no address. Pointless.” 

“So, your point is…”

“That everything must have a purpose.”

“I disagree.”

The patron coughed, cleared his throat once more, and turned to face the artist fully.

“Then does this painting have no purpose?” Her gaze became blank once again.

“Would it truly be terrible if it didn’t?” The air was silent once more. Until the patron asked another question.

“But why did you make it?” The artist tucked her pencil back into the pocket of her apron and finally faced the patron.

“To prove something.”

And with that, the artist turned to leave the museum. Leaving the patron in the empty hall. He looked back at the painting, examining it until he heard the artist’s voice.

“The only thing that matters is what you think it means. The art dies if I reveal what it is.”