What is the study of Art? Is it to explicate a myriad interpretations of a piece of work; to conjugate the forms and functions, the sounds and symbols, the imagery and innuedoes, and with such imaginative force, as to create meanings which the author himself had never thought existed in his work. “I wrote it simply as my heart told me to,” says he. And yet, here we are, so busy hovering our magnifiers over the transcripts and paintings, eternally pondering that oddly-shaped phrase or that stroke crooked like an accident. This impassioned complicating of honest simplicity I sometimes find vexing. This is perhaps why I belong elsewhere.