A man walks into a gallery one afternoon.
Of all the works on the wall, there is one that captivates him especially – a luminous circle depicting almost perfectly the timbre of the autumn as he is experiencing it. A tree that has half shed its gilded leaves, the poised light. So simple, so apparently honest, he feels he must be missing something. No doubt the artist’s hand has concealed a deeper significance that warrants its inclusion in such a sophisticated gallery. Filled with emotion he asks the still air:
“What is the meaning of this picture?”
A sharp-eared curator responds:
“Sir, there is no meaning, that is just a window”