Over rocks, boulders, rivers and streams. Over mountains, deserts and wheat fields. I had searched and searched. I now saw a park bench and plopped down. I was tired. It was early morning but still quite dark. I was panting lightly. Too much walking, recently. The smell of fresh, raw sewage wafted through the morning air, assailing my nostrils. Hmmm, New York City - the big apple - the self proclaimed center of the universe. My mind raced back to my conversation with the bearded one.

"Exalted one," I had asked, "What is art and who is an artist?"

He looked up in his classic way, exhaled almost violently and muttered, "You fools!"

I waited. I know the bearded one. I knew the answer would follow, but only at the right pace. So, I sat back and waited.

Then he drawled, "Everyone is an artist and everything one produces can be art. But you idiots are so self-conscious and weak that you end up destroying what is as natural as breathing."

"Think of a human being as a lens. Light enters the lens, is affected by it and light exits the lens. The lens is the person. The distortion that the lens creates is the person's experiences. The light entering is the stuff the person is experiencing in his life at that time. The artwork produced is the light exiting the lens."

There was silence for a while. This is how it is with the bearded one - short words with long silences. Very different from the garbage that "modern" society spews out, with its Coco-cola and BMW ads and fads.

I cleared my throat "You mean it's a natural function?"

He turned his face and stared at another corner of the ceiling. Sometimes, I wonder if the answers are written in a special ink on the roof rafters. "Right, " then silence.

"Is the drawing of a child, art?" I followed up.

"Yes and no," he replied. "The child is not self conscious and just draws as it pleases, so in one way it's art. But on the other hand, the child has not been exposed to the society fully, so it doesn't reflect current reality. It reflects all the previous experiences of its ancestors, but not the present."

"Okay. You mean to say, if an adult draws something, it's art?" I followed up.

Some more silence. Then, "No and Yes." he smiled with a twinkle in his eye. "The adult has experienced society, so that part is OK, but the adult is extremely self conscious. So, he or she is trying to create what he thinks is art. And, what he thinks is art, is in reality, what was art a long time ago. For instance, if a westerner tries to draw in a realistic way, it would be in a style that's about 500 years old. It was true art a long time ago. Now its just a shallow copy. If a Chinese draws a traditional Chinese watercolor - same thing. So, just as the child had one important ingredient but was missing the other one, so does the adult, except in an opposed way."

There was silence between us. Why isn't there more silence in this tumble-jumble of modern life, I wonder? Things sink in, in silence. Things become part of us, in silence.

I continued "So, if I, as an adult, stop worrying about what others perceive as art and just put down my true feelings on paper, would that be art?"

"Yes. And not just paper. Any medium will do. You can take two sticks and make art. But it takes practice, to find your voice. It's a new voice, never before used. So, you won't recognize it the first few times. You will know that it's true, but you won't have a good handle on it. It will take time to strengthen that skill. Think of it as water flowing through many small valves. In the beginning, the valves are aligned in random and the flow is restricted. With practice, the valves align with the flow making it a torrent and then you have art."

And so the conversation had ended and I started finding my way back. It's interesting, not only is finding the answer difficult, but so is finding the way back!

I looked up. I could see the sky had now brightened, throwing all the ugly steel, concrete and glass into a molten gray shape. Almost poetic.

I looked down and noticed a small sparkle on my shoe. Hmmmmmm.....