Patrick held the brush handle between his palms and walked to the middle of the Van Slyke's lawn, rubbing his hands back and forth, spinning the brush until it was dry. "See if you can finish the garage by four," Parker had said. Good deal, it couldn't be later than three. The paint cans were stacked by the ladder and the folded drop cloths. He put the brush on top of the cans, took the rag and the putty knife out of his back pockets, and stepped back. Amazing how much better a paint job looks from twenty feet away, he thought. "Looks good," Hendrik said from the kitchen door. "Yes," Patrick said. "Where your wheels?" "Parker's going to pick me up." "Have a beer while you wait?" "Excellent," Patrick said. Hendrik went into the kitchen and reappeared with two bottles of Heineken. He waved Patrick over to a picnic table and opened the bottles with a pocket knife. He was a strong man with a brooding expression and a flattened nose. He looked like someone who might have painted a famous picture of a boxer. "Happy days," Hendrik said. "Prosit." There are few things better than the first swallow of cold beer after a day's work. "Yes!" Patrick said. "Looks good," Hendrik repeated. "Have to keep after these old houses." "You've got a nice one. Is that your studio over there?" "Yep." "Could I ask you a question?" "Sure." "What is art, anyway?" Hendrik raised his eyebrows. He took several long swallows of Heineken. "I've met a lot of artists in this town," Patrick went on, "and I realized that I don't understand it." "Bunch of bullshit, mostly." Patrick waited. Hendrik looked at him and sighed. He took another swallow of Heineken and indicated the valley with one hand. "Everybody wants to be an artist," he said. "Doctors. I saw a clinic the other day--said 'Medical Arts Group' on the building." He burped. "It's like this, Patrick: there's art, capital A--fine art, it's called sometimes--and there's everything else." "So what is this 'fine art?"' Hendrik shook his head. He went into the house and came out with two more beers. "Let's start with everything else," he said. "It's easier." He pried off the bottle caps. "Everything else is commercial art--calendar graphics or posters or paintings of lighthouses, fall foliage, the streets of Paris--that kind of stuff, done in familiar styles. Nothing wrong with it. But it isn't art; it's craft." He drank. "It's craft because the painters know what they're doing when they start. Some of the paintings seem magical, but it's trick magic. They know how to get the rabbit out of the hat. An artist--capital A--doesn't know what's in the hat or how to get it out." "Hmm," Patrick said. "A guy in Vermont came up with that comparison--Robert Francis. It's like this, Patrick: an artist needs to make a picture that expresses how he feels about something or someone or some place. Since every artist is different, good paintings, true paintings, are original." "True?"