Malcolm took a handful of carnations and plopped them in a vase. After looking at it, he realized he needed to add water. He then set the vase on the counter.
The carnations were a panoply of colours. Red, yellow, pink, orange, some dyed blue and purple. It was a jarring sight.
“No, Malcolm. Not quite right,” Gajra said.
“Oh, sweetheart, come on. It’s avant garde floral design.”
“There’s no such thing,” Gajra said. “And with good reason. It looks ridiculous, and just a little bit nauseous.”
“No, but look how the colours clash, and fight with each other for your attention. You can’t appreciate them because of the clashing. They’re not meant to be appreciated. They’re meant to hurt, just a little. It’s art!”
“You’re not even an artist, Malcolm.”
Malcolm frowned. “Not with that attitude, I’m not.”
Gajra shook her head. “Look, if you can get it on display somewhere, sure, okay, I’ll say it’s art. But until it’s in a gallery, it’s just a bad floral design. At least add some baby’s breath or something.”
“Don’t be so pedantic. Baby’s breath. Bah! I’ll take my post-modern flower arrangements where they’re appreciated.”
“I thought they were avant garde,” Gajra said.
“Yeah, same thing.”
“Post-modern and avant garde? No, they aren’t.”
“Sure they are. You can use them interchangeably.”
“At least learn your art terms before you try to be an artist, Malcolm,” Gajra said. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Or what, you’d leave me?”
“Or I’d refuse to believe your nonsense.”
“That’s art criticism for you.”
“So you admit it’s art!”
Gajra rolled her eyes while Malcolm sat, grinning triumphantly.