"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."