Today I sat for an hour and stared at a piece of art. It was a painting that I have known since I was little but only saw in pictures or replicas. Standing in front of the masterpiece felt like a dream. A strange mirage, one I felt could in no way be real. After all the years of hearing about it, there it was with every brush stroke accounted for. The sight of it alone glimmering in the lights of the museum choked me, and small tears revealed themselves. After I sat for the first 30 minutes I was interrupted in my daze by a slight sniffle. I turned and found an elderly man sitting beside me. I was so entranced with the artwork that I had not noticed him sit beside me, or noticed how close he was to me. I noticed the deep wrinkles in his face and how his tears flowed within the lines. We looked at each other’s tear-ridden faces and giggled. He said in very broken English, “Beautiful.”

That was it. One word and I knew exactly what he meant.

As a writer, it is difficult for me to admit that sometimes physical things–such as art–reaches a new level of communication. Words only have meaning if you understand them. Art, however, is not restricted by language. Well, actually, art isn’t restricted by anything. The fact that I could connect with a stranger that was not only decades older than me, but also spoke a different language, is why art is so remarkable. It is, as the stranger said, “Beautiful.”