“The dog is just sitting,” I said jauntily. He smiled at me without a word.

     I used to visit my grandfather every summer. Watching the endless row of tall Cyprus trees pass by through the car window, I was always somewhat apprehensive about the awkward moments that were to come once I arrive at my grandfather’s. It was not that our rendezvous was only an annual event, but that I felt I had little to share with my grandfather that put a distance between us. I had always tried to avoid the situation where we would be together in the same room. As a war veteran, my grandfather enjoyed talking about the Korean War, a topic simply far too removed from my peaceful, affluent, and unbelievably modern life in the 21st century. My grandfather had special attachment to Korean history and was genuinely concerned that his granddaughter would not know much about her motherland. To me, his memory of the war was an ungraspable material.

     Once my mother told me stories about my grandfather I did not know: he loved growing exotic plants and fine dog breeds such as German shepherd and Great Dane. One day, I saw several pictures of him with dogs taken during the war time. I never attempted to ask more because I was surprised to find out that he had the exact same hobby as mine all along. Even on those days when I was half-hearted about his impassioned speech about times and places I did not know, my grandfather too found happiness and joy in the same things I loved. But I didn’t tell him that I loved dogs too; I didn’t feel the need to. Then on one summer day at grandfather’s, I was standing in front of the old table, curiously studying the dog pictures. My grandfather approached me, holding one of his journals from the shelf, and showed me a photograph of a dog.

“What does the dog seem to be doing?” he asked.

It was a lovely puppy sitting. So I said to him.

“The dog is not sitting. In fact, he is thinking,” he said.

     I closely looked at the photograph again and saw what it was looking at. It seemed like it was rolling its eyeballs up to see its eyebrows. I realized that even a simple action can be seen differently depending on how the audience appreciate it.

     My grandfather had passed away two years ago. I stayed beside him until he closed his eyes. The doctor told me that he was suffering from a severe lung disease, which could cause extreme pain when breathing. But when I walked into his room, he seemed perfectly fine like a healthy person. He shook my hand, and I could still feel warmth and strength in his arm. I thought what the doctor had said was wrong.

"There is no pain”, he smiled at me.

I nodded, wearing my biggest smile. Perhaps he was enjoying his last ride, I thought to myself while appreciating a living masterpiece in front of me.

     

I often think of my grandfather and our conversation on perspectives on the dog picture, realizing how much my view of the world was narrow-sighted and colorless. I studied art since I was in elementary school, but art always seemed intricate and confusing. Depending on the painter’s intention, it could have a variety of meanings. But, now I realized how intuitive and straightforward art is that it is not about reading the artist’s intention but my attitude to appreciate his. In looking back, I realize that I hadn’t spent much time with my grandfather, yet what he showed me on that summer day has completely changed my understanding of the world.