But Is It Art?

  George took up sculpting in retirement. At first Lucy complained about the mess because he chiseled the expensive blocks of granite until they were piles of gravel, and because George swore a lot when his statues turned into gravel. Then he would sulk. Then he would go out the next day and buy another block of granite.
  Lucy lined the flower beds with George's gravel and tried to be out of the house whenever he chipped the nose off his latest project.
  George kept at it, determined to create something beautiful out of the gray, unforgiving boulders. Lucy stopped keeping track of how much George spent on giant rocks and chisels. At least the house was paid for. She got a job at Target to pay the bills, and to stay away from George's potty mouth. She hoped sculpting was a phase, that George would get bored with it. Hadn't he given up golf, gardening, and bicycling after only a few months?
  But George had something to prove this time. He wanted to leave a legacy as an artist. But Rodin he wasn't.
  One afternoon, Lucy came home from work to find George in a good mood. "Come see what I did." She smiled indulgently and followed him out to the garage.
  She admired his work politely, curbing her urge to ask, "What is it?"
  "Doesn't it look like he's sleeping?" George traced the line of the neck and shoulder with a dusty finger.
  Now Lucy could see it. It was a man without a face.  (Artist credit: Herbis Orbis)