He listens to what Ned says, practically rapt with attention. There's something so appealing about the way Ned talks about pie, and he knows that that's because it's what Ned loves to do, that he has a passion there that allows him to speak so eloquently. After Ned finishes speaking, he's quiet for a minute, just thinking about what he's said, and then he shrugs. "That sounds like a whole lot of knowledge about human nature to me. At least, it's more than what I know. I know that people are confusing, and frustrating, and that people find me just as confusing and frustrating as I find them. And I also know you're right -- people who don't like pie shouldn't be trusted, they're probably up to something suspicious."
He keeps walking through the room as they talk, never pausing in front of one painting for too long, simply taking in what he finds aesthetically pleasing and moving on. He'll stop if Ned wants to, but he doesn't always see the purpose in gazing at art for a prolonged period of time, doesn't think he'll learn anything new or groundbreaking from trying to puzzle out what it all means. There are ways that he's elitist, too, he knows, but when it comes to art, he's anything but. If something's good to look at, then that's all that matters, in his opinion. He likes that Ned seems to think this way, too, yet they can both enjoy being here, looking at the art, being unpretentious about it. It's a nice change.
When they reach one painting, though, at the very end of the room, he stops in front of it, gazing at it far more intently than he's gazed at any of the rest so far. "This one's my favorite," he says, although maybe he doesn't need to say it, from the way he's looking at it. It's a portrait of a dark-haired woman, one that might not seem particularly striking, but there's obviously something about it that he likes. He looks at the woman in the portrait again, who has a sort of wry, unimpressed expression on her face, and then at Ned.
"I used to come here and look at this one and imagine that that's what my mother looked like. I wouldn't know, really. It's just a fantasy. But that's why it's my favorite, anyway. Is that weird? I'm pretty sure that's weird."
no subject
He keeps walking through the room as they talk, never pausing in front of one painting for too long, simply taking in what he finds aesthetically pleasing and moving on. He'll stop if Ned wants to, but he doesn't always see the purpose in gazing at art for a prolonged period of time, doesn't think he'll learn anything new or groundbreaking from trying to puzzle out what it all means. There are ways that he's elitist, too, he knows, but when it comes to art, he's anything but. If something's good to look at, then that's all that matters, in his opinion. He likes that Ned seems to think this way, too, yet they can both enjoy being here, looking at the art, being unpretentious about it. It's a nice change.
When they reach one painting, though, at the very end of the room, he stops in front of it, gazing at it far more intently than he's gazed at any of the rest so far. "This one's my favorite," he says, although maybe he doesn't need to say it, from the way he's looking at it. It's a portrait of a dark-haired woman, one that might not seem particularly striking, but there's obviously something about it that he likes. He looks at the woman in the portrait again, who has a sort of wry, unimpressed expression on her face, and then at Ned.
"I used to come here and look at this one and imagine that that's what my mother looked like. I wouldn't know, really. It's just a fantasy. But that's why it's my favorite, anyway. Is that weird? I'm pretty sure that's weird."