Standing in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, I found myself looking for an answer to my ever present question about art, What does it mean to fall in love with art? I can’t even comprehend what it means to actually fall in love with someone, let alone a concept or aesthetically pleasing canvas. I contemplated this question while staring at an Andy Warhol painting, in which the ‘paint’ was urine, and the platform for the art was a metal plank. Art has always been a passion of mine, I used it as a way to escape boredom, and as a way to illustrate a story that I could never tell my friends. I was really shy and nervous before I started introducing art into my own personal journey. Over the years I have allowed myself to be an introvert when painting and I have allowed myself to become more engaged in human interaction. It’s interesting to me that I am perplexed by this one small question. I fell in love with art by the experience of enjoyment, by being able to articulate (to myself) what it means to be happy. Maybe there isn’t an answer for that can be blanketed for everyone involved, maybe it’s just a question you need to answer for yourself?