I like to wander around art museums, and on one visit, I shared a gallery with what seemed like a private tour group.

One woman was conducting the tour for three people, when they stopped at one of these all-white paintings.

She was describing the potential meaning behind the work, and noted that sometimes the artist expresses textures, or covers some background work.

It's hard to describe, but I felt this sort of absurdist joy when I watched all four of them lean in very closely for half a minute, only to discover absolutely nothing unique about the work in its texture or color.

Maybe sometimes art isn't made for the observer, but the observer's observer.