It was the late 2000s, a lectern, a question from the floor. Did the work on the walls address the environment, or only name it? I paused, because the question deserved a pause, and gave the only answer I had: go clean up the beach.

I have been asked about it since, by the right people, and I keep the line ready, the way you keep an umbrella in a city where it rarely rains. Nobody really attacks. But somebody might, and the answer should be on hand.

Here is what it means. It is a little ridiculous to stand next to a picture of the weather and be asked to account for the climate. If you want the beach clean, go. That is a job, and it is a good one. The work on the walls is a different job.

There are two kinds of art about the world. One kind tells you, plainly, with a sign in its hand, what to think and how urgently to think it. That kind has its place. Around here it has most of the places. It is crafty and explicit, and it is boring, and the people who make it are always prepared for the question, because the question is the whole piece.

The other kind works at subtle levels. It adds a layer, and another, and another. You look at it, and you evaluate it, actively, and you leave. Then, passively, without your permission, it soaks in. You do not choose to change. You change.

Nobody was ever scared into loving a shoreline. That is what I meant. That is still what I mean.

A ball, I am told, took the same advice and has not been seen since. A wallaby took it and lay down on the sand for years. They heard go. They did not hear the rest.