Ghoul's a little taken aback by the question, his eyes widening a fraction. The way she's staring at him makes him feel like ants are crawling all over his skin. It's the same sensation he always gets when he's been unexpectedly put on the spot. He's definitely not an artsy kind of guy, more like the kid who got a C in every art class, so his first instinct is to say, "Ain't it supposed to be pretty?" That's what it usually seems to be for. Something easy to sell. Something nice, nonthreatening, and utterly forgettable meant to take up blank space on a wall at home or in an office. The visual equivalent of soft elevator music.

But, a moment after saying it, he realizes that's not right. He's seen the act of purposely destroying nice things being called art, too. Hell, he's participated in some of that himself. He's not so bold as to pass himself off as an artist, but he knows people who live by that identity, and he can tell just by watching (and also by doing)- it's more than just breaking stuff or spraypainting walls, it's channeling emotion in to something physical, making a statement. So, maybe that's supposed to be the point of it all, pretty or not. Expression. Secrets. Communication.

He chews at his bottom lip and shrugs, avoiding eye contact as he answers, "Um. No, I guess it doesn't really have a point. Or, I mean- maybe it's whatever you make of it. You know? I dunno." He has trouble putting it in to words. First, because it sounds ridiculous, and second, because it feels kind of weirdly personal.

Dumb dog.