At the Blanton

In a room upstairs, beyond the Greek pots and reproductions, but before the full-room installation of pennies and bones and curtains, there is very large room of modern art. It's the sort that's clearly Art, in a way some of the downstairs piles of planks or recreation of kitchens or tiny working elevators are not, being mostly painting-esque pieces attached to walls; it is also the sort that's clearly modern, being deliberately and aggressively non-representational.

A woman stands in front of one of these paintings with a half dozen children arrayed around her. "So when we were at that last room," she says to them, "we didn't take any of the money. Can anyone tell me why?"

"Because that would be stealing," says a girl.

"Yes, that too," says the woman. "But it's also because that was art, and we believe art is sacred. Does anyone know what 'sacred' means?"

There is a general silence among the children. "Secret?" suggests one.

"Sometimes sacred also means secret! But here, we have the art out, because we want everyone to see it, so it's not a secret," says the woman. "Sacred means..."

But I've moved into the next room before I hear the rest of her explanation.