As I stood, admiring a tree, someone behind me said, “That’s a eucalyptus tree…from Australia.” “Oh yeah? I don’t know,” I replied and turned to look at who was talking to me: a kid, a teenager, a year before college. “It’s definitely a eucalyptus,” said the know-it-all.

I was a guest in his affluent, beachside community, there showing my friends, who continued on walking without me, a less-crowded coastal overlook. They were a ways down talking to each other in their native language, French.

The teenager headed towards them and didn’t hesitate before interrupting: “What language are you speaking?” “French,” they answered and continued where they had left off. He fired back, “I don’t believe you.” They didn’t understand this response.

He double-downed, “I don’t believe you’re speaking French.” I knew my friends didn’t care to explain themselves, so I hustled over and engaged with the kid: “Hey, they’re speaking French. They aren’t lying to you.”

“Well, I don’t like French people, so I don’t believe them.” Now I was bothered: “Listen, we came here to enjoy the view and you started talking to us. I thought it was cool you engaged with me, a stranger, but it’s not cool to not believe my friends when they’re telling you the truth.”

“Because I don’t believe them,” he repeated. “Okay, well, that’s your problem then.” I kept on with him. “You could have taken this time to learn something about them, their culture, or their country…”

“French people are rude. I don’t like French people,” he interrupted me. Now I was bummed; I hated to hear this from a young person. I should have ignored him and carried on with my friends, but I felt it mattered to say something:

“Not all French people are the same. Not all Chinese people are the same. Not all Americans are the same. You’re from LA, privileged to be born in a community overlooking the ocean. Do you think you’re the same as someone your age born on a ranch in Oklahoma? You’re not even the same as someone your age born on the other side of the airport. No two people are the same. Talk to people, listen to them, learn from them. Thanks for teaching me about the eucalyptus tree. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

A year later, I was in a museum gift shop and spotted a book high on the shelf: Ken Price Drawings. The cover was a red car driving through a fence and off a cliff in the direction of the ocean and world below. It was the exact place I took my friends and the artist wonderfully captured the mood of a bummer blip in time at a picture perfect place.

Ken Price was a sculptor who’d draw at night while listening to jazz music. His work was inspired by what he saw in nature, especially by the rocks and wormholes seen when surfing at Rincon. World famous architect Frank Gehry said he liked to imagine what Ken Price’s sculptures looked like from the inside. The first time I saw one in person, I was in the Harwood Museum of Art in Taos, New Mexico. I drove a few hours out of my way to see works by Agnes Martin and Ken Price. As I stood alone in the room, in front of the sculpture, I was reminded of all the above: my French friends, the Pacific Palisades, the pompous kid, Ken Price’s drawings and Frank Gehry’s quote. Then someone behind me said: “That’s a Ken Price…” “Oh yeah, I know. From LA,” I cut them off with a smile. Not all know-it-alls are the same, but the museum was closing soon and I didn’t have time to talk with that stranger. —Phillip Dillon

HERE is a ken price quote:

“Nothing I can say is going to improve how it looks…As far as I am concerned, the explaining artist puts himself or herself in front of the work for the purpose of destroying the mystery of how it came into being…I think we need to have faith that the art experience can take place between the viewer and the work itself.”