a stylish white house with arched windows, sparkling glass, fourentran-ces (one the size of an entrance into the Metropolitan Museum)and a veranda, located comfortably under the shade of an oak tree. Hermother passed away a few years back; Rene has been painting ever since.Her room is larger than any other. The windows stretch from the floor tothe ceiling, letting in enough sunlight to illuminate all the paintingson the marble-white walls. Old stains of red, yellow and blue paint showin the strands of pale pink carpet. Empty tubes and containers, whichonce held the paint now hanging on the walls, are carelessly strewn onthe wooden table in front of the window. Colored pencils, paint brushesand chalk complete the en-semble of work, inspiration and imaginationof Art, where she can walk across silent, peaceful illuminated rooms, orstop in front of one painting and think about how it came to exist, whocreated it and if it has a purpose. Then she starts to daydream.Wouldn't it be wonderful if she had created that? What if she had hadthe talent to paint something so effective it made people stop andthink? Wouldn't it be fascinating if she could climb a high mountain inthe clouds, lit by the sun and covered with snow just to see what it'slike up there? But she cannot, because she is too young or too weak andinexperienced or her father simply says no in a raving voice that cancause a thunderous avalanche on her mountain. One goal, and she cannoteven accomplish it.

So, if this goal has been disapproved by theconservative committee, then how does she choose another? What are thesecret ingredients to thinking up a dream that will take years toaccomplish but will leave no trace of regret? When asked about theirdreams, some people say they will let you know when they find out,others say they have a dream, they just do not know what it is yet, andof a key in a door came from the corridor; heavy footsteps followed,becoming louder as they neared. Finally, Rene's father walked in,wearing a black suit and carrying a leather briefcase.

"Doyou want to know the strangest thing?" he asked Rene, who sat onthe brown couch. "I just saw the mailman drop off something in ourmailbox. But after I went to park the car, I returned to find themailbox empty. Now, I know I was not hallucinating. So, would you liketo explain?"

"No, not really," shrugged Rene andreturned to her notebook.

"What do you mean 'not really'?Have you seen the mail?" her father lowered hiseyebrows.

"It's right there on the table. You just missedit."

Her father walked to the table and started to flipthrough the envelopes.

"Wait a minute," he said,"How did these get up here?"

"I broughtthem."

"Why? Is the TV broken? Are you bored? Sincewhen do you get the mail without my asking?"

"Sinceright now," replied Rene without enthusiasm, "Why are you sosurprised, anyway? It's not like I can't do anything. I am 18 years old,you know."

"Yes, I know. It's just that even though youcan, you never do anything - and I emphasize anything - around thishouse. You're always involved in that notebook of yours. So, what'sup?" Rene's father pulled up a chair, unbuttoned his jacket and satdown, staring at his daughter.

"Would you relax, Dad.Nothing is up. You've just had a long day at work, that's what itis," said Rene, forcing a smile.

"It's three in theafternoon. I got off early today. I usually come home at six and themail is still there, but today it wasn't. I am just curious to know why.Did you get a letter? Maybe a letter from that university we talkedabout?"

"Yeah, right, Dad. You talked; I listened. Thatwould be a more accurate way of putting it." Rene picked up theremote control and turned on the television.

She put aside hernotebook. On a rough white page was a sketch of Lon-don streets and thetitle "School of the Arts for the Gifted andwalls are silent, the paintings in Rene's room are silent, the fatherand daughter are silent. She wants to be an artist. He wants her to bean attorney. To her, art is inspiring, spiritual and alive. To him, lawis stable, prestigious and it pays. They are different souls livingunder one roof in search of happiness and a worthwhile life, but theyare moving in opposite directions. He sees his as a road to success,privilege and security. She sees hers as a way to the top of themountain.

"Why can't you just let me be?" she flaps herarms against her sides.

"Because you are my daughter. Ican't just agree to something I simply cannot approve of. You cannotmake a decent living painting portraits."

"Why not? Youdon't know that. And they are not all portraits, Dad."

"That isn't the point. My point is that art is not a career, it isa hobby."

Both were silent for a moment, looking intoeach other's eyes. The father pulled up a chair and sat down, wipingsweat from his forehead with his white, ironed sleeve. Rene crossed herarms across her chest, threw back her shoulders and leaned back on herleft foot.

"Well?" she inquired moving her chinforward. "Now what? Are you just going to sit there, or will you behappy for me and say 'I hope you have a great time in school, and I hopeyou packed enough paint to last a lifetime'?"

"I hopeyou know what you are doing, Rene, because when you finally realize whata mistake you've made, it will be too late, and I will not be there tohelp you," her father replied in a calm tone.

"No. Ihope you know what you are doing, Father, because when you finallyrealize what a mistake you have made, it will be too late, and I justwon't be there."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I knowwhat I am doing, because I know what's best for you."

"I think you have that confused. You want what's best for me, butthis home. The walls are silent, the father is silent, the paintings aregone.