Art a Dysfunction?

Frida Kahlo and Thomas Edison sat down at a table at the local restaurant, awaiting the waitress.

EDISON: How fun of you to swing by, but I have got to be frank. Whilst your paintings move me, I struggle to see; what's it for?

KAHLO: The purpose of art is art.

EDISON: What silliness! It's a means to an end—not an end in itself. Entertainment! and so on, and so forth.

KAHLO: Tell me, what's this "end?" Is capturing states of consciousness an end? Each artwork is another swing at switching our stagnant brain's gear. It is telepathy—the sharing of consciousness.

EDISON: What is it with you artists and pseudoscientific terms? Telepathy, ha! You sound like my worker Tesla.

KAHLO: Upon consuming another state of mind, some part of our own has to die—has it not?

EDISON: I reckon, in some way it has. In order to make space for it, that is. Nonetheless, a painting will never help me get across the country as a locomotive will. It is a dysfunctional form of innovation.

KAHLO: But you said it yourself! The paintings moved you. Is this dysfunctional? I consider it the ultimate mover.

WAITRESS: Hello—would you like to order something to drink? Appetizer, perhaps?

EDISON: Yes, I wou-

KAHLO: A glass of red wine, thank you. But I doubt this gentleman would like anything. It won't get him across the country after all!