Abstract / Concrete

Today on the way home from preschool, my daughter asked me, "Mom, what is a abstract?" I knew where the word came from. We have a book about opposites, and one of the pairs it features is "abstract and concrete." I never thought she got that one, so it surprised me a bit that she came up with it out of the blue. It surprised me even more, however, that she used it as a noun.

After some thought, I explained that an abstract is a picture of something we don't have a name for. We don't know what to call it. If we see a picture of a cow, for example, we know what it is. It has a name. We can see it. Touch it. That's concrete. Concrete is the opposite of abstract.

I babbled on a bit about whether we can give a name to something or not, and whether we can see or touch it, all the while thinking it was going over her head. She's a smart kid, but she's not quite four.

She said to me, "I sometimes paint things at school that are concrete." At this point we'd pulled into the driveway at home, and I put the car in park. Some of her artwork was on the front seat next to me. I picked up a piece of construction paper on which she'd made some wildly abstract green brush strokes. I asked her, "Is this abstract or concrete?"

"Abstract!"

I picked up another masterpiece that was clearly (even to the most discerning observer) spring flowers. "And this? Is it abstract or concrete?" I asked her.

"That's concrete!" she said as though I were a complete idiot.

Maybe I am a complete idiot -- I had no idea she was so smart. Maybe my husband was right all along and, as he postulates, he gets "at least 50% credit" for all of her wonderfulness.