This untitled print was made by Joan Miró, and it's like he's letting us peek into his playful mind. The blacks are thick and grainy, and they hold these weird, ambiguous forms, like a language only Miró speaks. The blobs of red, blue, and yellow aren't neat; they bleed a little, reminding you that art isn't about perfection but about process, about the hand making a mark. Look at that shape like a head with two dark eyes staring out at you, balanced precariously on stick legs. And then above, the primary colours seem to be having a conversation, jumping off from the black. The whole thing dances between serious and silly, which is a tricky thing to do. It reminds me a little of Paul Klee's childlike forms. Miró isn't telling you what to see; he's inviting you to play.