The Locksmith of Narcissus

“There is no key to art. It is locked in a room, or a garden, which ordinary people aren’t allowed to enter. All they can do is to peep through the keyhole if they are lucky. Artists are like locksmiths, carefully playing with... pins and sticks and all those tools they have until the door clicks and sighs and all the beauty spreads itself before them...”
“Shut up, Basil, will you?” Wotton drank up his glass and was about to leave. “Don’t you see that your work of art here,” he gestured towards Dorian, “needs his locksmith, too?”