[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Leave A Story , Leave A Comment - CliffsNotes Edition

*Happy Sunday, all* 
 
 -- - 
 
 All right, so sometimes life handed you lemons and laughed while you looked for sugar and water. 
 
 An artist he was n't; life had moved too fast for too long and by the time he had realized that painting was what he loved to do twenty five years had gone by and for most of it lacking in colour. Still, even if life *had* gotten in the way and time was often rarer than a tea-powered motorcycle just look over there! Whose painting is that on the display easel? Why - and with the deepest humility and complete lack of pride - his, of course! And whose else? 
 
 Actually, quite a few others. He let his gaze wander the room of the exhibition. He smiled to himself; all the usual rag-tag group of artists he'd grown to recognize in the art community over the last few months. He waved and nodded at those he saw around more often, and spent a few minutes chatting with a few he'd come to know as he made the rounds. He grinned at the patrons who had come to enjoy the displays, shook hands with the perceptive sophisticates who stopped to admire his work and in general enjoyed himself. After all, he was here at the gallery now as an *artisan*, and not simply an *observer. * 
 
 Against a far wall, beside a sculptor he'd seen here and there off and on was a new face, a young woman in her twenties standing beside a canvas displaying an abstract landscape. He wandered over to take a look. 
 
 His breath caught as he got a closer look the artwork; how the image caught the light, the translucent interplay of colour in the scene, the way the line curved *there*, the subtle change in thickness *here*. The raw talent embodied on the canvas was enough to wake jealousy and send it yawning and scratching its ass in search of coffee. 
 
 `` Hey,'' he said. `` It's nice to meet you. I'm James. I'm also one of the artists here.'' 
 `` I'm Li,'' she said. `` This your first showing too?'' 
 `` No, no,'' he shook his head. `` This is maybe my... twentieth?'' He grinned. `` Hard to keep track. Old age, you know. First time, huh?'' 
 `` Yeah. This is only my fifth painting, and my first exhibit. I'm normally a preschool teacher. Kitten wrangler, it feels like most of the time. But I always wanted to be a painter, you know?'' 
 `` I *might* know what you mean. Your painting is pretty damned good for a fifth canvas, you want to know what *I* think. Absolutely incredible.'' 
 `` Yeah? Hey, thanks! It's nice of you to say so. To be honest, I just kind of threw this together this morning. Half an hour was all I had before I had to leave to get to my class and I was in a bit of a rush.'' 
 Half an hour? He looked down at the gold `` sold'' sign on the bottom corner of the frame. `` What, sold already?'' he asked. 
 `` Yeah! If you can believe it, this is the third I've sold in the last three weeks. My first gallery sale, though. See that guy over there?'' She pointed her chin at a bearded man in a dark suit. `` He was nice enough to offer me five hundred dollars for the painting.'' She laughed. `` I would have sold it for five. Honestly, I did n't think it was that good, but am I gon na argue?'' 
 He shook his head. `` Not if you've any sense,'' he agreed. 
 `` I know!'' she laughed. `` I mean, my first sale in a gallery! It's *almost* like I'm a real artist now!'' 
 He arched one eyebrow. `` Oh? How so?'' 
 She pulled herself up proudly and said, `` Is n't that when you first become a real artist? When you make your first sale at an exhibition? I mean, how did you feel,'' she wondered, `` when you sold *your* first?'' 
 Forget selling *one*; he had yet to get even an offer on *any* of his works. `` I have to admit; it felt pretty darned good!'' he exclaimed. She laughed. 
 
 They chatted for another twenty minutes before he saw a couple talking over his painting. `` Excuse me,'' he pointed over at the couple, `` I have to run. Looks like they have some questions... perhaps even,'' he said conspiratorily, `` want it for their own.'' 
 `` No problem. It was nice talking to you,'' she said. `` Oh, hey,'' she added, as he turned to leave, `` I never did tell you; I like your painting, too. I think it's really very beautiful.'' 
 He smiled. `` Thanks. I'm pretty proud of it, myself.'' 
 
 -- - 
 
 The main doors were locked and he was leaning against the wall; the last artist left at the exhibition. The cleaners had begun their rounds and the gallery staff were arranging the exhibition's artwork for tomorrow's showing. Efficiently, they strung canvas after canvas along the wall and arranged the rest on their pedestals. He walked over to Li's canvas and examined it once more. Again, he was struck again by the sheer *talent* contained in the brushstrokes of the abstract. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair that had stuck to the front, and straightened the canvas. The staff had hung it slightly crooked, he'd noticed. 
 He walked back to his stand and looked at his painting. *Still one of my best*, he thought. Smiling softly, he carefully covered his painting in its protective cloth. Tucking it under his arm, he waved at the cleaning staff and left the gallery. 
 Walking to his car, he placed his painting carefully on the asphalt, and opened his trunk. He took out his paint box, closed the trunk and, recovering the canvas, returned to the back stairs to the dumpster squatting nearby. Carefully, he placed first the box and then the canvas in the dumpster. 
 
 Really, dreams are for the young. 
 
 Without a backward glance, he got into his car, rolled down his window, and drove off into the night.
