Finally he had sold a painting. He remembered the words of his mother, ” … don’t be an artist. Get a real job. Something you can support yourself with. You can play around with your paints after work, on weekends. It’s too hard of a life.”
For the first time in his life, he had not listened to her. He had painted and created and struggled and starved. For fifteen long years he had barely got by. He was never happier than when he was painting. It was the right choice; no factory job or stuffy career for him.
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