The Artist

The Artist

Growing up relatively poor I knew the price of things was very important. Not that I knew we were poor. Our parents raised us, all five, thinking we were just like everyone else, well except the obviously wealthy families in our town. I honestly didn’t know we were poor until I was well into my teens and by then I had my own personality so I adjusted to it pretty well. We never did without what we needed, and we sometimes even got fun things, just because.

Still the price was an important starting place when shopping, and I continued to follow the same rules my parents followed. The item had to be worth what I paid for it, or I would not buy it. “How much does it cost?” was the first question then, and it’s my first question still, even now, into my mid-seventies. Even though I am retired and have plenty of money now, that I could waste, if I felt the desire. I rarely do. The first thing I look at, whatever I’m shopping for, is the price. Old habits die hard.

But as I stood there looking at the painting of the cat, I felt that pull. Two hundred dollars for a small painting of a cat? But then, it looked just like my cat! And, it was also beautiful, but… two hundred dollars?!

As I stood there, suddenly I heard a conversation nearby. The artist was talking to a friend: “I don’t know if I can keep this up, I had to move back in with my parents. Maybe I’m not really meant to be an artist…”

I bought it. This person, this artist, was definitely meant to be an artist, and I definitely wanted to help him get the chance to prove it.