She collected white canvases in every size. So many that the art supply shop gave her an employee discount. They just added up her devil-may-care topknot, fringed bag overflowing with tubes of paint and brushes, colorful sundress slipping from her shoulders, and terrifyingly high wooden wedges, and concluded that she was most definitely an artist.
It must have been the terrifying wooden wedges. Artists like living on the edge, a fact that terrifies the rest of us.
Discounts aside, they were wrong. She wasn't an artist. Not at all. Because that would be impractical, you know. It would be impossible to live in the city in the manner she thought she most enjoyed living...on an artist's unlivable income, you see.
So she sold things and probably a little of herself, too, while she dreamed of someday not selling anything at all. In between, she dreamed up a thousand paintings while she actually worked on none at all. It would have been tragic if not for her dreams.
So she sold things and probably a little of herself, too, while she dreamed of someday not selling anything at all. In between, she dreamed up a thousand paintings while she actually worked on none at all. It would have been tragic if not for her dreams.
Those canvases stayed white, with just a light dust powdering their upper edges, lined up carefully just like her tint-coded tubes of acrylic in her studio. Studio. She never called it her office. Her dream just couldn't accept that reality. Studio, it was.
In her studio is where she sat, then, nodding along with everyone else on the conference call, letting her mind wander for just a second. Just one more dream about what she'd paint first. So so so many ideas...what to paint first?
She'd begin, she thought bravely, with her truth.
