I have always wanted to be an artist. However, as I got older, it became increasingly difficult to figure out how to make that dream a reality.
At 23, I was still living in a small flat in the middle of the city. The floor of my room was always cluttered with paint containers, brushes, and incomplete canvases. I worked two jobs: one half as an art instructor for children at a community centre and the other half as a barista at a nearby café. I made just enough from both jobs to stay afloat.
Every morning before work, I painted. I also painted every evening after working long shifts at the café.
One faithful evening, I received an unexpected call from a gallery owner. According to her, she had seen some of my pieces displayed at a small community art fair sometime ago. She reached out and gave me the opportunity to showcase my paintings in an upcoming show at her gallery.
I have always imagined myself as a painter of dreams, someone whose art could touch people in ways words never could. And so, I busied myself over the next few days preparing for the exhibition.
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