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At one point in my life I found myself in a community full of people who called themselves artists and art experts. What the heck, I thought, if I was here why not to become an artist too. Although I saw those people on the streets, at galleries, I read about them in the papers, I didn't exactly know what to do to become one of them. Where shall I start? Do I need this or that? Shall I behave like them? Shall I dress like them? A lot of questions whirled in my mind.
Visiting galleries, looking at the pictures of their art in the papers, I thought that I could do what they had been doing. There is a saying in my country that if one doesn't take a risk, one doesn't go to prison and I decided to take the bull by its horns.
One day, just to kill the time, I pulled out a photograph of my mother from the photo album and looking at it closely I made up my mind; I am going to draw a portrait of her. The only problem was that I wasn't sure what should I use to do it. At the art supply store where I went next day to look for an answer to my question the brushes and paints were very expensive. I would need a canvas too and that wasn't cheap either. So I decided to purchase a pencil and some kind of paper. The shop assistant was very helpful explaining to me that I would need a few kinds of pencils, hard and soft, and a few sheets of paper in case if I make a mistake and I would have to start all over again. At the end it appeared that the shopping spree didn't thin my wallet. I bought two pencils, an eraser, sharpener and a sketch book.
A few days later, proud of what I had achieved, I went back to the same store to show to the shop assistant what I had come up with.
"Wow!" he exclaimed looking at my pencil drawing. "You did this? Guys, come and look at this drawing!" he called his colleagues. "He did this!" he pointed in my direction.
They were looking at my drawing and then at me. I was looking at them and I didn't know what to say. Was I so good or they were trying to be polite? I asked myself.
"This is good!" the shop assistant dispelled my doubts. "You should do more of this kind of portraits. You have talent, man!"
Wow, this time I exclaimed to myself, maybe I am an artist. If they liked what I had done, other people would like it too, I thought.
"Go to some of the galleries. They would love it and there are quite a few of them out here," suggested the shop assistant.
"He can't go with one piece," said his colleague.
"So do more and then go," said the first one.
"Thank you very much for your opinion and advice. I will try to...”
"Don't try! Do it! And good luck!" they shook my hand good bye.
Leaving the store I rubbed my hands with pleasure and I already saw big titles in the local papers: "The star was born!" "A new face from nowhere!" "The town is talking!”...
On the very next day, it was Sunday, I took my camera and went to town hunting for potential victims of my "talent". In order to make my reason to stop people and ask them to pose for the picture believable I came up with something that sounded good to me: "Excuse me! May I take a picture of you? I would like to draw pencil portraits of local people and have a show at local galleries."
Well, it sounded good to me, but it didn't work. People were giving me the look as if they wanted to say: "Don't bother us! Don't you have anything better to do?"
Sure that I had other things to do but I wanted to become an artist and I was going to pursue my dream no matter what. I only had to find a better reason to convince people that I am not a sick man looking for trouble. And suddenly it struck me.
At the nearest corner I noticed a police car and a policeman standing in front of it. I approached him with a look on my face as if I had got lost and I was looking for direction.
"Excuse me! Maybe it will sound strange to you, but may I take a picture of you? I'd like to draw portraits of local people from whom I learned English. We didn't talk yet but it might happen that you would stop me for traffic violation and then I would learn not only a lesson but I would also pick up some new English words."
He didn't interrupt me but when I was pouring out my explanation, his face brightened with a wide smile. After I had finished, he put his hat on his head and said:
"Go ahead! Shoot!"
"Thank you very much!" I was in seventh heaven. "You are the first person who doesn't look at me as if I was a pervert of some kind." Thank you," I shook his hand.
"No problem," he said. "Good luck!"
The next pictures were easy to take. The teller from the bank, the barber, pharmacist, grocery clerk... everybody was very cooperative and I promised them that sooner or later they would be the stars of my show. It took several weeks for me to finish all the portraits and when I was ready I went back to town to look for galleries that might be interested in showing my "art".
"We don't look at new artists," said the man at the desk at the first gallery I had entered.
"Would you be so kind to look at what I have here and at least tell me what you think about this, please?" I knew that I was pushy but at the same time I had nothing to loose.
"We are interested only in local artists."
"I am local," I said a little surprised that he thought I was from the moon?
"Have you shown your work somewhere else?"
"No, I am new here."
"I am sorry, we show only established artists," he found and excuse and I was angry with myself that I had told him about being new.
The next few galleries had the same answer for me: "We are not interested. Thank you!" Leaving each of them I thought about artists whose work was already displayed on the walls of those galleries. How did they do it? What was the proper way of introducing the artwork to the owners of galleries? How does the gallery know which work is good or bad without even looking at it? How much time does it take to look at a few pencil drawings?
If they don't want me, I thought, I don't need them. After all, how many people go to the gallery? A crowd at the opening enjoying free snacks and cheap wine and after that a month of tension in the air; the pictures on the walls look at each other wondering whether anybody is going to buy me or not. I needed a place to show my artwork where people would see it everyday and after a half an hour or so of trying to make up my mind I entered the bank where I was keeping my million dollars and I went straight to the manager.
"Excuse me sir, could you be so kind and help me to introduce my artwork to the world?"
I saw him taking a deep breath and opening his mouth, but I was faster.
"I am learning English and I'd like to pay a tribute to all the people who have been helping me in this matter. I have drawn pencil portraits of a few of them and I am looking for the place to display them and that way to show my appreciation."
"Sit down," he said pointing to the chair in front of his desk, "and let's look at what you have here."
At this point I wasn't in seventh heaven. It was already fourteenth, or even higher. But from the joy that someone was going to look at my work without saying "Sorry, I'm not interested," I have forgotten to count heavens.
"Wow!" he said after he had looked at the first drawing. "This is good, too. Wonderful! Marvelous," he was thumbing through my portfolio. "We put them here on the board in front of the tellers so everybody waiting in the line will be able to look at your work. Thank you for coming and showing your work to me. When would you like to do it?" he asked.
"Immediately, if you don't mind," I said.
"Sure," he agreed. "Whenever you’re ready."
It wasn't enough heaven for me.
It is said that publicity is a mainspring of a trade and I decided to check it out whether it would work for me. After all, all the companies that want to sell their products keep bombarding people with their ads until someone gets tired of them and reach for the wallet. I didn't want money. All I wanted was recognition.
A few days later I called the publisher of the local paper explaining to him what I had done.
"Sure," he said. "I would be glad to write about it. One of our reporters will meet you at the bank tomorrow at two PM."
In Thursday's edition of the paper, in the art section, there was a picture of one of my drawings and an article about my work. I was very proud of myself but what I didn't understand was the way they made up the story about how I began my adventure with a pencil and a piece of paper. According to them, during a telephone conversation with my mother I took a pencil and started to draw a portrait of her. Wasn't I clever, huh? Sure, I have a picture of my mother in my mind all the time, but I have to admit, I am not so good at pouring out my mind on a piece of paper. But maybe it had to be written that way. Some people like to read phony stories. Maybe they should add something about my difficult childhood or problems in my adult life. After all almost all the famous become famous because they were either abused when they were little or had drinking or drug addictions when they grew up.
So for now, before somebody hits me with something or I get drunk and then become famous, I have opened my own gallery and I don't need to listen to people saying "Sorry, we are not interested" any more. If someone wants to look at my artwork it is just a click away. I don't belong to any gallery and although I am a "local artist" I don't need to show locally.
I belong to the whole world.
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