![]() ![]() I didn’t want him to ask me about the huge folder I held. ![]() I stood and tucked the book under my arm. After years of art teachers, my parents, my grandpa telling me I had talent far beyond my years, this was hard to hear. ![]() You are exactly where you should be in your progression as an artist. You haven’t experienced enough in life to add that depth to a painting. They’re missing a layer, and that’s understandable. I want to feel something when I look at your paintings. “They’re technically good, but they look like you copied a picture. “What do you mean? What are my paintings missing?” “I have every reason to believe that they will be. The air went out of my lungs so fast it felt like someone had punched me in the gut. “But what if I sell a few of my allowed paintings? That would help you, right?” We’re a museum, not a gallery, so I don’t get to do this just anytime I feel like it.” This is my one and only fundraiser for the year. “We have limited space and I need every sale I can get to keep this place going. Are you really going to hold me back because I’m not eighteen yet?” But why? I’ve seen the art you’ve had in here for amateur exhibits. ![]() “You’ll be the right age next summer.” He patted the closed folder. “Abby, you will be perfect for the show when you meet the age requirement. After what felt like forever, he closed the cover and looked up at me. I’d blown up most of the pictures to at least ten by twenty. He began slowly flipping through the folder. I sunk into the chair opposite him in relief. “You’ve been doing your homework, I see.” ![]()
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