Prose

Laurene

She wasn’t formally trained as an artist. She wasn’t trained as anything and it never bothered her a bit. She felt deeply. She was too sensitive, according to many ex-boyfriends, her parents and more than a few old coworkers. But this wasn’t a flaw, as they claimed, it was her biggest strength. It took her ten or twelve rough years to realize that truth, but seeing all of her compositions mounted triumphantly in front of her only reaffirmed her belief in herself.

It wouldn’t matter if all of her work sold or only one-it was good because it was part of her. An honest expression captured forever in a piece of art that had an intrinsic value to it if for no other reason than it provided an escape for her. It was a release valve for all of the emotions and anxieties she couldn’t really process any other way. It was saving her life and she could see that now and was grateful she had the outlet.

She stood in the small gallery snacking on the appetizers, drinking the cheap wine and wondered what she would paint next. She had no idea and it thrilled her.