Paint and an Artist

I wrote the following in memory of John.  The Critique It was quite possibly the worst day ever; the kind of day when your authentic self has been pounded into a pulp and then smeared across the floor. I have had some brutal art critiques, but none of those compared to the one that I found myself in on this particular Thursday afternoon. I stood there, with tears coursing down my cheeks as I endured the criticism.   Earlier that afternoon I had stood in the gallery, marveling at the artwork that hung on the walls. My artwork—I still couldn’t believe that I had completed 20 pieces of work in 2 months. Which is not something I would encourage any future art student to do—procrastination is not a wise way to view school projects. And while I had finished all 20 pieces—only a handful of them were up to my standards.   I knew I was in for a scolding; I just wasn’t prepared for the disappointment. John C. Williams was a legend at the School of Visual Art a

Am I worth it? Am I worth the risk? Perhaps I'm not. But if I'm not, what is the reason for my lack of worth? There is never a good reason. They just walk away. Leaving me with questions in my heart. Sometimes it is for the best. They never truly treasured me, as I treasured them.  But today the question still lingers. Am I worth it? My friends tell me that I am. Of course you are worth it! They exclaim. The rain is just making you melancholy,  Stop asking that question. Perhaps, but my question still lingers. The child inside wants to understand. She holds a crumpled piece of paper close to her heart. Earnestly she ask him, Am I worth the risk? No. Comes the answer. You are not worth the risk. No. Again. The child inside cringes. A tear trickles down her cheek. I am not worth it to you? No.  The crumpled paper drops to the floor. I do not want to love again, The little girl cries. Why, why was I not worth it? [silence]