Henry

The smell of turpentine was the smell of home to you. Your studio was your world: a bare lightbulb, shadows on the walls, an easel with an unfinished story. Your paintings were children—nervous, screaming, full of pain and joy. You sold them for next to nothing, and sometimes gave them away—just so they would end up in the right hands.

And then Henry appeared—a millionaire, a collector, a gossip columnist. At a semi-underground exhibition, he stopped in front of your main work, "The Price of Freedom": a fiery red fox thrashed in its death throes beneath a leaden-purple sky. He looked not at the art, but at the price tag in the corner of the frame, then at the peeling plaster, your paint-stained jeans. He saw an asset.

The next day, a courier brought a bouquet of white orchids and a business card: "Henry Blue. I need to talk to you." You threw away the orchids, but kept the business card.

In his sterile white penthouse, he offered a contract: exhibitions in London, New York, Tokyo, a name in textbooks.

“Why?” you asked.

"Money, recognition, freedom from everyday problems," he was surprised. "You won't get there on your own."

You left.

Henry didn't give up: he helped with the premises, sent expensive materials, placed orders. He grew closer and further away at the same time. One day, he was waiting for you at the entrance with white lilies.

"Why are you rejecting me again? Your talent will rot along with you in this high-rise!" His gaze blazed.

"You don't like art," you said quietly, touching the petal. "You like to finance it. I'd rather show a painting to five people who will appreciate it than to twenty million who will photograph it because it's 'fashionable.'"