002
Drawing, of any kind, had begun to feel pointless which bother him a bit. His rep called diligently every day to check on the Franzen’s piece. “How is it going?” and “When will it be done?” Neither of which he had any idea how to answer.
“Fine.” “Soon.” seemed to placate them so he stuck to that line.
As an artist you learn that these feelings of hopelessness come and go; eventually you make peace with that fact. Yet, this time he knew it was different and as his brushes sat, dry in that old glass vase next to his paint-speckled sink, he began to feel more and more trapped by some that used to set him free.
