I'd never considered the sense of loss. My only thoughts were focused on being commercial, selling as many pictures as I could. That I would view each completed work as a child, imbued with my own DNA, never entered my head. Yes you want them to spread their wings and fly the nest but departure is painful, always.
To win, I have to learn how to lose.
So to compensate I search for traces. Those flecks of cerrulean blue on the arm of my glasses for instance, that was my Galician landscape; that blob of lemon yellow still lingering on my laptop mouse, the flamenco dancer portrait. Tucked up in a jiffy bag and jealously guarded are my preliminary sketches for a wonderful abstract I painted. I poured my soul into that and away she flew. The buyer could see what I could see, so that gave me comfort, but I have only finite resources. Each time it happens a little piece of me is eaten away, forever lost.
To live, I have to learn how to die.
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