The Artist And The Curator

I always thought that I had been orchestrating a spectacle. In a way I was, but much to my dismay, what I had been painfully orchestrating over this past two months had been more of a debacle. I was like an aspiring artist. Spending countless hours behind the canvas, with an array of brushes and paints, scheming and executing what I thought would be a grandiose masterpiece. Of course, I toiled and sacrificed alot of other things that I would never sacrifice under normal circumstances. I had invested alot of tangible as well as intangible efforts into my painting. I hoped that this would be the painting that would finally be my breakthrough. All I needed to do was to fininsh it and display it where it would be appreciated. But when that day finally came, I realised that what I had expected was not to be. Instead of rave reviews, I recieved the trophy for the most unartistic painting. Obviously, I was enraged at this fact. How could something so well thought of be treated like that? I had spent hours on end, with not much support from anybody to finish this peice of art and now all they told me was my painting was like the artwork of a preschooler.
But the biggest of the disasters was not how well the painting was recieved, but how I had handled the criticism. Instead of going back to the drawing board to see where it went wrong, I simply raised the white flag with pride. I kept thinking that maybe, being an artist is not my forte. Maybe my cup of tea lay elsewhere. Afterall, through experimentation, I found out that I was good at being a curator. So maybe I should apply to the Louvre instead. And I did just that. I threw my brushes out the window, packed up my canvas and walked to the Louvre with my resume hanging from my feet. Many were applauding my decision. Some were just shocked. Others just wondered.
How did an artist so passionate about making art switch paths and decided to watch over art instead?
While walking to the Louvre, I met up with a friend. One who had been giving me the knowledge in making art. He saw my resume hanging from my feet and asked me what I was about to do. I told my friend. I told everything. Right from the begining to the end. After hearing of this, my friend grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to an empty room with only a table and a chair as occupants. My friend sat me down and took out the piece of art which I had once considered my masterpiece. My friend unfolded it and studied it with careful precision. After a short period of time, my friend paused and looked me real hard in the eye. My friend took a deep breath, layed down the glasses and told me that I was not a lousy artist. I had just used to wrong type of paint on the wrong type of canvas. This resulted in very lousy creases. My friend the continued to point out my mistakes with much ease. And now I realise how stupid I was for raising the white flag so easily. It was there all along. I just couldn't see it. My arrogance had blinded me. Now, I work on a new masterpiece. Maybe next time I do better. Maybe next time the same judges who threw me out the window would place me among the greats. I will never know. Only time will tell me. But for now, all I can do is pick up the pieces and learn from my mistakes. I would not have thought this way if it weren't for my friend.