When the streets were barren, when the lights were dimming, when the ancient clock tower threatened to strike six, the old man’s words often came back to hound him; ‘These paintings won’t put food on your table.’
The old man was wrong. Everyone with a buck in the pocket wanted to be an art aficionado, and the replicas sold really well.
The old man was right too. A hungry belly made him put down his brushes. The colourful prints splashed behind him were for the passersby; he himself looked down at the grey cobble.