Ayala’s POV
The progress in my work was intense.
It started with a message.
Then another. Then five.
They all had something sweet to say about it and all saw it from different point of views.
“I saw your work at Leona’s corner. “The downs of privilege “.”
“I’d love to buy the one you posted with the yellow streetlamp.”
“My wife cried when she saw ‘Safe Space.’ Said it made her remember me. I’d like to get it for her .”
They poured in like drops of unexpected rain, beautiful and enchanting commentaries. I hadn’t prepared for people to see me, much less want what I’d created. I thought I’d be ignored, or politely dismissed. I thought I’d be unlucky at it as I’ve had a streak of unlucky events.
The paintings began to sell, not slowly, but rather suddenly. The downs of privilege. Safe space. A collector bought “Rain on Roosevelt Street” after spotting it on my Instagram. A local café requested prints for their reading nook. Even a quiet man who never gave his name left a wad of cash in f
