Autobiography of One Painting

As you may have guessed, this is my humble entry into the contest hosted by @soulfuldreamer.

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Hello, I would never have dared to tell my story, because I was convinced all my life that I was an inanimate object and could not speak. But I remember. I remember in detail the whole story of my... life(?). Probably not life, but existence. And here is one brave bicycle who dared to tell his autobiography. So why shouldn't I do the same?

Many years ago, one summer evening in a small apartment in a small town, I was born from the pen of an artist. Those were completely different times than now, even the country was called differently. At that time, it was shameful to be an artist. Society glorified factory workers, albeit not voluntarily. That's why I was painted almost secretly.

My creator was a creative person. Like everyone else, he was forced to work at the factory, but in the evening he fully revealed his soul, pouring it out on canvas. He dreams of doing what he loves and that this business can feed him and his family. But these dreams were never destined to come true. He did not have the opportunity to receive an art education and was forced to rely only on his talent, on his knack for drawing.

My creator did not give up. Like his other paintings, one day he wanted to sell me to someone. But how to do it? It turned out that it is not so simple. It was impossible to sell your creations simply on the street, for that you could go to the police. There were no creative shops in the city. The only art gallery exhibited only the paintings of those artists who glorified the Communist Party.

One day the artist took me and we went together through people's apartments. He simply called or knocked on every door and offered the owners to buy me. I was very worried that my new owner would appear somewhere now. But, unfortunately, every time we heard a refusal. People who worked in factories had an income that did not allow them to spend money on such nonsense as works of art.

Days, weeks, months passed, but no one bought me. Hope has left me. And just at the moment of greatest despair, a young peasant saw me quite by chance. He bought me without hesitation. It turned out that he really liked my landscape.

Since then, I settled in a country house and hung in the most prominent place in the room where guests were received. I was very proud of myself. I witnessed the most important events in people's lives: the birth of two daughters, their growth, studying at school, getting married...

Over time, the principles of arranging the interior of human dwellings have changed. The lines became stricter, there were fewer and fewer decorative elements, and there was no more space for works of art on the walls. My time was up. However, the owner was sorry to throw me out.

Now I live in a garage. Yes, in the garage. I am hanging on the wall, as before, but no one is looking at me anymore. Will I have another chance?

Few people know, but I have a tattoo. It is located in the lower right corner. This is my creator's last name. He signed his paintings, hoping that one day it would mean something. This tattoo symbolizes the collapse of the hopes of one creative person. It's over for him...and it's over for me.