Once upon a time, there was an artist. No one knew he was an artist. He rarely showed others in his interest in art. And when he did, he was told “he was doing it wrong.” He’d “never be good enough.” He should “focus his efforts elsewhere.”

He drove himself mad trying trying to find his place in the world. Doing every conceivable task he could think of outside of his true passion, art. Handiwork, teaching, research, sales, logistics – there was no objective task he couldn’t conquer. But there was no objective task that fulfilled him. He was left with an emptiness. He was left with an insatiable appetite for the subjective.

Finally, when he’d had enough of the world’s expectations of him, and his own self-imposed expectations, he caved. He began to live, breathe, drink and eat art. It was his true calling. Even if other’s didn’t see his potential. Even if he didn’t see his own potential. He did his art purely out of passion. Out of joy. Out of pain. Out of love. He did art, for him.

This, is his story. This, is Vincent Van Wendt.