(4/7) “Mickey once had dreams of being a fine artist. He’d moved...

(4/7) “Mickey once had dreams of being a fine artist. He’d moved to New York during his early thirties. He’d rented a hippie artist studio in The Village, and he found a bit of success. At one point he designed the set for a play called ‘Now The Revolution,’ which was featured on the cover of Life Magazine. Mickey was always so proud of that, but his paintings never attracted much interest. He said it was more about who you knew, and less about what you made. Eventually he got worn down by the scene and moved back to Austin. He painted occasionally over the next twenty years, but he was never very serious about it. And when Michael passed away, he lost any remaining ambition that he had left. He’d sleep late every morning. During the day he’d drink coffee, and smoke cigarettes, and visit with friends. He squeaked out a living by doing faux marble finishing. And he really had a talent for it. People would knock on his finishes to see if they were marble. But I always thought he was wasting his potential. He would spend his days getting bossed around by interior designers: ‘Do this,’ ‘Do that.’ Sometimes he wouldn’t even get paid. But he never seemed to care, as long as he had enough to pay the rent. I was the one who cared. I was always ambitious on his behalf. From the moment I first saw his portfolio in that Italian restaurant, I knew that he belonged in a museum. Or at least a gallery. And I wanted that for him. Not only because his art was beautiful, but because he saved my fucking life. I wanted to give something back. So I offered to represent him. I didn’t even want a commission. I convinced a local coffee shop to let us put on a show, and I gathered all the paintings I could find in his apartment. There wasn’t much, because Mickey had given away most of his work. But we did find a few. There was one piece with some guys playing water polo. And we included the folding screen with the pyramids. We only sold a single painting, for $300, which was enough to pay the rent. I can’t remember who bought it, but I remember the painting. It was a solitary palm tree.”