'39

'93

Don't you hear my call though you're many years away
Don't you hear me calling you
All your letters in the sand cannot heal me like your hand
For my life
Still ahead
Pity me

Ben had been painting since he was a child. It's always been his true passion. He started off as a small lad, making silly, pointless finger paints. Making lovely pictures for his mother to hang up in the window. As he got older, he found that he had a certain niche for it. He could draw from memory and make the most realistic sketches. He could take a paintbrush and create the most vivid horizons.

Ben had never expected to turn it into a career. He went to school for it, learning what he could from the great masters in his area. London was full of artist, but Ben knew he was better than most. He had an eye for art. He could make something out of nothing and knew that this truly was his calling.

He began painting by request. For all the wealthy folk in the area who wanted their own portrait hanging by the fireplace. Sometimes he would paint other things and sell them from time to time before he finally landed his own gallery. He expected only a handful of people to arrive, but he found that his name was passed around most often than not.

People liked his work and he found himself going around England, hosting art events where people knew his name and bought his work. He made good money from his art and he never longed for more.

If someone wanted him to create something that he did not want to create, he would rather tell them no than force himself to put in the effort. It was his true privilege there. He knew about the artist that were starving in the street, accepting any job they could in order to put food on the table.

He came from a very well off family and while some may believe he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Ben knew how hard he worked. Some people were not born with the talent he was. One would not question a doctor or lawyer, so why question the artist?

His mother had always been proud of his work. Never did she try to shove him in a different direction, to pick a proper profession. His happiness always came first, even if it meant he would be taking jobs that brought him far, far away.

He didn't accept at first. He was more or less content working in London, but as his name grew more and more, he found lots of people wanting to take him in so he could teach them the ways of the arts. He wasn't interested in the Lord and Ladies in his own country, but rather those coming from America.

He received a letter from a woman hoping he'd be willing to come across the sea and teach her son a thing or two and was willing to pay a heavy sum if he agreed. Ben had never been to America before, though he heard many things about it. It was a strange place to be, especially down South where the request had come from. He nearly said no but found himself intrigued by the idea of teaching someone how to paint.

He always believed that art was something that could be taught, but raw talent had to come from the inside. Whether or not the young lad could handle it was all up to him. He accepted the the offer and before he knew it, he was off to America.

The Italian-American family was warm and welcoming. The father was a doctor and put all his time and attention into his work. The mother was mostly a housewife. She was sweet and kind, with big hats that reminded him of his mother's own collection. When he met the son he found that he wasn't the little boy that he had envisioned, but rather a young man.