The gallery visits, the curator meetings, the networking with people in the art world. Nathaniel hated crowds, hated putting himself out there for a few extra dollars. He couldn't lower himself. It would compromise the dignity of being an artist, he said.
He couldn't afford a real agent. He just painted all day, staring at the pile of canvases growing taller and taller, waiting for me to bring him something to eat.
Looking after him meant I never held a steady job. The whole household survived on my thin dowry and whatever my family scraped together. Some days we ate; some days we didn't.
So I started trying to sell Nathaniel's paintings myself.
Little by little, I taught myself how to pitch artwork, how to get his pieces in front of people. Enthusiasts started calling his simple, unschooled style a kind of back-to-basics pastoral art, and slowly his name picked up traction in the market.
But the sneers and ridicule I swallowed along the way—I never told him about any of it.
He basked in the flowers and applause, soaked up the spotlight, and seeing him happy was enough to make me happy.
Back then I thought: as long as Nathaniel is happy, that's enough.