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She wanted to paint. So I handed her a piece of watercolor paper that had one of my older paintings on the back. She looked at it and said, "that's good". I said, "no, it isn't". She said, "yes, it is". I said, "no, it isn't". She saw the value, I didn't.

Then I questioned my own assessment of that piece. Why didn't I like it? Really I had no answer. Why did she like it? I had no answer to that either. But I did have some questions.

When do I start to value a painting that I have done? Is it when another person says they like it? Is it when someone is willing to pay money for it? Could I see value in it when no one else could?

Painting seems to connect with something from inside myself. I connect to color, shapes, fantasies, and thoughts beyond my own usual routine ones. I wander around in the paint and canvas or paper and find myself following a muse that I don't seem to know very well. And I have no idea usually where it will take me. It feels like following a mysterious path into some deep dark woods where unknown adventures lie. Herein lies the value. The escape, the wandering, the playfulness that take me beyond where I started that day.

I don't need someone else to like my paintings. I like them or dislike them all on my own. Same can be said about my person. Whether someone sees value in me or not, I choose to value myself and enjoy whatever is there for me to appreciate.

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