I admire artists; they are among the few remaining people who see work as a calling, not just a way to pay the electric bill. Artists are always the first people to sacrifice themselves to turn a city around and the first people to get kicked out when the property’s value goes up (often because of them.)

Walking down the artist’s block in bellows Falls, I heard a saw whining in this beautiful and funky old former firehouse, now a haven for struggling artists (really, is there any other kind?).

I’m married to an artist, and I am impressed by her drive and determination to live h er own life, not somebody else’s idea of a life. The artist sawing wood for his sculpture moved to Bellows Falls a while ago. He says he loves it dearly; he says it’s a wonderful place to live, but not necessary to sell art.

Like Maria, making money doesn’t drive his life.

Doing what he loves drives his life. He could easily be homeless in a month or working in a Dunkin’Donuts to pay the rent.

His wood pieces – all over the wall – are classy and creative. He knows that doesn’t really matter. Real artists, like real writers, never quit. And are entirely expendable.