I sat across from him at a coffee shop that overlooked the main route leading to the interstate. I can safely say that my mentor looked much older than he actually was. The frumpiness of his sports jacket, the ever-increasing whiteness of his hair, and his missing two front teeth didn’t tell the tale of fallen aristocracy, the watery intensity of his blue eyes and Scandinavian-white skin, however, did.He had been broken a thousand times over – his old life that eventually led to the promise of his re-birth – but even this optimistic view seemed to have no bearing on his final days. He spent most of his mornings, and sometimes his nights, with his paintings. A hustle here and a hustle there had been the mainstay of his existence. He was the type of painter who would find success only after
