"There's a letter attached," she said, holding it out to him.
"Go ahead—open it, Grida," he said. "I think I know what it says."
Grida tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter.
In accordance with instructions from our board of directors, in special meeting, all the paintings hanging in our gallery have been re-evaluated. We regret to inform you that your paintings were judged to be no longer representative of traditional art. They are being returned to you herewith. We wish to express our appreciation....
She stopped reading.
"That's right," said Lao morosely. "They threw my paintings out."
"But, Lao, I didn't know you did this sort of thing," she said, bewildered.
"It's what I've always wanted to do," he repeated. "I never really liked psycho-art. I never believed it's real art. It isn't something the artist feels and thinks, it's something he tries to make other people feel and think.
"But psycho-art is the only kind of art I could make money at. I didn't have the courage to starve in an attic or make a living in some prosaic way and paint as a hobby. I turned my talent into cash and I always spent the cash as fast as I made it—maybe because I was ashamed that I was a coward."