When my father took the bet and became a fulltime artist, my brother and I were teenagers.  From the window of our comfortable luxury car he pointed towards a broken down truck; I remember him saying, "Well kids, if I do this, that’s the car we’ll be driving." Rather naïvely my brother and I chanted, "We don’t care dad—follow your dreams," and other mindless prat one says when they don’t know any better. The truth is, this world devours dreamers and breakdowns don’t end with our cars—uncertainty bleeds into every aspect of life. The road of an artist is wild and rough; even worse, when that road begins to narrow and show signs of an ending, that initial excitement of the unknown turns to fear. My father faces a future without the comforts of stability; he doesn’t always bare this burden well. It doesn’t help that there is a roar of voices ready "to tell him so" and accuse him of choosing his troubles—but my dad didn’t choose poverty, not really. He acknowledged the possibility of being broke, but he thought he could out craft disaster—he embraced the uncertainty of the road before him with every intention of making his way as an artist. It isn’t his fault that while the world appreciates art, it rarely values it.