Quick story about the painter David...

I met David, decked out in what appeared to be drab and disheveled survivalist garb, supine with his eyes open, upon a park bench in a verdant military museum park, open to the public in my small town.  We happened to lock glances, and he raised a hand, in a meek attempt to wave hello to the passerby I was.  I stopped, dolefully.  I sensed he had a story.  He sat up immediately; we spoke until the warm afternoon turned into starlight overhead. I was enthralled. He told me his story tearfully; how he ended-up homeless, and yet an artist whose work had been stored in his parents' basement.  We became friends that day.  We arranged a day when I can meet him there again, because he invited me to his parents' home to see his portfolio: canvass-after-canvass of abstract art he said he had.  A week later, David and I went to his parents' home in my car.  Nice people his parents; hurt and disappointed by him, because it appeared David's homelessness was a choice not a consequence, but he could come home for a meal, change of clothes and some money, but he couldn't stay there; not even overnight.  Tough love, I gathered.  David led me down to his parents' basement with his parents in tow; still proud of him.  In a dusky corner, between stored canned foods and old furniture, I witnessed---after lifting the tarps--- that which should've been nailed upon someone's wall, canvas after canvas of abstract art.  His paintings in the hundreds.  I begged David and his parents to let me show the world his works; I said, "My company was made to promote artists like David. Let me show his work to the world." Begrudgingly, David obliged me, but he believes that his work isn't beautiful; not worthwhile.  

Of course, I disagree.