Chapter 2: The Canvas of Rejection
Chapter 2: The Canvas of Rejection
Intro:
As Oliver grew older, his talent blossomed—but so did the obstacles. In a world where art was often overlooked, he had to prove that his dream deserved to be real.
Story:
By the time Oliver was fifteen, his attic walls were covered in artwork. He had moved from crayons and pastels to watercolors, acrylics, and oils. His paintings became more complex—galaxies entwined with memories, portraits bathed in starlight, Edinburgh itself imagined as a city floating in the cosmos.
But the real world had little space for dreams.
When he told his career counselor he wanted to apply to the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland’s fine arts program, the woman smiled politely and handed him a pamphlet on engineering apprenticeships.
“You need something more practical, Oliver,” she said. “You’re bright—you could be anything.”
“But I already am something,” he replied. “I’m an artist.”
His mother supported him fiercely. She worked double shifts to save up for an art camp in Glasgow that summer. There, Oliver met other teenagers like him—young creators who also heard the music of color and light. For the first time, he didn’t feel alone.
One of the instructors, a soft-spoken painter named Mr. Ramsay, noticed Oliver’s sketchbook.
“Who taught you to see like this?” he asked.
“No one,” Oliver shrugged. “I just paint what I feel.”
Mr. Ramsay nodded. “Then never stop feeling.”
But dreams are not immune to doubt.
When Oliver submitted his portfolio to five art academies, he was rejected by four. The letters arrived in stiff envelopes with cold, printed lines: “We regret to inform you…”
The fifth school—a local community college—offered him a small scholarship, but his classmates mocked the idea. “You’ll be painting coffee cups for tourists,” one said.
That night, Oliver sat in his attic, the same space that once gave him wings, and stared at a blank canvas. For the first time in years, he felt unsure.
His mother found him there, quiet and distant.
“I’ve failed,” he whispered.
She sat beside him. “You’ve only failed if you stop trying. You’re not painting for schools, Oliver. You’re painting for the stars. Remember?”
He looked up at her. “Do you still believe in me?”
“Always.”
Outro:
With renewed determination, Oliver picked up his brush and filled the blank canvas with the brightest star he could imagine. It wasn’t about acceptance anymore. It was about expression—and that was something no letter could take away.