Intro to my Art Book

When we go to the museum we think there are only 100 paintings in the world and a painting is by nature real and celebrated. But paintings are as numerous as raindrops. They are a tide crushing the resources of the world. They are born from the creative wombs of billions mostly never framed and rarely viewed and when they become things encased into wood or glass they pour like molecules of water into the narrowing space of dwindling buildings.We can't have anymore paintings. Our houses are full. We are begged out. We can find no one to drag them away.

When did I learn to paint? Was it the time I was so full of failure that I poured my confession on hapless Milicent until her father asked me to leave? Was it when
I returned in the middle of the night dropping my very best door painting on her porch?