This story was certainly not Sui Xiong's original creation. He was an artist, not a philosopher; he could not write a story with such depth.
As for where the story had originally come from, naturally he had no idea either—he could grow drowsy just reading art history. If you made him read Zhuangzi, it would have been a miracle if he had not fallen asleep within ten minutes of picking up the book.
The reason he knew this story was because a teacher had taught it to him during his school years.
Back then, his grades had been rather poor. His chances of getting into a key high school were roughly equal to zero. His parents had been worried, and he himself had been deeply troubled. Then, a teacher who got along well with him advised him to make use of his love for art and his modest talent in it. He should start working hard on drawing now and take the art school entrance exams in the future.
"Is that really reliable? Can drawing truly support him in the future?" his parents had worried.
"Our country's prospects will only get better, and the economy will become more developed. The demand for art will also grow. As long as he can draw well, he shouldn't have to worry about making a living," the teacher had analyzed.
So Sui Xiong began learning to draw. But studying painting was not easy. After half a semester, he felt that he had made limited progress, yet had spent far more time on it. It was exhausting and seemed to bring little reward, until he began to question his life.
"Do I simply not have any talent for drawing?" he had asked.
"Most artists actually don't have much talent," the teacher who taught him painting