He likes to think of himself as an artist, but no one else does. He never really caught on with the public - the critics loved him, though mostly for his later work. He started life happily with a pencil in his pocket. He showed talent, and his teachers would say to him "Oh my, what fantastic work!" He felt driven to produce work after work - and with each he became more and more depressed. Each work seemed to slowly drain him of all happiness until finally he sat in his room for days on end before completing horrifyingly terrible (yet wonderfully artistic in a decidedly macabre way) sixteen foot tall paintings of spiders chasing pregnant women. In his blog, (which he started during his seventh painting) he described the one reason for his horrible and complete depression - the simple fact that he was poor, and Jack Edison was rich.