My name, which is French, is Rolandas. During my first drawing class, I was six at the time, the teacher taught us the drawing alphabet and for homework we were tasked to draw a house. I got the highest grade for my homework because the house was like a Michelangelo’s painting and my drawing was shown as an example to the whole class. The teacher said that I have an extraordinary talent and will be a famous painter in the future. Everyone envied me, and I was extremely happy. I was happy and mentally thanked my mom for doing my homework for me. My mom was young, only twenty-six years old, and always ready to help me. That same day, at evening, the teacher met my mom in the doorway of the grocery store and told her: “Your son had drawn a house in such a way that my jaw dropped in amazement; your son is the new Mozart of drawing! You must be happy.” My mom wanted to confess, but the teacher suddenly left. The other day I unexpectedly saw my mom at school - she was talking to our teacher. When I got home, I asked my mom what she had talked about with the teacher. My mom answered that the teacher said that I had an extraordinary talent for drawing. “But you, mom, drew it for me!” I laughed. “No, my dear son, you drew that house yourself. You just don't remember,” my mom told me in a very serious voice. I thought the old teacher scared my young mom and she was talking nonsense. (Much later I was told that they decided to try make me a painter) "A lie has short legs," says one proverb. With the help of lie, my mom and I bonded over long evenings of drawing. I made incredible progress and soon I was drawing and painting not just one house, but decent looking cities as well. Then I stopped. I stopped for a long time. Almost half a century. I only recently remembered that I could paint. And I paint. I like to paint. Painting is my renaissance. Dears, be teachers and grade my each new homework.