Dear Diary,

The cold is terrible, it seems as if it is creeping into my bones. I'm sitting here wrapped in two blankets because I feel like I'm going to freeze to death.

I called galleries and museums first thing this morning (right after renting an apartment). I have never experienced such rude people! They barely let me finish and hung up. One even insulted me savagely.

But I don't give up that easily! Although a storm was raging outside the window, I was not prepared to be brushed off on the phone again, like an annoying child.

Armed with a rain jacket and rubber boots, I walked the two streets to the renowned gallery "Andreo". To my surprise, not only was it warmer outside than in my apartment, despite the rain, but the reception at the gallery was extremely friendly.

A small bald man, with a broad smile, came jumping out of a side room as soon as the bell above the door announced my entrance.

Relieved, I smiled back and after a little small talk, mainly about the terrible weather, I told him that I had bought a painting at a flea market in bad condition.

Contrary to my fear that he would immediately throw me out again because he would not make any money with me, he was extremely curious. Probably because I spoke so enthusiastically about my find. I admit my euphoria got new momentum to find out more about the painting.

I had taken photos of the painting just before I moved out into the storm. Anxious to hear what he would say, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. The good man put on his glasses expectantly, peering at my display as I proudly opened the picture gallery, but there was nothing. Not a single photo of the portrait. Yet I was absolutely sure that I had taken it. Several! From every conceivable angle ... Probably my memory was full and I didn't notice or the thing was defective. Or maybe the stupid phone had gotten too much moisture during the storm?

I can't explain it until now.

In order not to have stepped out into the storm completely for nothing and to have stolen time from the gallery owner, who seemed a bit disappointed but still friendly, I clumsily began to describe the picture.

My attempts must have been terrible, the poor man seemed more and more with every second as if I had recited fatal diseases and told him he would die of them.

When even I had run out of words to mentally paint the portrait, the bald man nervously wrung his hands. I even thought I could detect a light film of sweat on his forehead. There was no longer any trace of friendliness to be seen; there was something rushed in his gaze.

I don't think I've ever been complemented so quickly from a store in my entire life. The only thing missing was that he pushed me through the door with his hands.

Well, probably he had hoped he could wrest from me a Rubens or Picasso that I had unknowingly acquired at the flea market and was all the more disappointed not to be able to make a deal with me.

In any case, in my search for the origin and history of my find, I will no longer trust the art world.

For tomorrow, I resolved to research the local archives and stop by one of those cell phone repair stores. When I got home, I was able to retrieve the pictures that had previously disappeared. So this thing is definitely cracked.

After such a day and this cold, I first treat myself to a glass of wine, my fingers are already getting so cold again.