Quinton had a wonderful life. He was raised in a wealthy, and loving family from Chappaqua, New York, and received the best education that money could buy. He was born into excellence, and skillful at practically everything that he put his mind to, including his art, which he loved and devoted himself to the most.
He had a deep connection with nature and humanity, and would spend his days capturing the emotion, and rhythm that he saw within his art.
Quinton was on the path to greatness, he was winning the hearts of many, but that never really mattered to him. He wanted to capture life through his eyes and in his art, and when he had learned of the story of a country that had risen above hardship, he had to see it for himself. He had to live within it. In 2010, Quinton packed up his things, and moved to Chernarus. He lived in a small apartment in Chernogorsk, and immediately fell in love with the country, and its people. He made friends, and they spent a great deal of time traveling the countryside. He'd paint, and capture the spirit of the everything through his eyes, he was in his element.
Life was good, until it wasn't.
The events that started the cycle of unrest in 2017, left Quinton, a foreigner, in a peculiar situation. Many of his friends took to the streets to participate in the protests, some of them left out of fear, but Quinton stood fast, he tried to capture the emotion of what he saw within his artwork. It was some of his best work, and sadly none of it will ever be seen. Noticing that things were getting violent, and that there was an outbreak, Quinton took his things and fled to the countryside. He wanted to find his friends, but there was no time and it wasn't safe. It was his hope that it would blow over, and that once it did, he could make his way across the border, and fly back home to the States.
It didn't blow over, in fact, things only got worse and Quinton was terrified.
Traveling on foot through the countryside was tiresome, he had shed much of his belongings to lighten his load and to free up space for the necessities. He was alive, he was surviving, but the vivid world that he once saw and once captured in his artwork was gone. Things were changing, and he needed to change with it. Quinton removed his paints, and his drawing pad from his backpack, and calmly placed them on a bench. This was a side of humanity that he did not wish to capture in his artwork, and so for the first time, he walked away from what he loved the most.
Surviving was all that mattered.