Of course they didnít.
They never sat up with the canvas, its pasty face staring him down in the dirty-pigeon gray pre-dawn. They never spent days with him, hiding theyíre eyes from the bright-blur sunlight. They never needed to protect their sight, like he did, so that when night finally ate away at the world again, they could perfectly see the palette.
Of course they didnít. He did. Thatís why, no matter who bought and sold and told the world about it, it was his painting. That was why only he knew how faintly sweet, fairly toxic the blue that held their hearts tasted on his tongue.