Zoe, 32, works the late shift at an art-district bar in Portland where half the clientele are artists and the other half are people who want to seem like artists. An older painter named Claude (yes, really) would come in twice a week and nurse a single glass of Burgundy while talking about light and color. One night he brought in a small canvas — abstract, moody blues and reds — and set it against her tip jar. "I painted it thinking of this bar," he said. "You're part of it." (Her coworkers immediately Googled him. He was not famous. The painting still went to auction three years later for $4,400.) Zoe used the money to put down first and last on an apartment with natural light. She says Claude would've approved.