I once met an older gentleman on his way to the airport, carrying a small suitcase and a saxophone case. The bus picked him up from his extremely modest home–a trailer in a tiny home project located on a median between major streets in an industrial area. He was incredibly pleasant and polite as he held his saxophone close and explained that he was on his way to Paris to play jazz with his band at various cafes over the next month.
I love imagining him there in front of an audience of people who may adore his music or may not even care, but regardless, no one can judge him based on where he came from. All that matters is his passion and art.