I love the feel of the worn smoothness of my beloved paintbrush. I balance its span in my fingers--Ah, fits perfectly. I slide one side of feathery brush ends into red acrylic, the other into blue. What picture will be born from my thoughts?It is a mystery for now.
I begin with small hushed strokes. The paint sweetens my empty canvas with color. Red and blue sweep into soft purple.
Rinse, swirling colors into water. Clean brush snaps into yellow and green. Small motions, growing larger with the painting's message. Then delicate spatters of pink and white spit from my brush onto the canvas.
Swish swirl, then there is brown. Dashes of red ferment the mix. Long thin brush, tiny lines form details and outlines. Harsh fissured faces warm with smiles, emerge from trunks of trees splendid with purple, blue and rose blossoms...
Tis a springtime forest, peopled with trees.
