Working the Brushes
It is prosaic work, cleaning the brushes
grown hard with neglect and dried hues
from past canvases. One by one, left to dry
as you carried on blithely
to the next painting and the next
like a child who has no sense of time
or the using of resources, always sure
there will be another, and another, and yet another.
It is a wonderful way to live, bright and lively,
but eventually every brush in the house hardens
and it is time to do the work, one by one,
soaking the brushes in turpentine,
inhaling the aroma of neglect,
working the old hues out,
stripping each set of bristles to something new
and restored and once done,
ready to go forth once again like a child.
A day of working the brushes
for weeks of glee,
uninterrupted by responsibility.
Works for me.
About this poem.
It’s about time to clean the brushes in the studio.
A good metaphor for self-care of any type. How are your brushes?
PS: The picture is from my studio.