It is tedious work, cleaning brushes.
The soaking. The waiting.
Each one has to be done separately,
and you go through a lot of brushes.
Working out the paint. Soaking again.
It never seems to become clean the first time.
Testing each one to make certain
all vestiges of old paint are flushed
and the new brushes ready for the day.
It is tedious work. Necessary but tedious.
Part of the process. Part of making the art
you are so fond of creating. A ritual almost,
creativity without thought. The most beautiful things
made sometimes, less by inspiration
About this poem.
A poem about cleaning brushes. About art. About love. About faith. The magic is in the maintenance.
The picture was taken in my studio the other day. After cleaning brushes.