Cleaning Brushes

You rarely clean them in the moment.
You drop them in the plastic container
with an inch of few of turpentine,
a poor man’s brush cleaner and they soak.
For days, weeks sometime,
until there are a dozen or two of them,
their handles reaching up, their bristles drenched,
and when you get to the place where you cannot find
the one you want, you clean them all. Start afresh.

You have dozens of brushes, in different sizes and textures,
some flat. Some pointed, a few cut into shapes.
The jars of them over the table with their different color
handles make the casual visitor believe you are a proper artist,
but the truth is you use a dozen or two of them,
over and over again, the combination of paints
and brushes give you more opportunities to experiment
than you have time left in life. A half dozen styles,
a couple dozen brushes and more colors than anyone
needs. Except perhaps you.

It is always an experiment, each canvas, each new paper,
an experiement in being true to yourself
and somehow new, carving the subtleties of your feelings
that are so often so difficult to say in words.
You revel in the trials, the errors. The opportunities
to fail brilliantly in bright colors, not caring who sees
because after all, if you barely understand, the odds are
they do not either, discovering as they look,
not what you painted,
but what they see.

About this poem

One of my personal truisms in life is that people see and hear what is in them, not particularly what we think we are saying or creating, Once I am done with my creation, nothing about it is mine any longer. That used to bug the hell out of me. But at this point in life, I am OK with it, happy simply to have the chance to get out what I need to get out, whether anyone understands or not.

Tom