Window Brushes
They look so innocent, there in the window, collected in their practical pots. In another window they might have been a mere decoration, a little flourish to adorn the sill. In another window they might have easily been replaced by some dried flowers or charming little porcelain statuette.
But this is a window in a painter’s studio. Here, these brushes are neither ornamental nor innocent. They are tools; well-used and well-cared-for, cherished perhaps, but tools nonetheless. Some are precision instruments able to craft a fine, delicate line or gracefully add a thin layer of shading. Others are intended for rougher use, tools of passion to be wielded with sweeping, deadly finesse, the way a swashbuckler brandishes his rapier. Some are favorites that fit the hand as if they’d grown there. Some have been used once, twice, and set aside because they didn’t feel quite right.
The painter knows those brushes, knows them intimately. Knows them the way a hunter knows the tracks of his prey, the way a farmer knows the weather, the way a mother knows the smell of her baby’s neck. They are as integral to the painter’s being as the fingers, as the hand, as the arm. Yet they are just tools. And they look so innocent, there in the window.
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