Months passed without a stroke, but
Does the artist dry up with the paint,
Or fade like old, abandoned pigment?
The wood box creaks open on tired hinges.
The smell is there -
Ancient oils, mineral spirits.
And here are the brushes
Of ox, camel and sable
Laid out, anticipating…
And there the vast, white canvas
taunting.
Slow, wide strokes begin.
Hues spread out gradually,
Picking up speed
Like an old steam engine.
Then smaller brushes,
Tender lines emerge by the
Hands of a musician,
A chef, a gardener,
A father.
Hours go by, muscles ache
But the colors are singing
On submissive canvas.
Vision is clear,
Rhythm is set.
Life, texture, dimension, emotion
Dance unbridled.
Don’t pause or hesitate!
Paint unwavering,
Confident of victory
Over blankness.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007