Old Brushes

To return to a more philosophical bent, I was just in the studio and picked up a favorite brush to add some color to a piece. I noticed when I touched the bristles that there's barely any life left in it; it's used up. Only the ends of the bristles have any flexibility left; probably a result of the rough surfaces I paint on, and my bad brush-cleaning habits (I confess!).

I was reminded of my mother, Trudy Lanitis, which doesn't happen very often. She was an artist too, and "upon her demise" (my 82-year-old father's favorite euphamism for death) I inherited a huge amount of brushes that belonged to her. Most of them were so used up that I threw them out; I saved a few for a shrine that has yet to be made. But I never understood why she kept so many useless brushes.

Today, I found out. Because I used that old favorite brush of mine anyway. It's comfortable, and I know what it's going to do with the paint. It still does the job. Think I'll go clean it.