Some of these paintbrushes are like old friends. They each have a story to tell.
My grandfather painted on pieces of driftwood. Lighthouses, beach houses, birds, etc. These pieces are precious treasures in my family.
When he died, I inherited his plastic container of brushes, markers, and even an old ruler. I don’t care that some of the markers are dried out and some of the bristles are rough.
They sit in my little caddy of supplies and I am reminded daily of his creativity and the happiness that painting brought to him. I’m sure it was an escape for him, and I know he enjoyed it.
Occasionally, I will use one of his brushes (sadly, I broke one a few weeks ago that was just too brittle). I also have brushes that were given to me as gifts, and some that I remember using in high school.
The container I use for my brushes was thrown by my college ceramics professor as an example of a basic cylinder. It holds a lot of memories and reminders as well.
Now that I am painting almost every day, I am discovering more about who I am as an artist and creating new memories. But the memories these brushes hold will always be comforting and familiar. They remind me of where I came from and why I am doing all of this.
Mine is a journey that is still just beginning and I can’t wait to see what happens next.