Dear Old Brushes,
You’re all still here, aren’t you? Sitting in that drawer. Broken. Bent. Unusable. I know you’re angry. You should be.
You came to me full of potential. Ready for precision. Full of purpose. And what did I do? I ruined you.
Let’s be honest. I treated you badly. Really badly. I pushed you too hard (literally). I dragged you through paint so thick you probably thought it was cement. I shoved you into canvases like I was punishing you for existing. You weren’t made for that. None of you were.
Flat No. 10—you were a hero. You gave me clean lines. Strong strokes. But I worked you to death. I stabbed you into thick layers of acrylic over and over. Then, when you started to fray, I didn’t stop. Now you look like an old toothbrush (the kind no one wants to use).
And you, Round No. 2. Poor, delicate Round No. 2. You were made for fine details. Gentle work. And what did I do? I used you to mix paint. On the canvas. Your bristles bent, snapped, and finally gave up. Now you couldn’t paint a straight line if your life depended on it.
Fan Brush No. 6… Oh, Fan No. 6. You didn’t stand a chance. You were built for softness. Subtle textures. A gentle hand. But I treated you like a bulldozer. I crushed you into the canvas until half your bristles fell out. (The other half just gave up and drooped.)
And let’s not forget the water jar. That filthy, horrible water jar. I left you there for days. Weeks. Sometimes longer. I told myself I’d clean you tomorrow. (I lied.) By the time I remembered, you were already ruined. Hardened. Stiff. Unrecognizable.
The truth is, my style is heavy. Rough. Unforgiving. I paint like I’m in a fight. And you? You paid the price.
I’m sorry, old friends. Truly. You deserved better. But instead, you got me.
To the brushes I still have, I’ll try to do better. (No promises, though.) And to the ones I’ve destroyed… thank you. You gave everything.
Rest in peace, my warriors.
Sincerely (and a little guilty),
Your Heavy-Handed Artist