Crimson clouds, a low-angled sun, redness deepening.

It’s an art to see shapes in clouds or spot a silhouette.

At the end of a painting lesson, I am contented by the gurgle

of faucet & soap. I love working brush bellies with thumb

& forefinger, rinsing, scraping the ferrule with my nails,

swabbing blotter cloth till no more pigment dislodges, or

I repeat the massage. Sable martens boast a belly that wicks,

reservoirs the paint, allows a painter to increase pressure

and broaden a line so the pigment flows slowly, evenly,

composing sleek curves. Clouds drift, unravel. I dress

a clean brush to original form, tip needling to a point. Finest

sable is Kolinsky of Northern Siberia, where cruel climate breeds

hair that’s robust yet supple. Springy, absorbent. Kolinsky sells

at the price of gold factored thrice, as old Soviets said, the cheap

brushes a false economy. I favor plated-nickel ferrules, corrosion-

resistant. I like bristles to taper & edge. I like best the sign-

liner for gypsy teardrop strokes, my feathery brush down, followed

by pressure, drag, lifting quickly: a thin, thorn-like finish:

my signature. I rotate the brush 90 degrees and repeat

without reloading the Kolinsky. It’s a tool I work methodically yet

without method, seemingly, and Mars red unbinds like a spirit

emulsified. Red runs the slop sink in rivulets, ruby hues spotting,

sticking to the stainless steel, hunching, blobs like big-headed

embryos with bantam hands & warm hearts & naive metaphysics

dashed by force of water until they sail alone

without left-or-right brain or even a single, bridging thought.

Color drains & cycles into endless forms.

Sable brushes stand on handles, not on their heads.

They dry naturally in a jar on a windowsill

giving best results when cared for properly

and last a lifetime.

By Peter Oresick