Let her soul then lay the brush down
Worldly success has been elusive as has been support where I live and work which makes me think I have misused my gifts. Easily refuted by reason and not a very exclusive club either.
There’s going to be an end, a time when the lights go off, the vapor of life expires. Then the brushes will sit in the coffee cans with supple bristles, the paints will wait inertly in their metal tubes, dust will soak into the pores of the marble palette, the canvas rolls will sag in the corner.
If she has earned anything, she has earned the right to die here in her studio, in the rude bed she fashioned. She’s earned the right to breathe in with her final breath the bouquet of linseed oil, of iron oxide, the stiff aromas of solvents and glazes.
Let her life slip away in the patterns of color: burnt sienna and mars orange crackling like the dry heat of a late autumn day, ivory black and titanium laid down in thick slabs, stiff on the surface like icing, wet and resplendent below.
Let her soul then lay the brush down and step into the canvas. Let the color come alive. Let her essence roam free. Let her feel for an instant the brilliant peace of the moment of creation, the moment of absolution, the moment of destruction, and let loose the hard line of our lives of uncertain worth.