Musings

I rinsed my brushes and I left

We started painting. The colours we used worked because they flew off one another. The ideas swung from our minds towards the canvas, the picture had a sound. The volume was insatiable. The music coming from our art was beyond magnificent.

You started using greys and blacks and dark greens. I couldn’t keep up; I could no longer understand my part in this painting. I held your brushes as you moved me out of your way. You stroked across the bright colours I had added, you made it dark and unsettling.

The music stopped.

I rinsed my brushes and I left.

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