The story of the three-hair brush began when I was searching through a jar of old brushes looking for something very particular.
As artists do, I had convinced myself that somewhere amongst the collection was the perfect brush for the job.
I picked one up and immediately recognised it.
It had belonged to my father.
By this stage it was no longer really a brush at all. Time, paint and years of use had reduced it to little more than a handful of surviving hairs. It was completely impractical. I couldn’t paint with it and there was no sensible reason to keep it.
Yet I couldn’t throw it away.
Holding it in my hand, I remembered watching my father paint. I could see him carefully describing the fine lines of tree branches and the delicate foliage of some of his most beautiful trees. He had a patience that I admired and a way of observing the landscape that taught me to look more carefully at the world around me.
The brush itself had little practical value left, but it carried something far more important. It carried memory.
Artists become attached to strange things. Old brushes, worn palettes, battered paint tubes and tools that should probably have been retired decades ago. To anyone else they might appear to be clutter. To the artist they are markers along a journey, quietly holding stories long after their usefulness has passed.
The three-hair brush still sits in the studio.
Every now and then I come across it while searching for something else. I pick it up, smile, remember my father painting those beautiful trees and then carefully put it back where I found it.
Some things are simply too precious to throw away.
