Exile

The Magic of a Brush

The room was left untidy; used tissue papers littering the dirty stained yellow floor, clothes with color on different parts of it lying here and there. Wet clothes hung from a clothing line hastily pulled across the room. The walls were dark, curtains were pulled ,the room being deprived of the jolly sun rays that played outside the gloomy cottage.

The room was dead quiet apart from occasional shuffling of a pair of rough-soled shoes and the humming of an unfamiliar tune. Clatter of palettes could be heard now and then, otherwise all was overwhelmed with a comfortable homely silence.

From the other side of the room, crossed another clothing line, from this one hung wonders of the world; Paintings like which the world has never laid eyes upon. Wet from color, they were kept to dry in front of the vigorously blowing fan. The paintings held such emotion that proved the painter's devotion and love for his work. The chefs-d'œuvre !! His masterpieces waited to be shown off to.Emotions buried deep inside the body, yearning to come out. At the center of the room stood a canvas and beside it stood a stool. On the stool, lay brushes of different sizes, from Acrylic to Oil brushes; some with thick bristles, others with nylon thin ones. Beside the brushes was kept a large platter, colors covering it. Tubes of open colors were scattered, the color from inside drizzling out and staining the floor beneath.

Amidst all this chaos stood the wondrous artist himself; painting restlessly, apron smudged with colors and a Water color brush swaying in his right hand. He bit the bottom of the brush and continued to sing the same tune in his gruff voice, tapping his feet impatiently. Then, Marcello Dawson dipped his brush in the thick paint and put his brush on the canvas, smearing deep blue paint with powerful strokes.