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I stand, feet planted, arms dropped, until the whiteness of
the paper calls me to action. Like the shimmer of water
calling one off a diving board or the tremor
of the high wire calling one off the platform,
there is no turning back. |
|
Something inside pushes me forward.
I walk over to the brush and lift it out of the bucket
with both hands. As the ink pours off the hairs I
realize I have to move quickly so that the
brush will stay loaded enough to make it
through the whole stroke. |
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|
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I gather my mind and step onto the paper.
A trail of large black drops follows the brush, then a
slapping splattering black contact with the white surface
is made. I take a wide stance, bend my knees and
slowly pull the brush towards me, the ink glistening and pooling. |
|
I lean closer to the hairs,
coaxing them across the roughness of the paper.
I move to the right, then turn the corner and pull
the brush down to the left with a long,
slow stroke. |
 |
|
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I step backwards and the brush follows.
As the ink thins, white streaks break through the blackness.
Arriving at the bottom of the long sheet I can bear
the tension no longer and I cut up to the right quickly
and move off the paper. |
|
With the ink still dripping and my heart pounding,
I walk to the bucket and plunge the brush in. |
 |
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