First was the brush pen, bristles plucked from a lion’s mane, tapered with tallow to a hair thin tip, struck to an ivory handle, a human metatarsal lined in lacquer.
Sweeping patterns to ornament alabaster, umber, carmine, ebony. Hair thin lines intersecting, separating, twisting. Ink for weight, void for height. Grooves to be formed and rises defined.
A looking-glass for the wary, glassy plate backed with silver, reflecting sweeping patterns on corkscrews and arcs. A last warning for plans to change, unneeded for those who put their trust in gifted vision and steady hands.
Wood grip on a sharp file, grit just heavy enough, just fine enough, to smooth the imperfections, the rises and grooves misfit in the final work, pre-existing accidents of nature begged to be corrected.
Smoothed, the surface shines, sweeping patterns grown vague, like the last notes of sweet song echoing into a cavern, shifting, speaking of the gone-by and hinting at the to-come, waiting to be redefined by the here-now.
More needle than blade, a spine-like dagger beside the haughty brush, tarnished metal outstretched, gleaming, point drawn out infintessimally, vanishing one end into nothing, broadside falling back into slotted bone.
Pattern and needle combine, harmony etched as further template, reinforced. Seeds planted for rhythmic valleys to be nurtured by a myriad of instruments, blades curved, crooked, sharp, dull, long, fat, thin, wide.
True song in the air from the artist’s lips, painted and pouting a coy smile just hiding ends of carnivore’s fangs. Abstract, twisting shapes like tendrils of wind solidified across the walls, thrusting into atmosphere, final appearance defined long ago by gifted hands.
From melody into lilting words, brush pen replaced with glass then file and she says, “Relax. This won’t hurt… much.”
