I am a pallet of watercolor
my surface is stroked with your dry bristles.
The blames is on me for the non transfer of paint.
but really it is you . You thought you could use me quickly, without a trace. But I don’t spread that easily.
it takes a smoother moister bush to work with me .
When the bristles stroke enough it turns me from hard as concrete thin as water , smooth as silk.
sheets of canvas lay all round, waiting for this masterpiece to take form. Loving me isn’t the norm
technique is in the slight of touch like feathering or blending . Rubbing out the lines. Everything is blurry..
This is the work of a lifetime .