Bold streaks of black ink created an abyss of chaotic bursts. Rough, vibrant strokes of orange and a few soft touches of beige formed a delectable stream of nectarines. A remarkable rhapsody of blues: royal blue, cobalt blue, sky blue, navy blue, emerald blue, turquoise, aqua, azure, chambray. A turbulence of fuchsia and amethyst. A glorious conflagration of amber gold and deep, fiery crimson. A cloud of ice-cream pastels: lavender gray, terracotta, peppermint, eggshell violet, blushed rose. A raging turmoil, a brutal clash, an explosion of colors!
Another grenade erupted as the paint brush swept across the canvas, building a tower of pigments. The paint brush began dancing exuberantly through the air as if it were yanked about by invisible strings. It darted around the piece of canvas, swinging back and forth vigorously like a boisterous child in vain. A marvelous work of art, not of a human, but of a paint brush and its magic. Torrential whirlpools it had created......the greatest painting of all times.
I watched in silence: specks of wonder and intrigue within the intricate structure of crashing pigment.....within the hurricane of colors. Satisfied, the paint brush bounded off into the dark hallway and into my father's study where he, asleep in his armchair, quietly nodded in the afternoon sunlight. My father never knew its secret, only I did. The paint brush needed no painter, no puppeteer, no owner, no master......all it needed was a little magic.
