someone used my sable filbert to mix epoxy

No. Let me set the scene properly.

My daughter's school needed a set of small panels for some prize ceremony, and I said yes because I always say yes, and one of the fathers came in to help build the frames. Fine. Good. He is a nice man. He brought his own drill. I left the studio for maybe twenty minutes to buy cigarettes, which is my own fault, I know.

I came back and my size 8 sable filbert was standing in a jam jar with grey matter hardening on it. Epoxy. He thought it was a spare brush. A spare brush. It was thirty euros and it took me two years to break it in the way I like, the tip worn down to exactly the edge I need for the corner of a mouth.

I said nothing. I made a small noise, something between a sigh and a laugh, and I put it in the bin because there is no saving it, and then I helped him sand the frames for an hour and a half. That is the part I am actually annoyed about. Not the brush. The hour and a half of being pleasant.

Bof. He is a nice man. I am going to be irritated about this for a long time anyway.

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8 comments

Ramesh Jha·2h

Oh ji, this pains me to read. A sable filbert is not some spare brush, and two years of breaking it in cannot be bought again with thirty euros. That is the real loss, not the money.

I am a Mithila painter from Madhubani, and even our brushes are mostly bamboo and squirrel hair, made by hand, so I understand some what you are feeling. When a tool has taken the shape of your hand, it becomes like a family member. Someone seeing it as just a stick with hair cannot know this.

The man meant no harm, he was helping for the children's function, so kindly do not keep anger at him in your heart. But the brush, that grief is genuine. I hope you can bring it back little by little, or at least keep it for some work that does not need the fine tip.

Next time, hide the good ones before any helping hand enters the studio. 🙂

Teddy Lin·2h

the "tool takes the shape of your hand" thing is the part people who don't paint never get. a two year filbert isn't a brush anymore, it's basically a fingerprint. losing that hurts more than the thirty euros and i say this as someone whose rent is currently aware of how much a good brush costs.

but ngl the "do not keep anger in your heart" bit is a big ask when the man left it standing bristles-down in a jam jar. that's not even a brush crime, that's a jar crime. i'd forgive him in like six to eight business months.

Camille LaurentOP·1h

"A jar crime." I am going to be thinking about that phrase for a week, thank you.

And you have put the exact thing into words. A fingerprint. I have brushes in the studio that belonged to my teacher and I could not sell them for much, and I would not trade them for anything, because they are not objects anymore, they are a record of a hand moving the same way for years. That is what he put in the jar with the epoxy. Not the hair, the years.

Six to eight business months is generous of you. I am at about month three and I still look at the empty slot in the jar where it stood. But I did not shout at him, and I will not, because he is a nice man who brought his own drill and thought he was helping. That is the worst kind of damage, the kind with no villain.

For the record, I did not mix epoxy in his power drill. I thought about it. Briefly.

Camille LaurentOP·1h

Squirrel hair and bamboo, and you still know exactly what I mean. That says it. It is not the price of the thing, it is the years in it.

And you are right about the man. I did not shout at him. He is a nice man who came to help for the children, and I would rather have a kind neighbour than an intact brush. But I will admit I have been a little cold with him since, and that is not fair to him. So thank you for that, it landed.

The brush I have not thrown away, by the way. It is sitting on the shelf like a dead soldier. I cannot quite bring myself to bury it yet.

Gloria Mae Jackson·2h

Honey, I felt this one in my chest. I quilt, and I've got scissors my grandmother used that nobody in this house is allowed to touch, not because they cost much but because they've worn themselves to my hand over the years. A tool that's learned you is not the same as a tool you bought. Thirty euros replaces the brush. Nothing replaces those two years.

And I know he's a nice man and brought his own drill, so you can't even be mad right, that's the worst kind. When somebody means well, you got nowhere to put it. I'd have to go sit down awhile.

Next time you go buy cigarettes, put the good ones in a drawer. Not for his sake. For yours. I learned that the hard way with a pair of shears and a grandson who wanted to cut cardboard.

Tomáš Havel·1h

"Worn itself to my hand" is the whole thing, yes. I have a palette knife that stopped being a knife sometime around 2004 and became a small extension of my thumb. Nobody would look at it twice in a drawer. I would notice its absence from across the room.

The nice-man part is the real problem. I once had a technician at a gallery helpfully "tidy" my studio and throw out half a room's worth of what he called garbage. He was so pleased with himself. I thanked him. Then I went and stood in the empty space for a while like an idiot, because there was nothing else to do with it.

So yes, sit down awhile. Then hide the good one. Not from him. From the next nice man.

Camille LaurentOP·16m

The technician story is the one that would have finished me. At least with the epoxy I have something to be furious at. A man throwing out half your studio while being pleased with himself, and you standing in the gap being polite about it. That is worse. I have done that exact polite smile, it is a strange thing to feel your face doing it while the rest of you is somewhere else entirely.

I still have a scraper of my teacher's. Handle worn into a shape no hand but his ever made. It is useless now, the blade is a ruin, and I would not let anyone throw it out. So I understand the knife from 2004.

Camille LaurentOP·1h

"Nowhere to put it" is exactly it. That is the sentence. I have been angry at people before and it was easy, there was somewhere for it to go. With him there was only this polite little smile while something inside me quietly died.

Your grandmother's scissors. Yes. I have my teacher's mahl stick and I would probably cry before I let anyone touch it, and it is a stick, it costs nothing, it is a stick. That is the whole thing, c'est ça.

And the cigarette walk, yes, I have already arranged the studio in my head. Everything I love goes in the drawer that closes.