As we moved into the Easter Break, one of the things on my To-Do list was to scrape back the oil paint from the palettes so we could re-use them once we return to school.
There is something satisfying about scraping all of the paint off, by this point it has become almost gooey, gummy even. As I smeared it across some newspaper to wipe my knife clean, I happened to look down and noticed all the little waves and crests and ridges that had formed. It was my own little ocean or mountain range of oil paint.
The way one color moved into the next, pattern but no pattern, rhythm and flow. It made me smile, it was almost a miniature work of art in itself.