The Papertowel at My Elbow

There’s always a papertowel beside me when I paint — quiet, crinkled, and ready. It starts out simple and white, but soon becomes a tiny gallery of color: green dabs, blue swirls, a brave little streak of red.

There’s something Van Goghish about the way it collects emotion. Every softened stroke, every wiped‑away doubt, every burst of yellow hope — it absorbs the moment like a miniature Starry Night unfolding across its textured surface.

While the canvas gets the spotlight, the papertowel holds the truth of the process. The mess, the magic, the in‑between. My small, unsung companion in every swirl of creativity.