I know a lot of artists who have very exotic, rare types of brushes, or pencils that can be ordered only from special shops or only from the factories at a very premium price.
But not me: I like the good, old standard—a Ticonderoga #2 pencil. It’s the utensil I first used as a kid—perhaps that’s why I love it. It takes me back to my first discovery of drawing at the age of 4.
There’s a very special relationship that develops between my Ticonderoga #2 and me. I get them in a green pack of 12. I’ve discovered that they’re very fragile when they’re new—if I drop one on the floor, sometimes the lead inside will fracture, and then it becomes very difficult to sharpen to a fine point without the lead falling out.
As each #2 pencil begins its life cycle, it starts out as just another drawing device, yet over the many drawn lines, I begin to bond with this lovely creature. We’re like partners in the creative act. I give her a nudge, and magically she creates these amazing visions.
And if either of us makes a mistake, we only have to invert her and rub her derrière on the paper, and voilà—we’re good to go again.
As the days and drawings wind by, I can feel her getting smaller in my hand—each time I put her into the sharpener, it’s like I’m cutting off my own arm. I almost break out in tears as I whittle her down to just a fraction of her former beautiful self. But, in spite of her now-shortened state, she still performs magnificently—keeping a nice, smooth line, filling in the crosshatching. I can feel her confidence as we work together like a pair of champion ice skaters.
We feel comfortable in each other’s arms, but sadly, it’s become the autumn of her life. She knows I will abandon her and move on to a new lover. Alas, that’s what the art world is like—it’s a cruel business.
Oh, yes, I can get a pencil holder to prolong our relationship. But even that is a signal that our time together is nearing its sad end—the sorrow of when I say “au revoir” to my beloved #2. We’ve had a lot of crazy, fun adventures together. She was my fabulous muse, a veritable font of creative ideas, but now she’s just a nubbin. As I drop the stub into my wastebasket and wave goodbye, I think of the wonderful times we had together—the great art that we produced—a tear comes to my eye and she bounces sadly on the bottom of the basket.
I turn my head away—oooh, there’s a nice new young Ticonderoga #2 beckoning me to grab her, fondle her, and make wonderful, artistic love all day long. Am I cheating on my lover so soon?
