The Little Paintbrush Read online
Thanks to Anastasia, Anne, Erlend, Hanne, Hans Richard, Ingrid Amalie, Kamilla, Kristian, Line, Liv Kathrine, Sofie, and Øystein. Without them, this story could not have been!
Copyright © 2014 by Bjorn F. Rørvik and Thore Hansen
First English Translation © 2014 by Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.
Original title: Den lille penselen Copyright © CAPPELEN DAMM AS 2011.
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eISBN: 978-1-62873-852-0
Manufactured in China, August 2013
This product conforms to CPSIA 2008
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62087-996-2
WRITTEN BY BJØRN F. RØRVIK • ILLUSTRATED BY THORE HANSEN TRANSLATED BY BRANDON SCHULTZ
Sky Pony Press • New York
There once was a little paintbrush who was never used. He lived in a cabinet with large brushes and fine brushes. The others teased the little paintbrush because he had never painted anything.
“I was used to paint Madonna,” said one of the bigger brushes. “The painter always chooses me. He likes me best, because I make such beautiful strokes.”
“We were used to paint The Sun,” said two others.” Look, we still have yellow in our hair. And you still have no paint on you!”
“And look at me, I am so fine!” said a fourth. “I made Girls on the Bridge.”
The little paintbrush was upset when he heard them bragging and congratulating themselves. He longed to be used like the others. But the big brushes always stood in front of him like a forest, so when the painter opened the cabinet, he never caught sight of the little paintbrush.
One night, the little paintbrush tried to sneak to the front of the shelf without the others noticing.
“Well, well!” cried one of the big brushes. “Look who‘s trying to sneak around!”
All the others turned.
“Stay in the back, little one!” they said. “And if you try that again, we‘ll throw you out of the cabinet!”
Later that night, when he thought the others were asleep, the little paintbrush tried again. But he was discovered.
“STOP THERE!” cried one of the big brushes. “We can see you!”
“He did it again!” shouted the fine brush.
“Out you go!” they said, and began to push him toward the edge.
“Don‘t do it!” cried the little paintbrush. “I just want to paint a little. Can‘t I paint just a bit? A small dot or something?”
“Ugh!” cried the big brush. “We do not want you here! You are totally useless!”
And then they tipped him over the edge.
The little paintbrush landed on the floor. He heard the others laughing above.
“Now you’ll get it good!” they shouted. “The painter is going to step on you and break your back!”
The little paintbrush was scared and upset. He was not afraid of being stepped on. He was more afraid of mice, for they could gnaw at him and eat his hair.
The paintbrush regretted that he had tried to sneak to the front of the cabinet. After all, it was quite safe in there with the others. Now he was all alone in the world.
Then he heard a kind voice from off in the corner.
“Do not cry, little one,” said the voice. “I‘ll look after you, I will.”
The little paintbrush looked up. It was the old broom. He was big and dusty and stood incredibly tall.
“I have not painted anything,” said the broom. “I‘m just used to sweep the floor, and I get lots of trash in my beard. That‘s how it is with me.”
The small brush rolled over to the broom. Even though the broom was a bit shabby, he was comforting to talk to.
“You must make sure to be used one day, too,” said the broom. “It is good to be needed, you know.”
“I don‘t think I will,” sobbed the little paintbrush. “I‘m too small. That‘s what the others say.”
The little paintbrush was consoled and slept safely with the broom. But in the middle of the night, he was awakened by a mysterious sound. Something scraped and bumped along the other side of the wall. Mice! thought the little paintbrush. They‘ve come to gnaw off my hair!
But it was no mouse. It was a sinister thief. A pale face peered in through the window, then the glass was broken. The little paintbrush peered cautiously out and saw two feet creeping across the floor. The thief stopped and looked around. Then he went to the paintings, which rested against the wall.
“There‘s a thief planning to steal a painting!” whispered the little paintbrush. “We must do something!”
“We must wake the painter!” whispered the broom. “But how do we do it?”
The painter, named Edvard Munch, was in bed. And the door between the bedroom and the workshop was closed.
“There‘s no way,” said the old broom. “We can‘t get to Munch!”
“Wait a minute!” said the little paintbrush. “I‘m so thin, I think I can get in through the keyhole.”
“Yes!” said the broom. “And if I lean up against the door, you can shimmy up my back to get to the hole.”
The little paintbrush wiggled up and just managed to squeeze through the keyhole. He rolled across the floor, over to the bed where the painter was asleep.
Munch’s snores rumbled like thunder. The little paintbrush tickled the bottoms of his feet.
“Stop it!” Munch mumbled in his sleep. “I‘m sleeping!”
But the little paintbrush persisted. He tickled and tickled until Munch jumped out of bed. The painter heard sounds from the workshop and realized that there was someone there.
Munch looked around. He had eaten a cheese sandwich the night before, and the plate was still on the nightstand. He quickly grabbed the knife and fork, which were covered in ketchup, and crept toward the door.
Munch quietly opened the door to the workshop. The thief was standing there with one of Munch’s paintings in his hands. The painting was called The Yawn and had just been completed.
“How dare you!” cried Munch. “Get away from that painting!”
The thief turned around. He screamed when he saw Edvard Munch, waving his knife and fork at him.
The thief ran to the window and leapt out. He ran like a madman through the garden, with the painting under his arm. Edvard Munch just watched. Let him run, thought Munch. I wasn‘t really happy with The Yawn anyway. It was too boring.
“Now, I have a much better idea. I must paint right away!” he cried. “Where are my brushes?”
Just then, the little paintbrush rolled up to him on the floor.
“What a lovely little paintbrush,” Munch said. “I have not seen it before. I will use it!”
The painter went straight to the easel and started a new painting. He painted all night, and when morning came, the painting was almost finished.
Munch was pleased with the painting.
 
; “It was something else,” he said. “Not a yawn, but
A SCREAM.
I should surely call this painting The Scream.”
The little paintbrush was tired and happy. His painted hair stood straight up. And he had not just painted one color or just a small dot. No, he had tried many colors: blue, white, red, green, and orange.
Over in the cabinet the other brushes were downright grumpy.
“Why should the little bristle-head paint so much all of a sudden?” they asked. “Use one of us now, Edvard!”
But after that night the old brushes were not used as often anymore, no matter how much they fussed and displayed themselves. For Edvard Munch had a new favorite brush.
The stolen painting was never recovered, but The Scream became famous and is now hanging in a museum. Should you ever be lucky enough to see The Scream by Edvard Munch, note the fine brushstrokes. They were made by the little paintbrush.
Footnote:
In the story of the little paintbrush, the author has taken a few historical liberties:
1. It is not certain that Edvard Munch ate cheese sandwiches. He may have liked other foods more. And he certainly did not eat ketchup. In fact, ketchup had not yet come to Norway at the time. The book‘s illustrator, Thore Hansen, is so old that he remembers when ketchup came to Norway. He believes it came to Fredrikstad in 1950. Thore remembers it particularly well because his father, who was a sausage maker, said that ketchup was nonsense.
2. The paintings mentioned in the text were actually painted in this order: The Scream (1893), Madonna(1894), Girls on the Bridge (1899), and The Sun (1912).
Bj, The Little Paintbrush
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