Color It Orange [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I’ve read that orange inspires creativity and provides a lift to people’s moods. I saw the orange-effect in action on the trail. The moment she saw the sun illuminating the orange leaves, she gasped, giggled and raced toward them with her camera. “Look!” she exclaimed. “They’re glowing!”

She wasn’t exaggerating. They were glowing. Brilliant and warm. They looked like sacred flame dancing on the end of the branch.

Yesterday I wrote about gratitude. Intentional gratitude as opposed to the spontaneous variety, though these days, the intentional and spontaneous are blending together like watercolor on wet paper. Sunset yellow and red mixing together to make mind-blowing orange against purple sky. Mood lifts. Creativity sparks.

I’ve come to view all art forms as expressions of gratitude. Kurt Vonnegut wrote, “Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow.” I believe soul growth is the purpose of art and one cannot grow their soul without also experiencing intense gratitude.

Standing on the trail, watching the enthusiasm of Kerri’s flame-orange-photo-shoot, I decided the color of soul growth is most likely orange. She couldn’t see it, but the sun streaming through the leaves bathed her in vibrant shades of orange, making her part of the sacred-flame-dance.

Martha Graham would have loved this moment. “Soul growth,” she would have whispered enthusiastically, jumping to join Kerri in the ancient dance.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ORANGE

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Scratch The Soil [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

For some reason this photograph reminds me of Andrew Wyeth’s great painting, Christina’s World. The landscapes are not remotely the same. His Christina pulls herself through dry grasses on the coast of Maine. Kerri’s photo is of a cornfield in Wisconsin. But there’s something similar about the spirit. Maybe it’s the starkness? I feel it in my belly, an inner quality to the outer image.

There is something willful about corn. In the cliff houses of the Anasazi, archeologists found corn. We take it for granted. Since we can purchase butter lettuce grown hydroponically we forget that there was a time when cultivating food was a new experience. A new relationship with the mystery. It’s the reason people worshipped the corn. It’s like an old joke: it’s not the corn, stupid, the worship was with the relationship to the mystery. It’s never about the form. It’s always about the relationship. A lesson we moderns have yet to learn. The joke continues to be on us.

It’s the same lesson that every artist learns and relearns. It’s not about the painting, the final image. Andrew Wyeth’s painting was not about Christina. It is his reach into the mystery. He must have touched something because his painting opens the mystery to us.

Standing before a blank canvas is like the Anasazi scratching open the soil, the wonder of the seed. The planting of the corn. The promise of nourishment.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CORN

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Meet Your Destiny [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I appreciate phrases like “As luck would have it.” The personification of Luck. It comforts me to imagine what Luck might look like. Somedays he dons a bowler hat and cane and wiggles his eyebrows when questioned. Sometimes Luck is a lady in an evening gown and Doc Martins; a swirling contradiction who laughs at our predictions.

And then there’s “Meet your destiny.” A place. A location in space and time. A spot on the road that you probably did not intend to visit..but there you are. A person as a destination. I feel that way about Kenosha, Wisconsin. Not in my wildest imagination did I think I would live anywhere in the midwest, especially a place called Kenosha. And then, as luck would have it, I met my destiny.

My destiny and I both love the fall. It is our favorite time of year. We like to take long walks. We lift snakes off the trail with sticks so bikes don’t run over them. We stop and stare back at the deer. We count the turtles that we spy. Yesterday there was a train of turtles sunning themselves on a single small rock. Four in a row. A hawk flew overhead. A heron high-stepped through the shallows. She stood guard over a fuzzy black caterpillar so the approaching hikers would see it. We laughed heartily as she stayed with the critter until it disappeared into the tall grasses. Caterpillar crossing guard.

I was not around when Kerri was on the road performing. I’ve seen her run rehearsals and play for services. I was her roadie for a house concert or two. I treasure the night she played the piano on an empty stage, in an empty theatre. It was enormous. It was heartbreaking. I’ve sat with her in her studio many nights while she played for me songs that are not yet recorded.

Time flies. Time as a bird or a plane. A rushing current of air.

As Luck would have it, Kerri stumbled onto some video from 1996. The release concert for her 2nd and 3rd albums. What a gift to see even a few minutes of her performance. Twenty five minutes of footage, early in her career. One thing was abundantly clear as I watched. She was doing exactly what she is on this earth to do. It’s visible. I could see it. Sitting at her piano, easy and sure, she was meeting her destiny.

I watched her watch the footage. Reaching back to move forward. Time flies. As luck would have it. A twist of fate. In the fall of our lives, she turned and gazed hard at the horizon.

Kerri’s music is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUN THROUGH AUTUMN TREES

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Circle Back Again [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

I could have sworn a famous John Singer Sargent painting featured hibiscus. He painted poppies and roses. There is his famous Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. Google isn’t helping me very much – or, today, I have very little patience.

The truth is I want to dig out my old art books and have a full analog experience. I want to turn pages and smell the ink and the dust. It’s a cold wet day. Dark. I want to sit in my studio rocking chair and revisit the version-of-me that used to sit for hours studying the paintings of masters. I have traveled full circle. I am back to believing that I know nothing. I am a beginner again.

In Scotland, a long time ago, John Singer Sargent’s portrait of Lady Agnew stopped me in my tracks. I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to encounter. Rounding a corner I saw the portrait hanging at the end of the hall. The brushstrokes were easy and free. Get close to it and you’ll discover there is no wasted motion. The paint speaks. It’s not a large portrait yet I felt it as a gut punch. Had I not been blocking the view of others, I would have stood before it all day. I left the museum certain that I knew nothing at all.

I’ve learned to appreciate these phases of not-knowing. They are not necessarily comfortable. Yearning never is. There’s nothing like empty space in your chest and a lump in your throat to set in motion a walk toward the next horizon. What’s over there?

On the trail yesterday I re-remembered the-one-thing, the one-essential-ingredient that makes a walk toward the horizon and away from the safety-of-the-known an adventure: under no circumstances must I take myself too seriously. Do not eat the ego-illusion that my work must or will change the world. It won’t. The world does not need changing. It only needs to be experienced. And I only need to express what I find as I circle back, sharing what I discover.

underpainting for what’s next

Visit my gallery site

read Kerri’s blogpost about Hibiscus

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See The Unseen [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

20’s collections are surprising and always thought-provoking. For instance, he has a rich collection of images from the world that he calls “It’s good enough.” Jobs done poorly. The least amount of effort necessary to address a big job. Solutions that merely shift the problem. Beneath his series is a potent observation: this is what the world looks like when no one cares. Good enough. He is an artist of subtle yet powerful statements.

Another series that always makes me laugh is his “found faces” series. Electric outlets, manhole covers, utility plates, door knobs, that, once seen, gaze back at the viewer and can never be unseen. Now, it’s become a group sport. Kerri will stop suddenly, saying, “Oh! A face for 20’s series!” She adds to his collection. He adds to her collections.

It’s what artists are supposed to do for each other and the world. Open each others eyes to the whimsy and worth that surrounds us. To make the unseen seen, the familiar new.

Recently, at a coffeehouse near Madison, I heard the scuffle. Kerri and 20 both saw the face in the door and leapt to capture it. “Did you see it, too?” they simultaneously chimed, snapping away, bobbing around each other to capture the found face.

They are like siblings, a brother and sister competing to get the first photo. Laughing and jabbing ribs. My job is to sit back and appreciate the beauty of being surrounded by so many artists’ eyes – wide open and helping each other – and me – see and fully experience this surprising and mysterious world.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FOUND FACES

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Color It Vivid [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

These two beauties are Black Swallowtail butterflies in the making. Caterpillars that look as if some artist applied yellow and green paint pens, decorating their black bodies with line and dot. The pop of vibrant color drew our eyes and brought us to our knees to investigate. “Unbelievable!”

I felt the same way the day we saw the orchids at The Chicago Botanic Gardens. The shock and variance of vivid color challenged my dedication to the notion that mother earth paints exclusively in earth tones. She does not. Her palette extends from neon to neutral, her color combinations are as enthusiastic as they are subtle.

I am aware that the further I walk down this life-road, the more I see – or am able to see – the feisty mix of color calling from the hummingbird and cardinal, the caterpillar and coneflower, the sunset and sea foam. I know they’ve always been there. I’ve always appreciated them in a passing way. Now, they catch me in their color-nets and hold me captive. My eyes are willing prisoners. “Unbelievable,” is my patent sigh and I find myself grateful beyond words that I have access to a world that spins color beyond my tiny expectation, my limited belief.

read Kerri’s blogpost on COLORFUL CATERPILLARS

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Burst [David’s blog on KS Friday]

If there is a metaphor for Kerri and me, it is this. A seedpod filled to bursting, ready to release into the world an abundance of the new.

We write more than most people care to read. I’ve calculated that, at this point, we’ve written the equivalent of ten full length novels. We have readers all over the globe – yesterday someone in Mongolia showed up. “Why would someone in Mongolia want to read what we write?” we asked, delighted. No matter. It’s what happens when you love what you are doing.

Yesterday, in a fit of no-duh, I reformatted the Smack-dab page on our site so it might be readable (I’m not sure what took me so long…) and I was astounded at our output. I fell into it. Smack-dab joins the comic canon of Chicken Marsala, Flawed Cartoon, At the Door, Flip, and the KnowNow series.

We love to share what we love. Sometimes I see-just-for-a-moment that our ordinary is extraordinary.

We have the third of Beaky’s books to produce. Kerri’s written a children’s book that someday she will allow me to illustrate. I have new ideas every day that get written on slips of paper and tossed in a bin called Someday.

Our Roadtrip is ready to roll and join The Lost Boy in our canon of plays performed together. I am working on a draft of a new play that I’ve been thinking about for years. I allow myself an hour of space away from the job hunt to write or work on a scene. One scene a week. I’m awaiting the decision whether or not my Last of the Old Gods will be rescheduled into the PCO season. It’s a timely story. It needs performing and I need to perform it.

Kerri stares at her piano. There is so much more music to make. I know it. She knows it. I can personally attest to the fact that some of her best vocal pieces have yet to be recorded. I am the sole recipient of such riches.

Each day I stand in my studio and close my eyes and feel the pulse. There are so many more paintings to paint.

Years ago, Joyce, staring wide-eyed into my future, said to me: You express what is true. You reach people through their hearts. You help them to believe.

It’s not a career. It’s an imperative. Seedpods. Ready to burst.

That Morning Someday/The Best So Far © 1995/1999 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about SEEDPOD

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Give It Shape [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Learning to draw begins – or it did for me -with seeing shapes. Cones and squares and spheres. Shape is the first illusion to acquire.

Lately, I am spending an inordinate amount of time revisiting “beginnings.” My beginnings. Our beginnings. We open bins long stashed in the basement, the musty vaults securing evidence of our passage. We dig through the artifacts and discuss what gave us shape.

Important people shaped us. Many unimportant people shaped us, too. Circumstance and serendipity chipped away the stone that now reveals who we think we are. Shape, I am learning, is as much about what we hold onto as what we determine to let go. At long last setting down a closely held burden creates inner space, shape by another name. Picking up the burden of another to help them with their load necessitates a change of shape inside and between.

I recently decided that it was time to go back to basics. I have my sketchbook close at hand. I’m paying attention to shape, both inside and out. I wonder what I have forgotten about shape and what I need to re-member. If shape, in all its permutations, is the first illusion to acquire, I suspect it is also the last illusion we learn to release.

Some themes remain incomplete. I’ve painted this series-of-shapes over and over again.

my online gallery

read Kerri’s blogpost about SHAPES

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Be Unbearably Small [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“We fought so long against small things that we became small ourselves.” Eugene O’Neill

“On my last day of work, the back wheels of my car won’t be out of the parking lot before they erase everything I’ve worked for,” Tom said. He was right, of course. I was there and witnessed the dismantling. His words were not resentful. They were matter-of-fact. He helped me understand that a life’s work is not about achievement. Rather, it is about integrity of process. Relationship. Bringing instead of getting.

“I’ve fought my battles. It’s time for someone younger to pick up the fight,” another in my tribe of dear-wise-guides reminded me when I was pushing him hard to care. I am a few years down the road now and I understand to my bones his position. I have limited time here. I have (mostly) turned my eyes away from the fight and toward the wonder-of-it all. I have no idea how to paint it so I am reticent to touch my brushes. How do you contain – or try to contain in an image or word – the inexplicable? It’s the artist’s dilemma and I love it.

Sitting on the back deck staring into the pastel sky, I thought about their words. Quiet summer nights are prime for reminiscence and reflection. I thought about the battles I have fought in my life. The hills I chose to die on. The art meant to heal or change or provoke. To reach and touch a heart. To shake a sleeper awake.

I have been fortunate to have had such wise guides showing me the way. To give me the rare gift of perspective. I am fortunate to understand how unbearably small I am in this limitless universe. Were I to believe myself grand I would not have access to the awe of this summer night, this rolling pastel sky.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the PASTEL SKY

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*happy birthday, columbus.

Arrive At Wisdom [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

The meeting of sand and surf. In the children’s-book-of-my-mind, at the beginning of the story, sand and surf have completely different points of view. They have radically different understandings of each other and opposing orientations to ebb-and-flow, to the movement of the earth and their place in it. They insist that they are in conflict.

And yet, they meet. Every day. In the story of sand and surf they eventually learn that they can focus on their differences or they can focus on what they have in common. They are surprised to learn that one could not know itself without the other. They are gobsmacked by the knowledge that one would have no purpose without the other! In fact, they would have no identity without the other!

With their new understanding, sand and surf begin to ask a different question: who do they want to be together.

At the end of the story, the climax of this children’s tale, they come to understand that their reason-for-being is each other. They are not, in fact, separate. They are symbiotic. They transform each other in their mutual dance. Thus, they arrive at wisdom.

Sand and surf. Harmony, in the children’s-book-of-my-mind. Nothing really changes other than their choice of where to focus. And then, of course, everything changes.

my favorite illustration from Lucy And The Waterfox

Peri Winkle Rabbit Is Lost. A book I wrote and illustrated for a hurricane Katrina relief project. The organizers asked for an original story to help children understand and cope with loss. Original illustrations, no copies. I loved making this little book and i hope some child, somewhere, now an adult, loves it, too.

My gallery site

read Kerri’s blog post about SAND AND SURF

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