Reflect The Light [on Two Artists Tuesday]

One of my most prized possessions is the homemade notebook DeMarcus made as an art student. It’s his notes from a class on color. The pages become more brittle with each passing year. The pencil notes are fading. Every so often, when I need a masterclass from a simpler time, I gingerly open the notebook and read a few pages.

The first entry always catches me. “Color: Light is a form of radiant energy transmitted by wave movement through space and is perceived visually.” The underlines are his. Radiant energy. Wave movement. Perceived.

It’s the second half of the page that grabs me: ” The (3) Qualities of Light: Physically = Life-giving. Mentally = Intelligence. Spiritually = Divine Wisdom…Think of color as light reflected.”

Keep in mind this is a beginning art student taking notes during his very first course introduction to color. His instructors are teaching him that working with color is working with light that is either life-giving, intelligence emitting or wisdom divine. In other words, working with color matters. To work with color is to give voice and expression to light. The work of an artist is about more than finger painting.

“Light is individualized by its contact with substances into COLOR…Think of color as LIGHT REFLECTED.”

If I could, I’d offer DeMarcus’ little notebook to all those fear-mongers out there scrubbing Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion curriculums and initiatives from their states. Scrubbing color from their palettes. Eliminating light. Life-revoking, intelligence numbing, wisdom stripping.

Repeat in pencil: To work with color is to give voice and expression to light. Think of color as light reflected.

Simple clarity from the first pages of a first year art student written in a homemade notebook more than a century ago. This nation is made vibrant through its rich diverse color palette. Why-on-earth would we knowingly, willingly, turn off the light?

read Kerri’s blogpost on COLOR

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Cheer The Artist [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Even with our earplugs, the music was loud. Our son was the artist on stage, his spontaneous composition making movement irresistible. We danced. The crowd whirled and cheered. I was proud. It was the first time we’d seen him perform live. He was fully in his element. This is what he is supposed to do: Make music that sets people free.

In our current world I can imagine nothing more potent or necessary. I wish his music might reach into the cold heart of Texas, dispel the manufactured fears of Florida. I hope his music rattles the foundations of the tightly held and airless “norm”. It is imaginary. Norm depends upon where you stand and, last I knew, there were many places to choose – all of them central to one. I will cheer on the day that his music pierces the veil of man-made-ugly-and-exclusive rules that are attributed to one angry god or another.

The best artists practicing the best of their artistry erase boundaries and lead people into their shared, common center: a place called love. It’s a boundless place, a place where people celebrate each other, where people dance for the joy of being alive, for the deep appreciation of being-just-who-they-are: unique in all the universe.

I saw it this weekend. Of the artist and the bountiful revelers I can truly say I am Proud.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PROUD

See The Best Of Good Things [on KS Friday]

The world does not stand still for anyone. When Craig led us down into his studio I felt as if I was living a fable by Aesop. The same technology that essentially crashed Kerri’s career is now making Craig’s musical genius possible. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? “Well, that depends,” says the farmer to his fate.

I was witness to best of good things: the son, a consummate musician, sharing his artistry with his mother, a consummate musician. Craig showed Kerri how he creates EDM, electronic dance music. Layers upon layers of sound mixed and altered through digital magic. EDM is his passion. He comes alive when he talks about it.

EDM was not possible 20 years ago. Watching Kerri and Craig play in the studio together I remembered something that Kerri once said: “I feel like I was born 10 years too late.” Mourning the rapid change to the music industry, brought about by the advent of streaming services, she felt as if “her time”, the music that she most understands and resonates with, was the wave just in front of her. Analog. No acrobatics. Soulful. Her star was rising just as her business was washed away in the raging digital stream.

The music remains. It’s everywhere, available to anyone, anywhere. We regularly come across her pieces used in commercials or underscoring everything from tiktok moments to youtube tributes. She’s popular. She’s just not paid.

If she was born 10 years too late, then Craig was born right in his zone. Digital complexity. Fast-moving, multi-layered, the music of emoji attention spans. It’s thrilling, a sensory assault. Strategic and improvisational, both. Trance music for urban dwellers seeking a drumming-dance path to transcendence.

And, in the end, the essential eclipsed the gap of music styles and time: a mother who infused music into her son was elated as he, now a musician in his own right, immersed his mom into his music. It was thrilling to witness. A moment in rushing time. Ancient passage in a contemporary mask.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE STUDIO

unfolding/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

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

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Dine With Jonathan [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

I lost my copy of On Reflection by Jonathan Miller in one of my moves. He gave it to me. I treasured it both for the generosity of his gift but also a reminder of a night I had a casual dinner with an artistic giant. He was kind. And funny. And shared his ideas, thoughts and new work like an enthusiastic child. He listened intently to my ideas and thoughts like a fascinated friend. It is the mark of a great artist: humility. Healthy doubt. He loved his work and loved to share the exploration. He was brimming with questions.

I left that evening thinking, “I want that!”

That. Secure in my work. The playfulness of a child. The love of the exploration. The fearlessness to my bones knowing that each painting and every play is not an end in itself – not an achievement – but part of the dance of life on the playground called artist. Dedicated to asking questions. Dedicated to surfacing shared truth.

To Mary Oliver’s question, “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” I say, I want that. Wild and precious.

That. It’s not an achievement; rather, it is a way of being. A practice. It alters Mary Oliver’s question: How will you be within your one wild and precious life?

Safe. Steady. Unshakable through dedicated practice. Arrived at through a lifetime of grace and humility. Or, perhaps, grace and humility arrived at through a lifetime of questioning. The certainty of doubt. That’s what I saw in Jonathan Miller that night. The paradox of the artist: security in vulnerability. To feel so safe as to play without inhibition. To express sans trepidation. To share and receive with equal enthusiasm.

It is a practice available when the artistry is no longer about the “I” but about the “we”. The bigger energy, call it what you will. It’s humbling. That.

read Kerri’s blogpost about REFLECTION

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Help Chris

Chris Domig dreams big dreams. I’ve never worked with a better actor. And, more importantly, he is among the best people, truly – truly – a great person.

Chris is the artistic director and founder of Sea Dog Theater in NYC – one of his dreams, come true. He works harder than anyone I’ve ever known to make his dreams a reality.

In the next week he has a mountain to climb: for this new off-broadway production, Tuesdays With Morrie, he must raise $100,000 before this time next week. Seriously.

I have little money but a rich network. You can help Chris in two ways: 1) Pass this on, or 2) Follow this link and give-what-you-can to a worthy artist making very worthy art. Or, if you wish, do both.

Thank you for passing this through your network. Thank you for helping Chris climb this mountain.

[a note: Thirteen years ago I made a rule never to promote anything through my blog – except my own mad-mad-artistry. This post – for the first time – busts my rule and I’m delighted to do it – a statement of how much I value Chris and his work.]

Allow Good Things [on DR Thursday]

Pre-Covid we regularly had dinner parties or hosted gatherings of Kerri’s choirs and ukulele band. Each week the big dining room table was piled high with food and drink. People crowded into the kitchen and living room. People spilled out onto the deck.

Now, we use the dining room table when we have large projects that require space for organization. We use it as a staging ground when we’re preparing for a trip. Covid ushered in an era of reclusion and the necessity for space and quiet.

Last weekend we had a surprise large project to assemble. Tons of paper to sort. As Kerri prepared the plan I headed to the dining room to clear the table. I stopped in my tracks with what I found there. The table was covered with rocks. There were several gallon size ziplock bags with painted rocks and rocks ready to be painted. Mostly, there were paper towels spread like islands across the table surface, each populated by dozens of hagstones. Odin Stones. Adder stones. Magical stones of many names, all sizes, from tiny bead-size to fist-size rocks, each with a naturally eroded hole. The power of water working on earth.

I hadn’t realized that we’d collected so many. We’d inadvertently converted our dining room into a hagstone sanctuary, an epicenter of ancient folk magic: nature’s talisman of healing, protection and wisdom. I laughed. Apparently we could use a bit of ancient protection. I certainly could use a healthy dose of wisdom. I considered laying on the table, body across the bumpy stones and saying, “I’m ready! Do your stuff!”

We bumbled onto the secluded beach a few months ago. The power of the lake is palpable. The beach is a festival of wave-polished rocks and treasured hagstones. The gulls circle and chase. The portal to the beach requires crawling through trees recently burned. Fire. Air. Water. Earth. People have created whimsical structures, crude altars and twisted sculpture from the driftwood.

We’ve returned a few times to comb the beach for the miracle stones with holes made from years and years of their dance with water. A feather on the stone. Time disappears as we slowly walk the beach, heads down, sensing as much as looking for the rare hagstones.

According to tradition, only good things can pass through the hole in the stone, made magic by the watercarver. Our growing collection, a prayer-pile or incantation cairn. Good things.

I will, someday soon, lay on the beach after dipping into the cold Lake Michigan water, warm myself in the sun, and feel the large hole that life has worn through me, myself now a magic hagstone. Grateful, I will think, “Only good things. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about HAGSTONES

winged, 26x20IN, acrylic, nfs

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Sip It [on Merely A Thought Monday]

There are deep, meaningful layers to this story-image. The first is an answer to the all-important-question, “How do we entertain ourselves at a bar?” We make fun contemporary art, of course! Or, we make fun of contemporary art. I’m not sure since the line of distinction is blurred in real life so it is more blurred at the bar, where life isn’t really real and escapism is to be expected.

Have I confused you? It’s simple really. Limit your palette to two bar napkins, two sipping straws, and the fruit remnants from a brandy old-fashioned. Arrange a composition. Snap a photo for posterity. Ask yourself and others, “What does it mean?” And, when you find yourself concocting answers to the great amusement of your friends, you might recognize that the actual art-of-the-moment is the performance of the improvisational play entitled What Does It Mean?

You’ll conclude – if you are honest – that it – your art work – has no inherent meaning – and all supposéd meaning is projected onto the image. It can mean many things or nothing at all. Just like life outside of the bar [that sneaky escapism always loops back to the real stuff!] The composition might simply be appreciated for its clever arrangement and varied texture. It might conjure up fond memories of old-fashioned’s past.

Here’s what it means to me: I could not be considered a local Wisconsinite until I had a palette of experiences, like eating cheese curds or attending a fish boil. On the tippy top of the list was to enjoy a brandy old-fashioned. More, to know whether I preferred my drink sweet or sour. This composition, the scattered remains of the drink-of-the-state, reminded me of the day I ascended to the top of the list and sipped my first ritual old-fashioned. I would anoint this piece with the worthy title BELONGING AT LAST.

read Kerri’s blogpost about POST OLD-FASHIONED

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Keep The Connection [on DR Thursday]

A Haiku: Sun bathes the hilltop/Green grass, stones etched, dates with names/Here, we meet again.

Carvings in stone. I’ve read that among the first evidence of human-made-art is associated with funerary rituals. Send the soul on their journey with the proper talismans. There are petroglyphs, too. Scratches in stone. A message? A journal? A reach to the “beyond”? A handprint on the wall of a cave.

The earliest Greek theatre was a religious ceremony. A portal for the gods to come through and speak. Can you imagine the role and responsibility of the playwright?

I watched a Rangda ritual in Bali that shook my world. Priests with knives ran at the Rangda, stabbing and stabbing. The knives bent, the Rangda taunted. One of the priests fell into a trance and began channeling a voice from beyond. The entire community leapt to surround the priest and hear the ancestor’s message. As introduction to the ritual, the only English speaker in the village told us something akin to: “What we have of value to share is our art.”

Can you imagine? An entire community that held their art and artists as sacred. Valuable. As the means to connect to their ancestors. It was so profoundly moving that I couldn’t sleep that night. What I had known and experienced personally was, in this place, alive in the public heart. I mourned the art-poverty of my nation and community. We tape bananas to the wall and lose ourselves in a made-up-maze of the conceptual.

I was taken aback in the pioneer cemetery. Most of the headstones were homemade, a red-brown sandy-cement with shells or rocks pressed in; a name scratched in the surface with a stick. Families doing their best not to lose their kin. Moving forward in time, we found a few stones made of marble and decorated by a stone carver. More substantial, perhaps, but the purpose remained the same. Keeping connected to what has come and gone. Attending to the ancestors. The story of us etched in stone.

shaman. 36x48IN. Oil on canvas. nfs.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CARVING

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Watch Your Fingers [on DR Thursday]

After several weeks with its face to the wall, I turned the painting around to see it with fresh eyes. “OMG!” I thought. “This needs some serious work!” It’s too tight in some places, not finished in others, and it’s missing an all important element. The florals are rock hard and the dog – part of the original composition – is nowhere to be found. What was I thinking!

I’m a bit too famous for painting over paintings. It’s a habit that evokes finger-wagging from friends. Kerri has been known to fling herself between me and a painting that I put on the easel-chopping-block. “I hate it!” I cry.

“Touch it and I’ll break your fingers,” she quietly threatens. I like my fingers so I relent.

Actually, she’s provided me with the perfect response to gallery-goers when they ask the ubiquitous question, “How do you know when a painting is done?”

In the past I’d say something amorphous like, “It’s not something you know; it’s something you feel.” Intuition. Gut feeling. Artistic argle-bargle.

Now, my perfect reply is definitive and goes like this: “Oh, it’s easy! I know it’s complete when my wife threatens to break my fingers.” She might look like a delicate columbine-flower but watch out.

It’s a conversation stopper but the real fun comes when I add, “She’ll break the fingers of anyone who doesn’t appreciate my work.”

I turn and walk away as they debate asking the obvious next question: Is she here?

read Kerri’s blogpost about COLUMBINE FLOWERS

The offending painting. It needs work and Kerri has yet to threaten my fingers.

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train through trees – in this state of development © 2023 david robinson

Embrace The Accident [on Two Artists Tuesday]

I am a big believer in happy accidents. Kerri didn’t intend to take this photo. A vibrant shock of red thrust into a field of green. I’m tempted to slap a title on it and enter it into a contemporary photography exhibition.

I’ve read that serendipity, an “unplanned fortunate discovery,…is a common occurrence throughout the history of product invention and scientific discovery.” It’s also a common occurrence throughout the history of art. It’s also a common occurrence throughout the history of…history. We have experiences and then we make meaning of them. Not the other way around.

I suppose we pride ourselves on our capacity “to know” so we forget that all knowledge is the result of a stumble, a discovery found at the far end of curiosity, exploration or an outright mistake. The point of a hypothesis (to borrow a term from Quinn) is to cultivate serendipity. Try it and see what happens.

I’ve been following the conversation in the tech-o-sphere about the sudden blossom of the very lucrative job “phrase engineer.” Human beings attempting through trial and error to learn how best to converse with the technology we’ve created. AI. ChatGpt. The unspoken goals are (not surprisingly) efficient and effective communication. There are now several sites with useful phrases, conversational hints, Youtubes abound with guidance for best ways to ask better questions, quickly eliciting the best result: an answer. It’s glorious and reminds me of old 3rd grade language primers or my high school foreign language class – only more enthusiastic.

I am among the millions who hope beyond hope that someone-out-there bumbles into the secret of effective communication. Perhaps if we discover how to communicate with artificial intelligence there will be a profound blowback and we will, serendipitously, discover the secret of easy communication with each other. Generosity. Empathy. Kindness. How-you-say-what-you-say matters.

“AI, tell me what you see and I will listen with an open mind and heart.” I know, I know. More pie-in-the-sky. But as a dedicated believer in happy accidents, I’m given to think that anything is possible.

read Kerri’s blogpost about RED ON GREEN

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