Voices Of Clarity [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“A society must assume that it is stable, but the artist must know, and he must let us know, that there is nothing stable under heaven.” ~ James Baldwin (via The Marginalian)

We picked our window of time perfectly. We needed to walk, to get out of the house and breathe yet it had rained much of the morning. Antsy, we took a chance when there was a small break in the weather and headed for the trail.

We walked slowly. We kept an eye on the sky. We watched the next band of storm clouds roll in. It was beautiful. It was ominous. The rain came a few moments after we completed our loop, just as we were getting into the car. We laughed at our good fortune.

Some people take photographs to record events. Kerri, like all artists, takes photographs to feed her spirit. She sees beauty and the photo is way to connect or harmonize with the beauty. It is akin to a hummingbird drinking nectar. I watched her take photos of the coming storm. There was a fierceness in her posture. There was joy in the face of the tumultuous clouds. As I watched I remembered a conversation I had with Brad about the reason artists create. There is a precise moment for the child-artist that a spark lights a soul-fire. In my moment I desperately wanted to see clearly what was happening behind peoples’ eyes; behind my own eyes.

“Tyrants always fear art because tyrants want to mystify while art tends to clarify.”~ Iris Murdoch (via The Marginalia)

Later I looked at her photograph of the rolling storm and thought it a perfect image for our times. The storm is coming. Lydia wrote a comment musing about the surprise rise in prices the maga-faithful (and the rest of us) will experience when the people who pick our crops are deported. I responded darkly that the artists and intellectuals will pick the crops from their place at the corporate farm detention camp. Despots always have to eliminate voices of reason, voices of criticism and opposition. Voices of clarity.

Today, now, more than ever, I want to understand what-on-earth is happening behind peoples’ eyes. As I understand it, this is exactly the time, when chaos and deception rule the day, that artists get-crackin’ to clarify.

Icarus. 30.5″x59.5″, acrylic on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE COMING STORM

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Take It Back [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Last evening, watching the sky transform from brilliant pink to deep purple and orange, we ate an entire bag of Lays Wavy potato chips. Kerri called it, “political angst eating”.

20 told us that he had to stop watching The Handmaid’s Tale because it was too close to the reality we currently face in the nation.

This morning two relevant-to-the-moment pieces of art rolled across our screens and collided. The first is Lighthouse, a new song by Stevie Nicks. In this mind-boggling time that women’s rights are under attack – that women are under attack – it is a call to action. “Is it a nightmare?” she asks. “It is unless you save it/ and that’s that/Unless you stand up/And take it back…”

The second, ROED, a short 10 minute documentary film by Dawn Lambing. It takes a page from Project 2025 and imagines what the nation will look like for women if the authoritarian maga get their wish. While watching it I realized that it is already the present reality for women in many red states. Watch it. This is no longer an exercise of “what if”. It’s here.

The Atlantic recently published an article, The Republican Freak Show: Like the man who leads it, the GOP is not just incidentally grotesque. It is grotesque at its core. In the article, Peter Wehner writes, “Since 2016 they have been at war with reality, delighting in their dime-store nihilism, creating “alternative facts” and tortured explanations to justify lawlessness and moral depravity and derangement of their leader…None of this is hidden…No one who supports the Republican party, who casts a vote for Trump and for his MAGA acolytes, can say they don’t know. They know.”

They know. It is the answer to the question we ask each day after our daily horror-troll of the news: “How can they not know.” It’s time to ask a better question. It’s time to stop pretending that they are ignorant or continually justifying their unwavering support of their depraved candidate with generous excuses like,” They just don’t see it”. They do see it.

They know. It is what they want for our nation. Women stripped of their fundamental rights. Mass deportations. The suspension of the Constitution. Book bans. The gutting of Medicare and Social Security. The elimination of the Department of Education. It goes on and on. Dangerous stuff worthy of a dystopian novel. Yet here we are. If you believe the polls, nearly 50% of our nation think the freak show is the way to go.

They know.

It is what makes Kerri and me eat entire bags of Lays Wavy potato chips. It’s why 20 stopped watching The Handmaid’s Tale.

“Is it a nightmare?” Stevie Nicks asks. Yes. Yes it is. “And that’s that/Unless you stand up/And take it back…”

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about PINK

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Empty To Refill [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Last week I wrote about a realization I had while cleaning my studio: I was cleaning it to close it for a while. As Karola used to say, “Let the glass go empty.”

The day my studio-cleaning-post published, we discovered a waterfall in the basement. Yet another waterfall. The waterline failed in the ceiling above my studio. More than a cleaning, the burst pipe facilitated a complete studio dismantling. My decision to let the glass-go-empty has some serious water-feature assistance.

My current hardcover sketchbook was directly beneath the break and was mush by the time we discovered the waterfall. My ancient beloved studio rocking chair was damaged to the point of needing a complete overhaul. Sometimes I am in awe of the sense of humor of the universe. The quirk of serendipity. There is no going back. There are metaphors a-go-go.

It will take awhile to sort out the wreckage just as it will take some time to completely empty-the-glass. Perfect timing.

In the meantime, fall is in the air. The leaves are changing. There is a call to the canyon lands that we will answer. There are walks to take. Space to create. Life to appreciate.

There is a glass to empty and to refill.

read Kerri’s blogpost about AUTUMN

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Ponder Pure Action [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.” ~ Rumi

Although now it’s ubiquitous in the social media sphere, to be an “influencer” is a relatively new term of in the canon of aspirations. To affect, to sway, to direct, to shape, to guide… Someone recently suggested that Kerri and I should attempt to become influencers and we both cringed. For us, there’s something shallow about that word that makes us recoil. We write everyday because we enjoy writing and are very aware that our love of writing does not necessarily mean that we have anything new or of value to say. We like to write together. We like to share what we write.

I recently read a Taoist tenet: cease trying to influence others or to be influenced by others. It’s a notion meant to speak to the pursuit of happiness. Essentially it recommends stopping the pursuit. Happiness is not a thing to be caught. It is not something to be attained. The tenet is a suggestion to stand still, to act purely according to what presents itself in the moment. To act without thought or desire of any imagined gain. Happiness is bubbling in the present moment, expressed through pure action. Taoists – as I understand it – call this non-action (as opposed to inaction). Wu Wei.

Pure action. Effortless.

When Kamala Harris became the Democrat nominee, we wondered what we could do to help. Previous to her entrance into the race, the ugly-red-tide seemed impossible to stop. She brought light and new energy. We read – somewhere – that in order to help her, people should do what they already do, do what they do best. And so, in this present moment, we write. I cannot claim to be pure in my action since I hold the hope of influencing a few hearts and minds out there, somewhere in the nation, to fully understand the power of their vote and the need to know what they are voting for.

Yesterday on our walk we crossed paths and had a chat with a friend and, of course, talked about politics. As a professor, he said each day, regardless of the topic or the lesson, now more than ever, he is trying to teach his students critical thinking skills. “They no longer know what is fact and what is made-up. They have to learn to question,” he said, “They have to learn to think for themselves, beyond what they are hearing in social media.”

Pure action. I told him that the imperative to teach critical thinking places him on the frontlines. A thinking person could not – would not – vote for the maga-candidate. There is plenty of desire in the red-tide to remove critical thinking from higher education – from all forms of education. To narrow rather than expand minds.

After we went on our way I realized that Kerri and I are doing in our writing exactly what our professor friend is doing in his classroom: attempting to inspire critical thinking. Pointing the direction to questions and to discernment, challenging those swallowing whole-cloth the dangerous-maga-fox-misinformation to open their eyes, to pop the info-bubble.

“I tell my students that it’s easy to find the truth,” the professor said. “You just have to want to see it.”

Nurture Me on the album Released from the Heart © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE RAIN

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Let It Sit [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Over thirty five years ago, people I loved, people who loved me, bought me an easel. It was a gift for my very first solo show. All these years later, it is the only easel I’ve ever had, the only easel I use. The only easel I will use. If the canvas is too big, if I can’t put it on my easel, I tack it to the wall.

My easel is well traveled. It moved up and down the west coast. It moved into and out of studio spaces. It rode in the truck to the midwest. It has hosted hundreds of canvases. It has become the Velveteen Rabbit of easels. It is no longer shiny and new. It is covered with layers of acrylic drips and splashes, the support stabilizer is bowed, I must be vigilant to keep it square. It is, I recently realized, my mirror image, my double-walker: I, too, am covered with drips and splashes, my stabilizer is bowing, and I am constantly vigilant about keeping myself grounded and square.

A few days ago, during a studio clean, I decided it was time to do a bit of easel excavation and repair. The build up of acrylic paint on the bottom canvas holder is…prodigious. I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to experience. As I peeled back the layers of acrylic, I unearthed the layers of my creative life. The layers of my life. I could literally associate the colors of the acrylic strata with specific paintings, with specific eras, with foibles and triumphs, despair and new hope. There were many many layers. It was like reading a diary, a life review in spatter.

Tom McKenzie taught me that in order to invite in new energy it is sometimes necessary to close the shop. Lock the door and let it sit. Make space. Time and patience will loosen the grip of old ideas, stale patterns – and open pathways to fresh possibilities. I’ve followed his sage advice twice before. Once I stopped painting for a full year. I not only closed the building but I burned the paintings. In both cases, locking the door was followed by a renaissance, a surge of new and surprising work.

I saw the story of my twice-artistic rebirth as I slowly peeled the history from my easel.

And, as I stripped back the layers of my life, the full understanding of what I was doing settled in. I am cleaning my easel in preparation for my third closing of the building. I am cleaning it so it will be ready for that day-in-the-future when I unlock the door. Spacious and rejuvenated. I have been fighting it. I have been angry about it because I feared it – I always fear that the muse will leave and never come back even though I know in my bones that the muse is the wise-voice asking me to breathe, to make space. Now, as is always the case after a few years of fighting a losing battle, I am accepting it. It’s time to lock the door. Empty the glass. Let it sit.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SPACE

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Open [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Each of us is an artist of our days; the greater our integrity and awareness, the more original and creative our time will become.” ~ John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

Divemaster Terry’s teaching was based on a simple principle: get neutral. In neutrality, there is no struggle. There is no fear. There is surrender to the movement of the ocean. The water cradles the diver.

The point? In the absence of struggle and fear, in the surrender to the natural movement of “something bigger,” only then is it possible to see. Only then is full awareness available beyond the control-story. Only then is it possible to experience the grace in the dive. To become.

Divemaster Terry was an artist. All the world was his studio. Every moment was his canvas. He was teaching me the essential lesson in artistry: surrender to the greater movement of the ocean. Flow with it rather than fight it. To fight the ocean is folly. And dangerous.

I thought of him as we harvested our peppers. We’ve never grown peppers before so this was new territory. Anything in the garden is relatively new territory. We do not know what we are doing. Our gardening is the equivalent of listening. She was giddy when she harvested the first peppers.

I recognized it. It was the same giddiness I felt the first time I understood – and lived – Terry’s lesson, “get neutral”. My eyes opened. My heart opened. I was inside the miracle, moving as the ocean, seeing without the obstruction of a story.

She plucked the first vibrant red pepper. For a moment she held the whole living earth in her hands. Eyes open. Heart wide open. No separation.

“Take time to see the quiet miracles that seek no attention” ~ John O’Donohue

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PEPPERS

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An Echo [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“…repetition as a means of physically marking time, memory, loss, transformation, and ultimately, transcendence.” ~ curator’s statement for the exhibit of Idris Khan at the Milwaukee Art Museum.

Repetition. A mantra. The hours of practice of a musician. A commute to work. Ritual. We walk the same looping trail again and again, season after season. The same is never the same.

We journey to the Milwaukee Art Museum to replenish our spirits. Mostly we visit Richard, Ellsworth, and Mark. I stop by and visit Georgia and Pablo. Not knowing much about him, we were for some reason drawn to the Idris Khan exhibit. Repetition. Stacked images. Words printed on top of words. Pages of musical scores layered and changed into a powerful visual statement. Symbols iterated until garbled and transformed; I leaned in close, then stepped back, again and again, becoming part of the repetition. A dance!

Such a simple star to follow, repetition. And yet…How many letters in an alphabet? How many notes on a scale? From the limited letters or available notes – symbols repeated and mixed and matched – an infinite array of possibilities. Every page of the Quran photographed and stacked. Bach’s Six Suites for Solo Cello.

Wandering through the galleries, his work made me ponder how our inner lives are entirely symbolic. Our days stacked one upon the other. We look though the stack called our past and somehow, through the noise, believe we arrive at understanding. Meaning. An echo.

Joy, 50″x56″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MUSEUM

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Find Your Right Place [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

A box of drawer pulls is a box of stories lost to time. Many are worn from long use, polished by human hands. Some have never been used, rarely touched, except by those of us that casually sift through the box.

It’s easy to personify a drawer pull and turn it into a story of yearning. A story of yearning for purpose. A story of being chosen. A story of finding a home.

As I lift a tiny knob from the box I ask, “And what about you?” I am tempted to buy the little knob for no other reason than to get it out of the box. To give it a home. I have already projected a personality onto this tiny pull and laugh heartily at myself.

The shopkeeper eyes me hopefully. It is unusual for the box of knobs to elicit laughter. She’s giving change to another customer.

I rub the tiny knob like a worry-stone and place it back in the box. “Have hope,” I tell the tiny knob. It is worn smooth from a long life of good use. “You’ll find your right place, your next life, someday soon.” I can feel it.

Were I a sculptor, an artist that worked in three dimensions like Louise Nevelson, the whole box would be coming home with me. I know the right artist will find this box and when they do, this little drawer pull, rather than sit forgotten on my shelf, will be delighted to transform, serving a less-functional but more heart-inspired kind of beauty, sublime as a work of art.

read Kerri’s blogpost about KNOBS

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A Different Understanding [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Sometimes color stops me in my tracks. The color of a sunset. The color of a canyon. The color of a flower. This hot coral coneflower stopped all engines.

David Hockney is a colorist. Henri Matisse. Judy Chicago. Piet Mondrian. Sonia Delaunay. There are so many painters whose use of bold color, like the coneflower, stops me in my tracks. Ellsworth Kelly. Mark Rothko.

With my love of color you’d think I’d be a colorist painter. Although I’ve had my moments, mostly I sort to earth tones. The neutrals. Once, a viewer of my painting, Unfettered, asked “Were you going for stone?” I wrinkled my nose and let the question hang unanswered.

Many years ago I mimicked David Hockney’s colors. I pushed myself to live in vibrancy. I loved the exploration but was rarely comfortable living in so much visual enthusiasm. I am too much the introvert to comfortably scream from my canvases.

I just washed over my latest painting, County Rainy Day. Kerri was appalled but I’d veered off course and hit color saturation too soon. I needed to reset. I generally work things out in process – instead of doing studies – so wiping off or washing over a canvas is not unusual. Like Kerri, John K used to chastise me, too, saying “Do versions or variations!” Versions and variations are expensive and I’ve rarely had abundant resources in my life. Every action has a history.

Recently Andrew Wyeth has once again caught my fancy. I’d never suggest that he is not a master of color – he is – but his paintings tend toward the neutrals. He captures something deeper, his visual language is as much that of a poet as a painter. A different understanding of color.

I imagine that, like me, on his daily walk, the color of a coneflower or the shape of a leaf stopped him in his tracks. And, one way or another, that startling moment of appreciation found its way into his heart and onto his canvases.

reset: County Rainy Day (detail)

read Kerri’s blogpost about SALMON CONEFLOWER

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Be Better At Bad [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

I am painting very badly. It’s not a surprise. It’s been a while since I have consistently been in the studio so it will take a while to loosen up, to stop thinking about the next step. Artistry is not so different from athletics; it takes a while to get back into shape.

Previous iterations of myself would have felt badly for painting badly. That guy would have hidden his clumsy images and too-tight-brush-strokes. These days I’m better at being bad. I like the dance. I’m more interested in cultivating a healthy process so I’m less invested in how I look. How “it” looks. “Bad” is a process step, an opportunity to learn or laugh rather than the judgement that it used to be.

It’s easy to write about the necessity of throwing many pots or writing ten-bad-pages-to get-to-one-good-page. It’s another thing to do it. Celebration of the bad is a necessary step in finding flow. And, after such a long studio hiatus, flow is nowhere to be found. Artists do not train to clear a hurdle or master the pommel horse. Artists train for flow.

We nearly lost Breck-the-aspen-tree. We kept her in a pot for too long. And then we planted her in a place that was less than optimal. She withered so we quickly moved her to another spot. It was a guess since we thought the first spot was prime. That was three years ago and today she is thriving. She is as tall as the garage and growing fast. Her trunk is no longer pencil thin. It is robust, sturdy. Birds perch in her branches. Last year she was like a gawky teenager and produced weirdly sized leaves. This year she has come into her own.

Last week, after painting especially bad, suffocatingly tight and small-brush-clumsy, I sat outside with Breck. She asked me to remember her freakish leaves. She reminded me of the strange unwieldy branch that reached like a beanstalk above all the others. It was so unusual that we worried for her survival. We worried a giant might come looking for a goose. “Growth is tricky,” she said and quaked.

Yes. Growth is tricky. Sometimes it takes a chat with the aspen tree to remember to take a breath, reach for the sun and celebrate right where you are on the path.

County Rainy Day…in process. Too tight too soon…a step on the way to flow…

visit my gallery site

read Kerri’s blogpost about BRECK

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