A Greater Truth [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Politics is downstream of culture.” ~ Brian Tyler Cohen

Societies disappear but their art remains. The art serves to carry forward through time the essence, the beliefs, the customs, the inner space and outer limits of a culture. Culture is a force greater than politics. Artists carry in their work the flame of culture; they serve a greater truth. The same cannot be said of politicians or captains of industry.

Like it or not, the artists at the Grammy awards spoke directly to the current horrors of our politics. They know the reach and power of their words and their artistry to inspire action. Bruce Springsteen’s song, The Streets of Minneapolis has become an anthem celebrating the courageous people who refuse to hide from the bully. It is a call to the essence of the American spirit while also calling out the lies of division and brutality of ICE and those who’ve created this mindless monster.

On the National Mall a sculpture appeared of the authoritarian-wannabe holding hands with Epstein. It’s entitled “Best Friends Forever”. A second installation, a ten foot replica of The Wannabe’s Birthday Card to Epstein, has shown up. The work of Banksy and those who emulate him are showing up on walls all across the world. A picture is worth a thousand words.

Anselm Kiefer, among the greatest visual artists of our times, has spent his life working “…themes of German history and the horrors of the Holocaust”. His work speaks directly to the fascist moment we now face in the USA.

Art inspires action because it reaches beyond words to touch souls. It simplifies the complex. It clarifies the chaos.

To say we live in complex times is an understatement. An old world order is collapsing. The gap between the haves and the have-nots is ever-widening, our politicians sell our future to the corporate dollar and create oligarchs, who, in turn, would have us believe that the people are incapable of governing themselves.

In our lifetime there has never been a greater need for the artist’s voice. We are daily served an avalanche of lies meant to keep us confused and off-center. Consider this: every person on the streets blowing a whistle or recording the brutality of ICE is an artist. They are calling our attention to the truth. They actively pierce the ugly rhetoric to expose the stark reality. They challenge the lies. They support us in knowing with absolute clarity who we are so that we might come together as a community and say to this administration, “You do not represent us. We are better than this.”

To all the republican politicians out there: be certain that culture is coming for you.

YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE © 2003 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpsot about ARTISTS

Marc Chagall ‘America Windows’ www.kerrianddavid.com

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No Need [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

In their struggle for power, the princes, the two sons of the king, meet in battle and both die. It’s an ancient tale. Aesop could have written it. In the blind greed for power everyone loses.

I’ve tried to paint this analogy several times over the past decade. Each time I have been unsuccessful; the painting takes on a life of its own. Twice, instead of painting dead princes on the battlefield, both attempts morphed into Shared Fatherhood.

I tried again just before the turn of the new year. I am disgusted with both parties, democrats and republicans and tried again to paint the brothers dead on the battlefield. The meaningless loss.

Yet, once again, the lifeless bodies morphed. Their weapons and wounds disappeared. Clenched fists relaxed. Full of life, the figures embrace. They sleep together, peacefully.

I will not again try to paint the warring brothers. Clearly, my analogy for power-greed serves a greater invocation of generosity. Unselfishness. A shared cause, like a parent’s love for their child, a kindness for each other.

Invocation. The people protesting on the streets of Minneapolis are summoning peace. They are looking out for each other. They are standing in harm’s way for each other. They serve a cause greater than greed for power. They are teaching me what my paintings are trying to reach. A calling forth of the best in us. A desire for our representatives to serve a common center – democracy – instead of personal gain.

We walked the trail on a bitter cold day. The snow was frozen and crunched beneath or feet. It was quiet. The sun streamed through the trees and offered a touch of warmth. It never fails. When we step into nature and out of the noise, when we listen to the wind through the trees, spot the deer motionless in the tangle, when we stop to feel the sun touch us on a bitter cold day, I know beneath the greed for power there is a greater force, a deeper meaning. Two people sharing the joy of their child. Two people resting in the comfort of an embrace. A community in service to common good. The generosity of peace. The creation of peace.

These power-mongers will slay each other. It’s inevitable.

After so many attempts I’ve learned that I have no need to paint the obvious, I have no need to make a statement as old and evident as the sons of Oedipus.

Untitled, 33.25″x60″, mixed media

Shared Fatherhood II, 25.25 x 40.25IN, mixed media

Shared Fatherhood 1, 39 x 51IN, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SUN ON TRAIL

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Push A Limit [David’s blog on KS Friday]

In one of the more absurd chapters of my life I was awarded a full-ride scholarship to a graduate program in costuming. As an undergraduate student in the theatre with a focus on acting and directing I’d spent a goodly amount of time in costume shops, sewing buttons, repairing shoes, badly hemming pants. It is fair to say that anything that involves fabric makes little to no sense to me. Many dear and patient costumers kept me busy during my required costume hours with tasks that I could not bungle. They found my level of competence (very low) and helped me succeed there.

My capacity to draw opened the door of costume absurdity. While interning at The Walden Theatre in Louisville, Kentucky, the director cast me as Oberon in a production of A Mid Summer Night’s Dream. She also asked me to design the costumes. She’d seen my drawings. I was delighted and drew characters with absolutely no idea whether or not my drawings could be translated into actual garments that people could wear. The very gifted head of the costume shop recognized my vast limitations and gently helped me make fabric decisions. I learned the art of the question from her. She knew what was best – and I knew nothing at all – so her questions were precise with the correct answer baked into the framing of the question.

One day a man came to audition actors for a graduate program. The audition room was lined with my costume designs. After the auditions he found me and asked me to interview with the tech faculty of the university. It was a crazy idea, a wild hare, but I did it anyway. At the time my ship had no rudder and there was nothing on my horizon following my internship. Plus, I believed there was no way, given my very very low costume competence, that they’d offer me a spot. But they did. And I accepted.

When Kerri resurrected her box of clothes-patterns it surfaced my long forgotten time in graduate school as a costume designer. I could draw and design everything. I couldn’t construct anything. More than once I reduced my professors to tears of laughing-disbelief at my attempts to sew. More than once I stopped them in their tracks with my capacity to imagine and paint. I began that year believing I was on the wrong path – I knew I was never going to be a costume designer – and I ended the year having learned that there is no such thing as a wrong path. Those good people, the incredible artists that surrounded me each day, helped me see and embrace my gifts. They helped me laugh at my foibles. They helped me understand the great creative power – and necessity – of pushing on a limit and stepping into an unknown. They helped me find my way.

LEGACY 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 PATTERNS

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Magic Things [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” ~ W.B. Yeats

Standing at the back of the theatre watching a performance of a play that he’d directed, Roger whispered a frustration that most artists whisper at some point in their career: the audience will never get all of the layers of story. Very few will appreciate the totality of the hard work, the heart, the intention, the nuance…So much goes unseen, un-felt.

There is, of course, only one response to his whispered frustration. They may not get it all but you – the artist – does. Sometimes I think the skill of the artist is to slow the world down so that they can more fully see it. Or, more accurately, slow down so they can see the magic in the world. And then their work is to help their community see it, too. The great gift of artistry is that the work is never finished. The process – the capacity to perceive and share more of the magic – is never ending.

I regularly ponder the impact of the pace of work and life in the age of the internet. It’s a raging river of information that never slows. In fact, “progress” is understood as an increase of speed. We worship at the business alter of efficiency-and-effectiveness; people are rewarded for striding at an ever faster pace – so anything, like artistry, that suggests slowing down might be beneficial, is radical. There is a reason that an audience might not “get it”.

I’ve been aware this week, as we deal with the impacts of the snow and cold on our house and car, that we’ve mostly unplugged. Necessity has made us present. It is not an accident that the prompt-photos for this Melange week are mostly close-ups. Detail. We’ve been staring at the miracle of the icicles. The patterns in the snow clusters on the Adirondack chairs have captivated us.

Yeats knew only pen and ink. He stared at blank pages and not at flickering dynamic screens that pulled his attention this way and that and filled his mental bucket with information. He did not sort through hundreds of emails each day or navigate the mind numbing onslaught of social media. Yeats took walks and stared out windows to clear his mind. He sought other poets and thinkers, he spent time with them so he might challenge and expand his ideas, his perceptions, his capacity to see and feel.

The world of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper, knows that our senses are so inundated with information and noise and stimulus that we are less and less able to sense anything at all, especially the magic things. We are distracted, often misinformed and thoroughly entertained – and less and less capable of sustaining a span of attention, let alone sharpening our senses.

Sharpened senses – otherwise known as presence – opens the door to the ubiquitous magic things, things that patiently wait for us to slow down enough to fully appreciate them.

BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL © 1997 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOWFLAKES

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Incessant Musing [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

grasses. winter. snow. root. energy. fallow. aging. relevance.

I am ever so slowly working on a painting. In my mind it is a political statement which is why my movement is glacial. I sit in my rocking chair staring at the work-in-progress and wonder if what I want to say needs to be said. I wonder why I need to say it. I wonder if paintings that “say it” are worth painting at all. My teachers and mentors, all of them, taught me that great art happens when you “say it without saying it”.

Dogga stands in the middle of the snowy yard and barks. These are test-barks. Nothing is happening in the neighborhood and he wants something to bark about. In the absence of a meaningful bark objective, in the absence of other dogs barking in the neighborhood or the neighbor starting his car, he barks, “Is anyone out there?” Is my painting akin to Dogga barking?

Tom told me that when my beard was grey I would have a crisis of relevance. My age-peers would read my rough drafts and consider my work viable but the younger artist in my life would not. I have found that to be true. When Tom was in his middle 60’s he was arguably at the peak of his abilities yet the many, many artists whose careers he’d informed and shaped simply stopped responding to his calls. So he simply stopped trying. That was his last and perhaps greatest lesson to me: do not place your relevance in the hands of others. Follow the muse until your legs will no longer carry you. Bark and see what comes back at you.

Michelangelo sculpted his most prescient work in the last chapter of his 88 year life though he kept them under wraps since his patrons would have thought them to be irrelevant. It took the world 450 years to catch up to his Mannerist pieces.

And then there is this timeless bit of advice from a younger version of Tom: A writer writes. A painter paints. The rest is not really relevant. It’s always at this re-membrance that I stand up from my chair, put down my incessant musing, and grab my brush. A painter paints.

relevance. aging. fallow. energy. root. snow. winter. grasses.

a work in progress: Polynices & Eteocles

read Kerri’s blogpost about WINTER GRASSES

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Tacit Teachers [David’s blog on Not So Thawed Wednesday]

“Rilke recommended that when life became turbulent and troublesome, it was wise to stay close to one simple thing in nature.” ~ John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

For my one simple thing this winter, in these turbulent and troublesome times, I choose icicles. Or, perhaps it is more accurate to say that icicles have chosen me. We are spending an inordinate amount of time together.

When one is as up-close to icicles as I have been in these past weeks, it is impossible not to notice their unique self-expression; each has an individual personality, a beauty all their own. They are sculptural wonders. And yet, follow them back in drip-time and they originate from a single formless origin.

With hot water or Dan’s heat gun I attempt to alter their form and they laugh. I call myself an artist but am no match for their sculptor. That is why it is wise to stay close to them. They are tacit teachers. They put me and these troubled times into perspective.

They are a temporary map of the path of least resistance. And they are gloriously impermanent. Even in seeming stillness, they are moving, changing. Worthy reminders and ample reasons to keep them close. I am glad that they chose me for remedial instruction.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ICICLES

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What Were You Thinking? [David’s blog on KS Friday]

The flakes hitting our faces felt like needles. We’d ventured out to get some photos of the lake-in-the-snow-storm. After snapping a few photos the sideways wind drove us back home. Stepping into the warmth of the house, we agreed, “That was enough!”

A few weeks ago we completely re-visioned the upstairs of our home. We repainted a bedroom. We carried sack-after-sack of discards out of the office and into the trash. We installed a repurposed bookshelf at the top of the stairs. I was amused when Kerri went to my basement archives to pull a new painting to sit atop the bookshelf. She returned with a canvas that I was preparing, an under-painting of broad grey strokes and splashes – not a finished painting. “I love it!” she exclaimed, placing the canvas atop the shelf. “Don’t you love it?”

“But, it’s not a painting yet,” I replied.

“Yes it is!” she chirped, proud of her new acquisition.

“I would have done better in my life as a painter had I not taken myself so seriously,” I said, shaking my head. “I would have saved myself some serious struggle had I learned sooner to stop at the under-painting.” She agreed to add a stroke of white to the…composition…so it would be a piece by both of us, though, to date, the…painting…remains mine-all-mine.

This morning it occurred to me that “the painting” bears an uncanny resemblance to the view of the wet snow raging just outside our sunroom window. The tones are similar. Tip the window on its side and it would be a sister piece to the canvas sitting on top of the shelf. Maybe I should title “the painting” Buh-Buh-Blizzard. Or Opus 25 In Winter Window Tones. Or, perhaps, Kerri’s Choice.

Or maybe I’ll leave it unnamed, a mystery piece for future guests to ponder. They will politely ask (as they always do), “What were you thinking when you painted the piece at the top of the stairs?”

I’ll look at Kerri and smile, saying, “Maybe you should answer this one.”

WATERSHED on the album AS IT IS © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE STORM

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Return To Zero [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In college, I learned from our technical director, Steve, to thoroughly clean the shop at the end of each day. Every tool was put back in its place. The floor was swept of sawdust. Brushes washed and paint cans sealed and re-shelved. The shop was returned to zero so we might start afresh the next day. We learned that taking care of our space was an act of taking care of our art. Self care. I carried that lesson forward in my life, in the theatre companies I had the privilege of guiding.

I learned that it feels good to take care of your space. I also learned that it fosters something vital and often elusive for artists: ownership and a sense of responsibility for their artistry. It’s grounding. I’ve had the unhappy experience of witnessing artists (and business leaders) who have a bevy of assistants follow them with brooms, like the guys with buckets and shovels following the horses in a parade. Cleaning your own space prevents the unhappy ego-ascension onto a personal pedestal; a guaranteed artistry killer. A guaranteed community killer.

I’ve also had the unhappy experience of witnessing artists in full fear of their artistry. Making a hot mess and cleaning it up is a great cure for even the most dedicated perfectionist. Instead of art, intend to make a mess. Then clean it up. Repeat. You’d be amazed at the impossibly beautiful work that emerges when the impossible expectation is put in its proper place.

The abrupt and abundant snow earlier this week brought an end to the plants on our deck and potting bench. We spent a good part of the weekend cleaning out and storing the clay pots, raking the leaves, clipping the peonies and containing the tall grasses. Readying the yard for the return of spring. While clipping the plumes I was for a moment thrust back into the shop in college. Steve walked by, the keys on his belt jangling. Time to clean up and close up for the night. I smiled. I doubt that he understood how important his simple requirement of keeping the space clean would become for me, a north star for those moments when I was attempting to climb on my pedestal or was afraid of my gift.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BENCH

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A Popcorn Trail [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

The torrents of rain and tropical wind gusts paused momentarily to regroup, so we went out. She couldn’t wait to set foot on the dock. She needed – needed – to walk to the small pavilion at the far end. A shelter with benches and remembrance. Her memories called.

Many years ago I had a week all alone in my childhood home. I was writing my book and the empty house seemed like a perfect quiet retreat. Between writing sessions I walked. I literally felt pulled to revisit the places and pathways of my youth. I stood at the edge of the present and listened for the echoes of my past. It’s what she was doing as we slow-walked toward the pavilion: attuning to the resonance of her life.

Standing beneath the shelter, already drenched from the rain, the wind winding up for the next hard gust, she said, “I wrote a song here…” The story spilled from her in fragments and she reassembled the pieces. A small section of the puzzle came together.

The birthplace of a song. The birthplace of an artist. A tiny pavilion at the end of a dock. The place where a young woman composed music in her mind and left behind a bit of the song, a popcorn trail for an older woman to follow so that she might someday find her way home.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PAVILION

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A Time Of Water [David’s blog on KS Friday]

And just before the autumn equinox, the last day lily had her brilliant orange moment in the sun and then closed up shop for the winter. It was poignant. We watched her drink in the sun and then fold.

The nights grow longer than the day. The plumes on the grasses are radiant when they catch the evening light. The leaves on the pepper plant have yellowed. The sweet potato vine, once a vibrant uniform lime green, now displays a pattern of color, red-brown and crimson.

We’re emerging from a few weeks of sickness, a bad cold moved in and took much of the wind from our sails. Our limited energy allowed for a few shaky-leg slow walks by the lake. Slow walking allows for better seeing. I marvel at how unimportant most things become – how my perspective simplifies and clarifies when I have limited energy; when my body demands my attention. We sat in our adirondack chairs facing the sun. I felt like the day lily, drinking it in. The sun is good medicine.

Better seeing. Clarity.

I did not know that the word “winter” comes from an old Germanic word and means “time of water.” The snow, the ice, the freezing rain. We pull inside. We retreat to the root to recuperate and gather energy for renewal.

Each week Kerri chooses one of her compositions for our Friday posts. This week, in trying to decide between two pieces, she chose both: one piece from her first album, entitled In Transition, and one from her most recent album – her 15th – entitled Transience. I was moved when listening to the pieces side-by-side: the same theme separated by a decade and a half of life. Transitory life, cycles of production and retreat, generation and rest, exploring and recognizing.

Transitory life looks differently when you are older than it does when you are young.

We are having an extended conversation with our son about artistry. He is an EDM artist and is taking full possession of his gifts. It’s thrilling to watch him move from becoming to being. He is fully inhabiting a time of fire. He is running fast. Chasing.

We – Kerri and I – are fully in a time of water, from being to becoming. We are slow walking. Gathering energy. No longer trying to arrive in a life that is constantly moving. We are the dream we chase. Appreciating the transitory. Savoring our moment, this one glorious never-to-have-again day. We are like the last day lily drinking in the sun and storing that warm heart energy for the coming of spring.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE DAY LILY

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