My Constellations [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Like stars in the sky, there are moments in life that form constellations. Actually, the stars do not form the constellations, we do. We are pattern seekers in our incessant meaning-making. I constellate my memories, sense-make my path, generate my revelations.

In our dedicated cleaning and rearranging of the house, the restoration project of my studio after the flood, we bought new shelves. My art and work books were piled high on an old computer desk, made mostly inaccessible. Gathering dust. With the new shelves, the ease of access to my books, comes new energy.

I sorted through my books before placing them on the shelves. Many of the work books, the resources I used for my past life, didn’t make the cut. In fact, none of them did. It was a revelation, placing them in sacks and moving them out of the house. With open space comes new energy.

Carrying a particularly loathsome sack of books to the recycle bin, I realized that every major change in my life has come with a book purge. When I left Los Angeles, I gave my library of 1000 plays to a friend. When I left central California for Seattle, I took a truckload of books to the used book store. I left a pile of favorites in the building that housed the school and theatre programs I’d created.

My books about Picasso, Matisse, Renoir, Leonardo, Michelangelo…they’ve always made the cut. They are space openers. Life-givers. The connective tissue in the constellation called “My Life”. This is not a revelation. I wondered why I so often turn away from it, stack my books and my life in difficult-to-reach ways.

Another gift Horatio gave to me in our call last week: as I was dumping on him my truckload of excuses and justifications for not painting, he stopped me, saying, “I think it’s much more elementary than you are making it. Decide what you want to do and do it. Your challenge is that you don’t know what you like.” He added, “You have the germs of what you like…”

Cleaning and placing my books on my shelf was like coming home. When I stood back and could see all that I’ve carried through my many, many moves, there was no doubt what I like, there is no doubt about what connects the many stars in my constellation.

read Kerri’s blogpost on THE DISH

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So We Do [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

When I began blogging nearly fifteen years ago I believed that I would in a matter of days run out of things to say. I’ve now completely flipped in my belief: not only have I not yet run out of things to say, I now know that there’s not enough time in my life to write all that I want to write. My list of ideas is longer than my remaining days.

Kerri and I through our Melange have been writing together for six years and eight months. We’re having a hilarious experience that is becoming increasingly more and more frequent. When we are with friends and family and start to recount a story from our recent past, they will cut us off and say, “Yeah, I read about that in your blog.” It always takes us aback and makes us giggle.

We are an open book – perhaps too open! But we also edit. Our posts are rarely longer than 500 words. We write snapshots, not totalities. We know that people in our social-media-world won’t read what we write if it’s too long. Each day we ask, “Is this too much?” or, “How can I condense this?” Each day we ask, “Should I stop here?” We rarely tell the full tale. There’s always a next thought, a detail, a longing…There’s always so much more to say, much more that could be written.

It’s become a gift to me, a reminder that I can never know the whole story of any other person’s life. The important stuff as well as the little moments can never be fully expressed. Feelings and yearnings can’t be captured in words. Poetry is the art of attempting to express the impossible.

Lately, after we hear once again, “Yeah, I read about that in your blog,” when we are alone, Kerri asks me, “Are we too much?” It’s become something of a ritual.

Are we too much?

Rilke wrote, “Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart…” This is what I know: we love to write together so we do. And, we love to share what we love. So we do.

read Kerri’s blogpost about A BLANK PAGE

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Simply Arriving [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Each one of us is the custodian of an inner world that we carry around with us.”
~ John O’Donohue, Walking in Wonder: Eternal Wisdom for a Modern World

In my early artist-life, showing my paintings threw me into conflict: I really wanted my paintings to be seen but I feared what they might reveal about me – namely, that I believed that I had no idea what I was doing. I was the poster child for imposter syndrome, a boiling bucket of self-doubt. I used to describe myself as having one foot on the gas and one foot on the brakes.

Even though I was surrounded by wise elders and insightful mentors who assured me that no one really knows what they are doing, my fear of exposure shielded me from their sound advice. I huddled behind a fortress of my own making.

We came upon the vibrant yellow leaves still clinging to their branches, seated next to a field of brilliant ochre and orange grasses. The shock of color was enough to drop me into the present which – as always happens when I become fully present – made the colors that-much-more vivid. Then, the yellow sent me through a time tunnel, a visceral memory of that younger version of myself working in a studio, nearly dancing, smearing yellow paint on an enormous canvas. He was completely in the moment, fully alive.

I wished that this older version of myself could have tapped him on the shoulder and said, “This is what makes you whole, authentic.” I would add, “Someday you will understand. Someday you will leave the fortress behind.”

There is a thread, a consistent truth, that binds us, the young artist and this much older version: this beautiful world has always had a way of shocking me into presence; I have always understood the capacity to be shocked-into-presence as a gift. It has has opened my eyes. It helps me see.

And, when I see, I disappear into “something bigger” than myself. The dance beyond striving. I am lucky: not everyone understands the power of not-knowing, the pleasure of simply arriving, fully alive.

Self Portrait on the Oregon Coast (circa 1988?)

read Kerri’s blog about YELLOW

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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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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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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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“I Am!” I Said. [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Un-momentous Breaking News! I’ve just decided – just now, right this moment – that my personal symbol, my identifying-critter-crest, should from now and for all time forward be…The Bumble Bee!!!

“Wait!” you yawn. “What?” you ask-to-be-polite. “You can’t possible make so un-dramatic a dramatic claim without a comprehensive explanation!”

True. Yes. An explanation. Fortunately, I came prepared for this moment. The word “bumble” – relative to the bee – has two definitions that, lately, fit me like a glove. First, to move ineptly through the world. To blunder, lurch, or wobble. The second (as is proven by this very blog post), to buzz or drone on and on. To babble, ramble, gibber, and burble.

But wait! In case you are suddenly concerned that I am hosting a festival of self-deprecation, let me assure you that you are misguided. Wrong. Filled with wild assumptions. Your concerns could not be further from the truth of my new personal-symbol-bumblebee-rumination. I’m actually quite pleased.

Creative processes never follow a straight line. Bumblebees get the job done but their path is nearly impossible to follow. They appear like a flying-happy-accident, a reeling wanderer that is surprisingly efficient. It’s the real trouble with my resume (or any creative person’s resume): HR people, family and friends expect to see straight lines and are highly suspicious of anything expansive, eclectic, or exploratory. I will be quite pleased with myself, when the next stranger I meet at a party asks me what I do for a living, to answer, “I’m a bumblebee.”

As for droning on an on. Well. Look at the archive of this blog. Good god. Or the drafts of plays, the ideas for books, the organizational ruminating, the stories…, the opinions I have not-yet-learned to keep to myself (this is your cue to send condolences to Kerri. For some reason she married me so now I have a captive audience…). “Gear-down!” she says, when my esoterica runs amok and she needs my mind to express a simpler path and be less bumble-bee-like.

And, to prove that I am actually capable of controlling my drone, I now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

[Bonus track. This popped into my mind as I wrote the title of this post]

read Kerri’s more coherent blogpost about BUMBLEBEES

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Wonderland [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

And just how did the katydid get into the kitchen?

It sounds like the question at the heart of a children’s book to me! We have visits from flies and moths and the occasional ant or two. Never before has a katydid been in the kitchen.

Did it ride on the dog or sneak in the open screen door? It there a secret katydid portal, a wardrobe into our kitchen which, to a katydid, must have seemed like a strange new land? Did it wonder how to get back home?

How long had it adventured inside the house? Did it puzzle over inedible carpet and taste-test the plants-in-pots? Did it run from the giants who did not see it? Did it dance to the music that came from nowhere or was the noise thunderous, strange and unnerving?

Did it know it was learning inside from outside? Was the window glass a complete surprise? An impossible impediment to the known world?

Did it understand the giant lady when she marveled at its beauty? Did it pose for its picture? Did it show us its “good side” or did it not-care-in-the-least how it looked?

Was it terrified when the giant lady trapped it? What did it feel when constrained and rushed through the door? Was it disoriented, suddenly finding itself once again in the grassy world it recognized? Was it relieved? Did it think the adventure was a strange dream?

Will it seek the wardrobe again? Will it once again seek passage on the dog to confirm its peek into Wonderland?

The Storyteller emerges from the forest.
Lucy & The Waterfox

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE KATYDID

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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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