Mix Harmonious [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Harmony in color. The place where the language of music finds a home in the visual arts. Synesthesia.

Harmonious color arrangements, like harmonious sound arrangements, must share at least one common “note.” Mix a little yellow into each color on the palette and the colors will work like chords. They’ll be compatible. Pleasing.

It’s probably obvious in my paintings. I’ve never really studied color. I use what pleases my eye (like a musician who plays by ear). Now, I want to know. It’s counter-intuitive; after decades of painting I to want to understand the basics. I want to know what I know and discover what I don’t know. I suspect what I don’t know is monumental.

Long ago, Mike sent me a color study that DeMarcus did when he was in art school. The image is of a cactus. At the base of the painting is the palette that he selected. He framed this piece and kept it on his wall over the course of his very long life and artistic career. It must of been a reminder: don’t forget the basics. It hangs in my studio though, for me, it carries a different reminder: don’t forget your lineage.

Dropping into an episode of Home Town recently, I laughed aloud when Erin Napier said that the only useful thing she learned in art school was the color wheel. I am, as is true of every artist that has been at work for decades, finding my way back to the simple basics.

When I was a kid, pre-internet, I had a cardboard color wheel with a rotating “locator” window meant to help a budding artist know what-color-goes-with-what-color. I didn’t pay much attention to it. It felt like study and I was impatient. I needed to make messes. I didn’t appreciate it at the time but I knew intuitively that I needed to move around to learn. I made swatches for days. I made some terrifically ugly color combinations. I painted some perfectly awful paintings. I still do.

The bubble-of-learning is moving from my body and slowly – ever so slowly – floating up to meet my brain. And, in this contentious world, I’ve decided that the best place to start is with harmony. Harmony in color. A little intentional recognition of sameness to create some pleasing compatibility.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAUVE AND OLIVE

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What’s Not To Love [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Two years ago on crisp Colorado autumn day, Kerri and I walked through the pines, scrambled through some scrub, and stood on the rocks at the water’s edge. It was my dad’s favorite fishing spot. It was the day after his funeral. We lit a candle. We sat in silence. We reminisced. We said goodbye.

Eight years earlier, on the occasion of my dad’s 80th birthday, I brought Kerri to meet my family. My dad took us fishing. One of my favorite photos of him is from that day. One of my favorite photos of Kerri is from that day. From a distance, pole in hand, she reels in the line. Like him, she was a natural. Both photos exude a quiet peacefulness.

Recently we were up north with the gang. Fall was in full splendor. Kerri and I took a walk though we didn’t go far. There were too many amazing photo ops to pass by. We’d walk a few feet, she’d gasp and point her camera.

As she aimed her camera through the trees to the lake, I was suddenly transported back to both days at the lake in Colorado. The day fishing and the day of the candle. I thought I’d be awash in sadness but it was surprisingly the opposite. To my right, my father – doing what he most loves to do; to my left – Kerri weaving into the fabric of my family. And, in the center, we light a candle of remembrance and thanksgiving.

What’s not to love in the vast scope of these three days, memories born on the shores of a lake?

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read Kerri’s blogpost about Autumn

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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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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

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read Kerri’s blogpost about Hibiscus

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Have Second Thoughts [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

A comment on how my brain works: I saw this photo and thought, “This is a record of a life path.” What? Where did that come from?

Note: I didn’t think “My life path.” My random reflection was in no way personal. Though, to be perfectly honest, I am only familiar with one life path and it is mine. This jumble of hose, running this way and that, lines running over and under, does vaguely resemble my movement in the world. Or a freeway interchange as seen from the air.

Note on the note: No life path is straight. Circumstance has a way of making lines into loops. Growth has a way of revealing side paths that surprisingly become main roads. Yes, I’m making the assertion that a straight life path indicates a boring-no-growth existence. It would be an excessively mean assertion except, to reiterate, no life path is straight. Loops and surprises. Forces beyond control, leading to the wild eye-and-heart-opening recognition that very little is under our control. Fantasies fall revealing a life that shimmers in its day-to-day-ness as it spirals uncontrollably through the universe.

My second thought: “This reminds me of a Jackson Pollock painting.”

Another comment on how my brain works like most other brains: Second thoughts usually make more sense than first thoughts. That’s the key to sense-making: second thoughts respond (or recoil) from the nonsense of first thoughts.

A note on first and second thoughts: It’s best not to give voice to first thoughts. Wait for the second, more sensical thought for show-and-tell. Editors are involved. You’ll have more friends that way. Also, the authorities won’t need to lock you up. So, forget what I said about life paths and selectively remember my second thought about Jackson Pollock.

Remember: I warned you. This is how my brain works.

[I wish you could see Kerri’s eye-roll as I read to her this post:-) ]

read Kerri’s blog post about THE HOSE

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Let It Run [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Following the heavy rains, the mushrooms appeared. They came in all shapes and sizes with colors ranging across the spectrum, yellows and reds, taupe and black.

There’s something other-worldly about the mushrooms. They seem like alien creatures. Like cicadas, living deep in the soil until one auspicious day, when the conditions are just right or their inner imperative whispers, “Now,” they step into the moist air, appearing as if from nowhere.

Some look like a colony of creatures on the march. Some look like gnome condos. Some take impossible architectural shapes, sound receivers listening to the pulse of deep space. Some form a perfect circle, a commons of strange beings.

Mysterious and intelligent, ancient and earthy, they appear magically and disappear just as mysteriously. Fungi,”…genetically more closely related to animals than plants.”

“What is that?” she exclaimed, pointing at the huge orb reaching above the grasses. “It’s a mushroom,” she gasped. “Can you believe it?”

Imagination runs wild.

Earth Interrupted III, 48x36IN, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about MUSHROOMS

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Fall Into Peace [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

20 calls me The Tetris Master because I can pack a lifetime of odd-shaped accumulation into the smallest moving van. I have an innate understanding of space. In other words, I am spatial; I feel space.

The first time I stepped into the silo I felt an immediate sense of peace. It was like a little round chapel with a soaring ceiling. Cool air on a hot day. The chair placed at the center of the circle was inviting but I knew I better not sit there. I’d want to stay. I’d fall into the peace. There were too many people moving through the barn. Falling into peace, like falling into a deep meditation, is internal and best done in private.

The silo reminded me of the faerie circle. Barney showed me where it was and told me, “This is your place.” He was right. I sat in the center of the circle of trees and was immediately transported.

It had been years since we visited the gardens and I’d forgotten about the silo. When we entered the barn to look at the antiques, soaps, and clothes on display, I felt the rush of remembrance. Stepping into the cool air, the carpet and single chair were just as I remembered. So was the peace of the circle.

There were less people so I lingered for a moment or two. “Someday I’m going to sit in that chair,” I said to no one listening. I smiled at the notion: and wouldn’t this world be better if we all had a place, a space, like a magnet, that pulled us into our peace?

i’ve yet to get a descent photo of this painting but this will serve-the-turn for now

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SILO

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Expect Surprise [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Hiding in the cornfield that currently grows beneath our bird feeder is a sweet morning glory. The pop of pale blue drew our attention. “Where did this come from?” I asked. “Maybe a morning glory seed was mixed in with the bird seed.”

Kerri rolled her eyes. “Maybe a bird brought it,” she said.

“A landscaping bird!” I reveled. “The blue accent does wonders for the corn.”

The surprise morning glory reminded me of the frogs that used to appear from nowhere in our little pond. There are very few routes to our pond that don’t include a ride on a bird or other form of critter transport. I can’t imagine the frogs made a dedicated pilgrimage to our pond though that’s not a bad idea for a children’s book. It’s been a few years since we had a surprise-frog-in-residence and we miss them.

Cultivate your surprise. It was among the teachable notions that the younger version of me used to peddle to clients. Cubicle sitting, rote learning, the daily grind…can dull your eyes and lead you to believe that today is just like yesterday. It’s not. Frogs appear in ponds. Pale blue calls from the corn. Insights come. People smile and offer a hand. Old friends appear from nowhere.

In one of the social streams I read that entering the day with a simple shift of language, from “today I have to” to “today I get to”, can change your world. The power of language is the power of perception. Decide what you see. Entering a mystery is much more fun than stepping into a rerun. The same idea bubbles beneath cultivating surprise. Expect each day to be filled with surprise. Look for it and you will find it. A pop of blue in the corn. A frog from nowhere. An opportunity knocking. Where will the next surprise come from?

I couldn’t help myself. This is Eve. 48x48IN, Acrylic on panel. A surprise apple;-)

read Kerri’s blogpost about MORNING GLORY

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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.

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read Kerri’s blogpost about SHAPES

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See The Spiral [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

20 asked if we saw the milky way when we were living on the island. As seen from space, two arms spiraling from a center. A spiral of billions of stars. From our seat on the island, as is true from most places on earth on cloudless nights, we saw the milky haze.

John and I often discussed the Fibbonacci sequence. The numbers of spirals, the keeper of the golden ratio. “It’s everywhere in nature,” he said. “We just don’t see it.”

Spirals in the stars. Spirals in the seeds of sunflowers. Macro to micro, through-and-through. And how is it that we routinely miss our interrelationship with all things?

“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” ~ Carl Sagan

embraced now, 48x36IN, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about SPIRALS

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