React [on Two Artist’s Tuesday]

The answer is herbicide. That blue coloring sprayed on stumps and shards of stumps along our path is meant to prevent the invasive species from sending up new shoots. Eliminating the invasive species so the native plants might someday make a comeback is the point. It only looks like total plant decimation with performance-art-blue dotting the eradicated forest. It is, in actuality, rejuvenation.

We met a couple walking the path. They were bird watchers and thrilled about the rejuvenation project. They explained how the work would allow the river to return to its natural course. The invasive plants were choking the waterway. With the removal of the invasive plants, the wildlife, like the plants, might have a renaissance. They assured us we’d see the difference when spring returned.

When I lived in the pacific northwest, there was deep concern about the salmon. Damming the rivers interrupted the natural cycle of the salmon’s return to spawn and the entire ecosystem was suffering because of it. Salmon are considered a “keystone” species; without the keystone, the ecosystem falls apart.

As we walked our loop I wondered how the invasive plants were introduced and how long had it taken for the invaders to choke the native plants? What prompted the preserve to act now?

Most likely, the invasive plants were introduced unknowingly by people. We cultivate land. We “utilize” nature as a resource. We study. We explore. We develop. We trade. We migrate. We are a force of nature. We walk well tended paths constructed for our ease and enjoyment. Sometimes conscious and sometimes unconscious of our impact.

I had a great conversation with a forest ranger about the re-introduction of wolves into Yellowstone. The thought of “managing” nature has always struck me as paradoxical. We eradicated the wolves and then felt the impact. We re-introduced the wolves to try and correct the mistake before the ecosystem collapsed, and set off another chain reaction of unintended consequences that required further intervention. It’s like prescribing a drug to manage the side effects of a medication.

As we walked I wondered if the concept of natural balance is just too hard for us to grok. We generally don’t realize that interdependence applies to us, too. We believe we are nature’s managers rather than part of the chain. That prevents us from seeing ourselves as invasive, responsible, reactive.

We manage. And sometimes that looks like forest-performance-art-devastation with accents of green-shade-blue.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HERBICIDE

Check The Resale [on KS Friday]

“Although Rothko lived modestly for much of his life, the resale value of his paintings grew tremendously in the decades following his suicide.”

The premise of this sentence made my jammies bunch-up. This wiki entry might have been written about Van Gogh. “Lived modestly” is a euphemism for “poor.” My favorite stereotype: the poor artist.

William Blake also lived modestly; he’d be shocked at the “resale value” of his work now. Nothing brings valuation to an artist’s work like the sudden end of the supply. Blake’s life came to a natural conclusion, so at least there’s that.

How do we know something has value? Resale, of course. Commodity. Soul reduced to a bottom line.

.003 percent of the nation’s budget goes to the National Endowment for the Arts. Valuation. If you desire to truly understand the phrase, “lived modestly,” visit your local not-for-profit arts organization. They’ll heap sincere gratitude upon you if you donate a ream of paper.

As an exercise in understanding soul, ask an actor or painter or dancer or composer the most obvious question: why do you do it?

Their answer will have nothing to do with resale value or commodity. Keep in mind, that doesn’t mean that they don’t want to be paid. Imagine Van Gogh’s answer. Or Mark Rothko’s. Emily Dickinson’s. Wouldn’t you love to know what they knew, see what they saw? Attempting to stand in their shoes, to see what they saw, is the reason that their resale value is so high. They connect us to something greater than commodity.

A caution: the next time you ask yourself, “What’s it all about?” be careful to direct your question to your inner Mary Oliver rather than your inner Elon Musk. They serve remarkably different gods.

My favorite quote of late: “And while a hundred civilizations have prospered (sometimes for centuries) without computers or windmills or even the wheel, none have survived a few generations without art.” David Bayles & Ted Orland, Art & Fear

.003%. That equates to an amount far less than Jeff Bezos’ tax bill. As a percentage, that’s much more than Kerri gets paid for a single spin of one of her pieces on your favorite streaming service (.000079 of a cent). Spotify, Pandora, and the rest are making out like bandits while the independent artists continue to “live modestly.”

What’s the real value of a nation that so desperately undervalues its art? I guess we’ll just have to wait for the postmortem resale.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about ROTHKO

every breath/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

Ask A Simple Question [on DR Thursday]

It’s existential. What you see changes depending upon where you stand. That’s true when engaging any piece of sculpture. It’s true when engaging anything in life. Point-of-view is fluid and relational. This sculptural reminder is Olafur Eliasson’s Rainbow Bridge.

In another era of my life facilitating diversity and inclusion workshops, the same surprisingly simple concept was usually a revelation to people. What you call “normal” is merely a point-of-view. Most importantly, it’s not everyone’s point-of-view. Your “normal” is unique to you, not universal. Most hopeful: it’s not fixed in stone. It’s changeable. Relational. Capable of growth. A mature point-of-view recognizes that it need not, it cannot, be the center of the universe. A mature point-of-view necessarily asks an all important question: “What do you see?”

It’s not only possible to look at the same sculpture and see a myriad of differences, it’s necessary. It’s human. Sharing what we see is how we, together, create community. A common center is created by a circle of differing points of view. A common experience is borne of sharing disparate points-of-view of the same event. A common center is made functional when everyone in the circle is capable of asking with sincerity a simple question: What do you see? It is made vibrant when everyone in the circle expects the answers to be different than their answer.

Art is one way of responding to the simple question.

Instrument of Peace, 48x91IN, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about RAINBOW BRIDGE

instrument of peace © 2017 david robinson

Trace The Line [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Love has a lineage. Without Piet Mondrian there would be no Ellsworth Kelly. Without Ellsworth Kelly there would be no Robert Indiana. For that matter, without Georges Seurat or Henri Matisse there would be no Piet Mondrian. Without the invention of the camera and the science of optics there would be no Georges Seurat. Of course, I’m referring to Robert Indiana’s sculpture, Love. We are rarely aware of how many lives influence our thoughts and give shape to our passing moments.

Love, the non-sculpted variety, follows the same principle in every life. It has a lineage. Chose any moment – any emotion – and follow the thread. An amazing web of interconnectivity emerges that stretches beyond…beyond. Sometimes I stop on a trail and wonder how I came to be walking through the woods in Wisconsin holding this woman’s hand. A tumble of choices. An immensity of influences and circumstances that quickly become impossible to comprehend. It’s no wonder destiny is such an attractive notion! Phew!

Four simple letters. Stacked symbols designed into another symbol. An aspiration? A graphic design? History placed Love in the box called Pop Art, thereby giving it a location-in-time. A starting point. A relative nod to lineage.

Standing in the museum, gazing out the window at Love, Dale Chihuly’s color explosion to my right, Kerri taking a photograph of the sculpture over the shoulder of a biker seated at a cafe table, the guard lost in his thoughts, a school tour echoing in the next gallery, a mural behind me that I’ve not yet taken in though it’s tapping me on the shoulder…meaning being made and shared and expressed all around me! How is it possible that we ever think we originate on our own? How is it possible that we ever think we walk this path alone?

read Kerri’s blogpost about LOVE

Open The Binder [on Merely A Thought Monday]

He was referred to me because he was failing. His English teacher told me that he was impossible, that he rarely came to class and he “just wasn’t interested in writing.” At the time I was working at the “alternative school” running an independent study program. My job was “to catch the students that were falling through the cracks” or “to retrieve the students who’d already fallen.” To this day, the language kills me.

We talked. We laughed. The assignments I gave him were about fun and breathing space. After three sessions, when he trusted me not to judge him, he came to our appointment with a thick black binder. It was very old. The seams were ripping. It was a sacred object. He tapped his fingers on the cover, still deciding whether or not to share it with me. He wriggled in his chair, vulnerable.

I will always remember the moment he asked, “Can I show you something?” I felt honored. It is what I always feel when an artist comes out of hiding and shares their work with me.

He gingerly opened the binder. It was literally bursting with stories that he’d written and alive with illustrations that he’d drawn. This young man was ditching English class so he could hide in the football stadium and write stories.

I asked him to read to me. As he read, he made marks on the page. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Making changes.”

After a few sessions I asked questions about the characters. He shared his illustrations. One day, he came to our session with a new story complete with sketches that we placed in sequence across the floor. As he read, we stepped to the next drawing. And the next. He made more marks on his pages. He made notes on his sketches.

One day I asked if I could read one of his stories to him. As he listened to me read, he began to coach my reading. “Whoa! Did I write that?” he said, grabbing the pages from my hand. And then he asked, “How can I write that in a better way?”

“I don’t know,” I smiled. “What does it mean to be better?”

read Kerri’s blogpost about BE YOU

Ask A Useful Question [on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Answers are reassuring, but when you’re really on to something useful, it will probably take the form of a question.” ~ David Bayles & Ted Orland, Art & Fear

We read in the morning news about the exodus of teachers from the classroom. One paragraph in the story made me choke on my coffee. “In addition to having to deal with low pay, high student-to-teacher ratios, poor working conditions, post-pandemic learning loss, school shootings and social or emotional issues with students, teachers across the nation are also grappling with culture wars over what they can and cannot teach in the classroom.” (Rene Marsh, CNN, February 3)

If you’re like me, that short paragraph inspires a host of useful questions. To cite a “spurious”quote attributed to Thomas Jefferson, “An educated citizenry is a vital requisite for our survival as a free people.” One of my useful questions: why are we so fearful of an educated citizenry? The collapse of our public schools and teaching as a valued profession is not an accident. It takes a dedicated effort to undermine something so completely.

An educated citizenry asks good questions of its leaders. An educated citizenry would not be so easily duped by entertainment-posing-as-news. An educated citizenry would not fear its history or its future.

When we rounded the corner in the Milwaukee airport and saw the meditation room, it was like a magnet. It pulled me inside. An intentional place of peace! A quiet space for reflection. How rare in a place dedicated to hustle and bustle.

I was struck by the quote from the Talmud and carried it with me for days. To create peace, to experience peace, truth and justice must be not only be valued by the community, they must be lived by the community. Truth must be shared. Removing books from classrooms, gagging teachers from teaching the fullness of our history, does not change our history a whit. It does, however, soil our future, perpetuate the race to the bottom, and intentionally obfuscates truth. It creates discord by ignoring injustice.

As the Talmud quote instructs, in such a world, where truth is not valued, there can be no justice and, in the absence of justice, there is no capacity for peace.

Sustaining ourselves, surviving as a free people. Teachers are the stewards of our core values; theirs is a sacred obligation. And, the teachers are walking out of the schools. Here’s a useful question: Who could blame them?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MEDITATION ROOM

Buckle Up [on DR Thursday]

“Life is 10 percent what you make it and 90 percent how you take it.” ~ Irving Berlin

There’s nothing like flying in a plane to shake-up and challenge your perceptions. Board a plane on a snowy overcast day and, after a few minutes of lift, punching through to brilliant sun and the curvature of the earth. What was true on the ground is not true in the sky. And vice-versa.

The first time I flew I was 18 years old. I remember thinking that, of all the people who’d walked the earth throughout time, very few had seen the clouds from above. Most looked to the sky and wondered what it felt like to fly like a bird. During our recent flight, looking down at the clouds, I was taken by the fact that the population of humans-on-earth has doubled since the 18-year-old-me first looked out the window of an airplane. Something that has never happened in the span of a single lifetime. If I live an average lifespan, it will triple. The challenges we face, from the migration of people to the warming globe to the crisis of resources, can be traced back to this simple statistic. The stress levers get lost in the rhetoric-shuffle.

From the sky, it’s easy to see that we are one team, occupying one planet. From up there, the wrangling over red or blue, the movement of the fickle markets, the fist-pumping red-faced divisions, all disappear. It’s easy to punch through the dense fog and see a bigger picture. A more perfect union.

I chuckled after I wrote that last metaphor because my inner cynic rolled his eyes and muttered, “Yeah, but first you have to WANT to get on the plane.”

My inner optimist, not to be outdone, replied, “Exactly. It’s human nature to want to see what’s over the next hill or above the fog. Everyone wants to get on the plane.”

Well, there you have it. Scintillating perspectives from the cynic on the ground and the optimist in the sky. Creative tension at its finest. While my cynic and optimist work this one out, I think I’ll fasten my seatbelt and prepare myself for a smooth landing. As the saying goes: What goes up must come down.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CLOUDS

A Prayer of Opposites, 48×48, acrylic

a prayer of opposites © david robinson

Cross Check [on Two Artists Tuesday]

“It looks like a horses head,” she said, snapping the photo from her window seat on the plane. We were on approach to land, coming in over the bay.

I remember teaching myself to draw horses. I had (and still have) a passion for drawing people so my foray into horses was more an academic exercise than an inner need. I thought I should expand my horizons so the 8-year-old-version-of-me acquired a “how to draw animals” book. It suggested beginning with geometric shapes. Two connected circles defined the torso, the head – a circle and a trapezoid.

It was the same technique used by the teacher in my very first art class. See shapes. Arms are two tubes connected by a circle/elbow. Knees are circles, too! Foreground and background, what’s in front and what’s behind was taught using spheres and cylinders. Perspective was taught using a box. Transform a circle into a sphere through proper shading and you’ll know forever the magic secret of artistry. See a dragon in the clouds and you’ll know forever the magic secret of the human mind. It projects. It seeks sense from chaos. It projects order onto nature.

All the while Kerri is snapping photos of the island that looks like a horse’s head, I am pondering the normalization of hurtling through the air in a tube. People chat. Some are reading. The man across the aisle is asleep. “Prepare to land” is ordinary, uttered thousands of times each day. It’s the flip side of seeing dragons in clouds, another key to the human mind. Miracles made commonplace through repetition.

One human child is a miracle. It’s why we are making the trip. To meet a miracle. Yet, 7 billion miracles walking on earth?

“We’re flying,” I said.

“It’s been a long time,” she replied, showing me the picture on her phone, “Look! Doesn’t it look like a horse’s head? Well, like horse heads that I draw. No ears,” she qualified and smiled.

Miracles and magic. All the way around. Seen and unseen. Cross check. Wheels down. Prepare to return to the ground.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the HORSE HEAD

Both/And [on KS Friday]

“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” ~ Kahlil Gibran

Dwight sent a book to me: From Strength to Strength by Arthur C. Brooks. Several months ago at dinner we talked about how to make this next chapter of life the best chapter. As is my practice lately, I am reading it slowly, taking my time. I used to read like a hungry man eats; I gobbled information. Now I savor. I take one bite at a time and taste all of it. Someday soon we will talk about what I am discovering in the book. I’m only a few chapters in and already I’m rethinking my choices, considering different paths moving forward.

Pondering my next steps has also been an exercise of looking at where I’ve been. A lyric from Dan Fogelberg just ran through my mind [The Last Nail, by Dan Fogelberg]:

I left a trail of footprints deep in the snow
I swore one day, I would retrace them
But when I turned around, I found that the wind had erased them
Now I’ll never replace them

With distance it’s easy to see that some of the worst choices I’ve made in my life have also been the best choices I’ve made in my life. I can see that my desperation brought innovation. I can see the prison I made of my judgments and the hard truths necessary to unlock my cell door. I can see I needed a broken heart to arrive at an open heart.

With distance, I’m beginning to understand that no single experience lives in isolation. No day is either “good” or “bad.” No single period of my life defines the worth or wealth of my time on earth. No title, like “artist,” can wrap its fingers around the totality of my time. I am all of those things and none of those things.

On Monday, we interred Beaky’s ashes. She is with Pa in the national cemetery. We sang a song and then an attendant closed the niche. A journey’s end. Later that day I jumped off the back of a couch into a pile of pillows with a two year old, laughing, wiggling our toes. This wild-child is in full discovery mode, everything an adventure. A journey’s inception.

This life is achingly beautiful, each and every moment.

The entire album: Released From The Heart © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART DIVOTS

Flip It [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Standing on the trail, the cold breeze stinging my face, I stared at the trees in silhouette. I was overcome with the illusion that I was observing the trees upside-down. I was seeing their tangled root system, reaching. My illusion made me dizzy. What’s top is bottom. What’s bottom is top.

I’ve been pondering things like “leadership” and “power”. My belief of these concepts is the reverse of most peoples. I think leadership is a team sport and that power is created with others, not wielded over them. Roots to the sky.

Before the software start-up went away I pondered things like the abundance of content with no relevant context. Information without a home. Information sans application. Information run amok. It requires people to make-up context for the rootless material crossing their screens. In contemporary discourse, we call this made-up context “bubbles.” It’s an apt term since popping is the destiny of every bubble. No substance. The Villages.

Thank goodness for the cold wind. It snapped me out of my flip-flop illusion. The silhouette was righted. I remembered the shadow puppets in Bali. What we see is projection on a screen. Silhouettes. The real stuff, ripe with dimension and color, the massive system of roots and vibrant moving energy, stars and flow, creating forms and taking them down, happens whether we see it fully or not.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SILHOUETTES