Write The Essential [on Merely A Thought Monday]

button to button copy 2

I’m not sure what stacks up around your house. At our house, the stacks are paintings, cartoons, designs, composition notes, manuscripts, folios, notebooks of ideas, scraps of paper jammed into the notebooks of ideas, lyrics a-go-go, and the supplies necessary to make the other stacks possible. Colored pencils, brushes, too many composition books, canvas, tissue paper, paint, sketchbooks, art books, and the stacks-and-stacks of stuff teetering on the piano and bench that somehow resemble a nest.

All of this is to note that we are fantastic generators of content and equally inept marketers of what we generate. Thus, the stacks. It was this realization – and the necessity of making a living – that one year ago gave birth to the melange. Melange means ‘mixture’ or ‘medley.’

The idea was simple: Monday would be dedicated to our cartoon, Chicken Marsala. Tuesday would be dedicated to our Two Artists designs. Wednesday was Flawed Cartoon day. Thursday was for my paintings. Friday was for Kerri’s music. We created a Society6.com store for each day, set about designing 5 product lines a week (oh, god,…more content). Through our blogs we’d write about and publish the day’s selection, he-said/she-said-style. People all over the world would read what we wrote, be captivated by the cartoon, design or composition, and race to the Society6.com store to buy a print or a mug or a laptop sleeve or a greeting card. Content out, income, well…in.

And, it happened. People all over the world read our blogs. And, almost no one raced to the Society6.com stores. We studied a few things, learned a few things, reconfigured, tried a few social-media-marketing variations, bought ad space, waved our hands, jumped up and down, danced silly dances – we pivoted and pivoted again.

More readers. Less-than-no shoppers.

One day, after eight months, we looked at each other and considered pulling the plug and would have pulled the plug except for one small-yet-oh-so-important detail: we love to write together. In the course of a year, the melange managed to boil itself down to its essence. Each day Kerri writes her post. “Don’t look!” she says as I, sitting next to her,  write mine. And then, before posting, we share them. We read to each other. It’s always a surprise (though mine are predictably “heady” and hers are 100% “hearty”).

When I looked back at our first post one year ago I laughed at the irony. Love needs no words. Well, in this case, in our case, love revels in words. There are too many words for the love to contain. And, so, our stacks grow happily higher and higher and higher.

love needs no words jpeg copy

if you'd like to see more CHICKEN... copy

read Kerri’s blog post about A YEAR IN MELANGE

 

chicken and perseverance website box copy

 

chicken marsala ©️ 2016 david robinson & kerri sherwood

Open The Box [on Two Artists Tuesday]

storage unit copy

The other night, over a glass of wine, I listened as Kerri, Jen and Brad talked of the things they’ve stored from the lives of their children. Finger paintings, drawings, school projects. There are bins of irreplaceable treasures, moments captured in crayon and paste. Their conversation came around to this question: are these treasures as valuable to the children that made them as they are to the parents that collected them? Who are they storing them for?

I don’t have children of my own. I’ll never know what it means to raise a child so the best I can do during these conversations is listen. I can, however, appreciate the enormous love that flows through the conversation. There isn’t gold or rare coins in those plastic bins. Yet, I am certain, that given the choice between a bin of gold doubloons or keeping their children’s artifacts, the response would be unanimous. The doubloons are worthless when compared to the memories stored in those bins.

Over the new year we went to Florida. During our time there we had the opportunity to go through the storage unit that contained the remaining boxes from Beaky’s house. It’s been three years since she passed. Beaky’s daughters opened every box and the majority of the items were sorted into a donation pile or throwaway pile. A few bins, photographs mostly, were too monumental of a task so were put in the third pile: sort someday. A very few artifacts, rare treasures, surfaced from the boxes: a calendar where Beaky jotted thoughts about her days, a special note. Letters and drawings that she’d saved. Something she touched and cherished because it came from one of her children.

My parents are still with me, I am fortunate, so I don’t know what it means to lose them. The best I can do during these times is listen. I can, however, appreciate the enormous love that flows through the conversation. I am certain, that when time blows us all away, our accumulated possessions, our stuff, our oh-so-important achievements, will hold little or no lasting value. Oh, but those small notes, those child-hand scribbles, those shaky old-hand letters…the artifacts of our relationships, for the children sorting through our remaining boxes, priceless.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about STORAGE

 

momma, d & k website box copy

Touch The Past

The journal/record Isabelle kept of the fever that killed Johnny.

The journal/record Isabelle kept of the fever that killed Johnny.

I’ve been posting updates to pledgers for my play, The Lost Boy, through the Kickstarter campaign. I’ve been using images of the artifacts – Johnny Quiggle’s possessions – found in the trunk. Jim, the chief Chili Boy, has been doing archival and art shots of the artifacts. The images have served to make a vital point about the play: this story happened. This little boy died. The story that unfolded for me moved both forward and backwards in time. And, while receiving it from Tom, I realized that it was also my story, and your story. It’s universal and, therefore, worthy to tell. My latest update generated much feedback so I’m sharing it here, too:

Jim has completed shooting archive and detail photos of the contents of Johnny’s trunk. This journal was the last thing Isabelle put in the trunk before she closed it in 1885 and secretly sealed it into the walls. Tom told me that this journal told him more about Isabelle than any other object in the trunk. In her record of the fever, he could read her worry, her despair, her fears, a few days of hope, and then the devastation at losing her son. This play is more than a good story well told; it is one of the ways Isabelle reached through time, through Tom, and into me to tell a story that is relevant to all of us.

Thank you for everything you have done to bring this play to life. It is your encouragement and support (financially and otherwise) that will open the trunk to larger audience and extend Isabelle’s intention beyond the walls of the ranch, beyond the Quiggle/McKenzie families, and into the greater conversation.

Johnny crop copySupport the kickstarter campaign for The Lost Boy

 

title_pageGo here to buy hard copies (and Kindle) of my latest book: The Seer: The Mind of the Entrepreneur, Artist, Visionary, Innovator, Seeker, Learner, Leader, Creator,…You.