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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“We Have A Problem.” [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Yesterday I opened the door to the basement and heard a waterfall – not the sound you want to hear coming from your basement. I knew it was a waterfall because two years ago I opened the basement door, heard the sound and asked myself, “What’s that sound?” I’m sharing this with you as proof-positive that I am capable of learning and retaining what I learn. This time, I knew without doubt – because I remembered – the cause of the sound. Waterfall.

The first time I heard the waterfall-in-the-basement-sound I could not imagine that the sound was water pouring from the ceiling. It was inconceivable since it had never happened before. I was ankle deep in water before I allowed the penny to drop. That’s the great thing about learning: greater efficiency in understanding the situation, fewer steps to right-action. This time I didn’t need to investigate. I simply turned and announced to Kerri, “We have a problem.” We knew exactly what to do. We knew exactly what our day held in store.

It’s a line. Past experience is useful in present and future choices. To ignore past experience – to ignore what we know – is called ignorance. I thought about the line between knowing and head-in-the-sand as I stared into the sky. Sometimes it’s a curse to see all-the-world as a metaphor. We stopped on the path so Kerri could take some photos of the storm line over the lake. It was distinct. The light behind the dark clouds was startling, hopeful.

Here’s what I thought while staring at the line in the sky: we had four miserable years with the maga-candidate as president. He left us a bloody mess. His time in office was a daily festival of chaos. He lied so liberally that media organizations initiated a daily count of his lies and instituted fact-checkers as a regular part of their reporting. He mismanaged the greatest health crisis in a century costing thousands of lives. He was impeached twice (side note: watch the new documentary From Russia With Lev and ask yourself how it was possible that he was protected by his party from impeachment).

Each day I ask myself, “How is it possible that people do not remember?” Of course, I know the answer – I’ve heard this sound before. We remember though many are choosing to ignore what they know. They feel it necessary to step into the ankle deep water again before admitting that there is a problem.

We are on the eve of an election. The maga-candidate is like a waterfall in the basement, seeping into and destroying everything. We’ve opened this door before. We know without doubt the sound. We’ve heard it before – we’ve heard it all before. The lies. The threats. The fearmongering. The blaming. We need not descend into chaos to know what’s happening – what will happen if he is elected.

That’s the great thing about learning: greater efficiency in understanding the situation, fewer steps to right-action.

Vote to stop the waterfall in the basement. We’ve already learned what will happen if we don’t.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LINE

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In Friendship [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Where self-interest is the bond, the friendship is dissolved when calamity comes. Where Tao is the bond, friendship is made perfect by calamity.” ~ Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu

The basket of grasses has moved several times since I first set foot in this house, now my home. Our home. Kerri has a designer’s eye and the basket of grasses migrate according to her latest conception. Of late, they traveled to our bedroom and rest between the gingham chair and her jewelry box.

I know what you are thinking. As a dedicated wearer of black, a lover of earth tones, it is surprising that she has a gingham chair. Do not be fooled by her limited clothing color palette, she is eclectic. I am particularly fond of this unexpected chair since it was where she was sitting when we had our first phone call so many years ago. It all began in a the gingham chair.

I am not unusual in that the great changes of my life have been punctuated by the culling of friends. The forces of change topple the rootless relationships. Yet, while many drop away, a precious few transcend the moment. Not only do they endure, sinking deeper roots, but they grow in strength and fondness.

It is an understatement to suggest that, for us, these past few years have been rife with calamity. It is also not an understatement to say that we are emerging from the hot fire with a band of fast friends. Forged and polished. Beautiful.

Over time I’ve learned to read the movement of the basket of grasses. They are my personal Farmer’s Almanac, my home-decor-tarot. Kerri moves them after a life-storm has passed. She rearranges to re-ground. With every movement of the basket of grasses, I know we’ve come through the latest chaos. And, I know without doubt who stands with us, who we stand with, who will be with us no matter the circumstance or calamity.

In friendship, in our friends, we are the wealthiest people alive.

Helping Hands,
53.5″ x 15.25″

read Kerri’s blogpost about GRASSES

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

Rules of composition are really a study of human perception. It’s not the work of art that’s being examined, it’s the human being. Why do we consistently – universally – respond positively to visual compositions that follow the rule of thirds? Divide a composition into thirds, either vertically or horizontally, and then place focal areas of the “scene” at the meeting points of the lines. A professor in art and design school teaches the rule as a basic tenet, not because it was a concept that was invented but because someone, somewhere in time, noticed that people generally like their paintings, photographs, murals, quilts, architecture… when the focal point lands on one of the thirds. It was a discovery about the nature of people. Human nature.

Even the most abstract painters adhere to the rule of thirds. There is structure beneath seeming chaos.

There is something about humans and the number 3. The structure of a joke has three parts – the set-up, the detail, and the punchline. Most religions sport a trinity: father, son, and holy ghost. Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Buckminster Fuller’s Geodesic Dome is a festival of three. Pay attention and the rule of thirds pops up in everything from brain science to marketing messages. Triangulate and even the most lost hiker will be found.

When I first met Kerri I was disconcerted. Her compositional eye is infinitely better than mine. How could this musician come into my studio, snap a photo of my work-in-progress, and show me that her cropped version of my composition was infinitely better? What the heck? Her crops were never radical; simple adjustments merely. After I recognized how natural yet specific her eye sees the thirds – while I am clumsy in my seeing – in a fit of re-composing, I almost took a saw and scissors to my paintings. It was so obvious. Now, I ask her early and often to come into the studio and tell me what she sees (Imagine my horror when she stands silently for several moments and finally utters, “Well…”).

On the trail she stops often to “take a picture.” I play a game with myself. I look at where she aims her camera and then I predict where the focal point will land. Which third will claim the prize? I am almost never right but always delighted by what she shows me. “Lookit!” she says, smiling. A perfect third. Naturally.

prayer, 9″ x 24″ acrylic on hardboard

read Kerri’s blogpost about LACE AND SNOW

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buymeacoffee is not a third. It is something else.

Discover Again [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Some books sit idle on my shelf for years and then, one day, with no warning, they leap forward and demand to be read. And so it is with Vāclav Havel’s book Disturbing The Peace. It is my new 2-page-a-day-meditation-book. I’m only a few pages in but already finding the words of this playwright-become-president of the Czech Republic, published in 1991, speaking clear thoughts to the un-united-united-states of 2023.

“It seems to me that if the world is to change for the better it must start with a change in human consciousness, in the very humanness of modern man.”

The change in consciousness? It is this:

“He must discover again, within himself, a deeper sense of responsibility toward the world, which means responsibility toward something higher than himself.”

He writes that we must extricate ourselves from “the mechanisms of totality” and the “manipulation” of media. We must “rebel against [our] role as a helpless cog in the gigantic and enormous machinery hurtling god knows where.”

Climate change. Attempts to white-wash history rather than learn from it. Populism and a republican party dedicated to authoritarian rule rather than the democratic ideals they are sworn to uphold. The absence of a moral center and, to use a phrase from the past, common courtesy. Courtesy to the commons.

Vāclav Havel led his country through their great chaos, the tension of their divide, power struggles, and the collapse of repressive communism. He was an absurdist playwright. He did not pretend to have answers. He had abundant questions. He argued for the simplicity of confronting the tasks at hand, tasks that are the responsibility of all the people in a nation, tasks like honestly looking at and dealing with their full history. Tasks like turning away from anger-inducing propaganda, conspiracies and lies – and learning to discern what has merit and what does not. In other words, transcending individual-self-serving-belief-bubbles in order to realize and secure the higher ideals of the community.

Every book has its time. I find it extremely hopeful that this book chose this moment to jump off the shelf.

read Kerri’s blog about SKY-THROUGH-TREES

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Whack! [on Merely A Thought Monday]

This is a tale of coincidence.

If you want to learn some great Italian recipes – or just simply want to pick up some great cooking tips, visit Sip-And-Feast. We stumbled on their YouTube channel a year ago and have been desperately hungry ever since. We fantasize about making a trip to Long Island and showing up on their front stoop just in time to taste test their latest recipe. We don’t care what’s cooking since everything they make looks delicious.

I howled with laughter in a recent installment when Tara Delmage suggested whacking mint leaves to release their oil. My current two-pages-a-day-book is called A Whack On The Side Of The Head: How You Can Be More Creative. In an instant I imagined people as mint leaves needing a whack to release their creative-impulse-oil. It was a hilarious image.

It was an accurate image, too.

I’ve coached a lot of people in my life. The pattern is explicit. Erecting barriers against creative impulses comes standard in all human beings. As social animals, conformity is a vital skill. Fitting-in equates to survival. The dark-side of fitting-in is the requirement of walling-off natural expression. It’s why so many people seek their voice or try to find the time but never find the time to write their book or paint their painting. It’s scary to step out of line.

It’s the reason artists are often seen as wild or dangerous: they exercise the muscles of free expression. It’s also why artists are essential: they counter-balance the conformity. They open doors in the wall. They serve as a gravitational pull toward the mint-oil of natural creativity. They know the secrets of a good whack on the side of the head. They know the right moment to deliver the shock. They know when to encourage chaos and when to infuse some order. The push-me-pull-you of progress.

From the wisdom of Sip-And-Feast I can now offer this piece of solid advice: go make yourself a nice limoncello spritzer. The recipe for the spritzer will provide you all the information you need to pop open your creative flow.

Bon appetit!

read Kerri’s blogpost about MINT LEAVES

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Make Peace [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Look closely. There’s a turtle motoring through the water, scooting along the muddy bottom of the river. Turtles always elicit squeaks from Kerri. We watched this shelled-wonder for a long time. There were a few others that caught my attention, heads rising just above the water, floating peacefully in a pose of suspended animation. Turtle tai-chi.

We went to a sound meditation at the Botanical Gardens. Singing bowls and rain sticks. I was transported. I felt as if I was gifted with a turtle-moment: floating in a calm suspended animation. I recognized that feeling of ease and vowed to practice it more often. There’s wisdom in non-motion. Non-resistance. Flow by another name.

We were awake deep in the night. She asked if I could remember the places I’ve lived in my life – specifically the apartments and houses. Mostly she wanted to know if I could remember living-in-them. Making dinner. Doing laundry. How they felt. The sounds and smells. For me, there have been many. Most were creative spaces. Most of my living spaces were also studio spaces. Sacred spaces. Quiet places.

I don’t remember the day-to-day. I remember the place and time that I decided I was going to learn to cook. It was a statement of self-care. It was a decision to make all the world my studio and not just the places where I painted. Moving out from a solid center, joining the world, rather than closing off from the noise. Making peace with my out-of-step-ness. It was a decision to move into the chaotic world, to crawl with abandon and explore the river’s muddy bottom.

That reminds me of a Flawed Cartoon.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TURTLES

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Meditate On It [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I was struck by how important it felt. How could something so routine seem like such a big deal! We used to do it all the time. Without thought. Nothing special. Now, it felt like a significant passage. A step toward “normal”: we took the train to Chicago.

Covid was the great disrupter. Daily patterns exploded. Social norms obliterated. It changed us in ways that we are only now beginning to comprehend. To this day – without thinking – if someone stands too close to me in the grocery store I adjust, creating distance. A dance of protection. That small adjustment away from someone is a titanic statement about how I approach social situations, about how I feel about being with others. Keep-them-at-arms-length.

In other words, I’m meditating on safety all of the time.

I don’t think I’m alone in my meditation. I believe the central meditation in my nation is safety – rather, our lack of safety. We wouldn’t be arming ourselves to the teeth if we felt safe. We wouldn’t be ripping at the seams or tolerating corrupt bullies or gobbling up conspiracies if we felt secure. People do not willingly plant their heads in the sand when times are good. In good times, people look up, people reach toward each other. Generosity of spirit engenders generosity toward others. A poverty of spirit engenders animosity toward others.

In other words, no one meditates alone. The big meditations are shared.

Of course, it is also true that people rarely make significant change when times are good. The gift of disruption is progress though the first phase is often nasty and necessarily looks precarious. I suppose we are in the nasty stage of change.

It was not so long ago that a gathering with friends began with testing to make sure no one was carrying the virus. Testing became the norm. It was routine. Am I safe? Are you? Do you remember washing your groceries or isolating your mail for 24 hours when we did not yet understand how the virus was passed? It fundamentally reoriented our experience of being with others.

I think about my safety when I enter a crowd. I look for exit routes when I enter the grocery store. And, last weekend, we stepped onto a train for the first time since the great disruption. It felt momentous. A marker in time. Rather than taking a step away, we took an intentional step toward.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step and ours was a step onto a train. Each small step toward others, each reach, each moment of listening…matters. It creates the progress borne of the disruption. I look forward to taking many more small steps.

I don’t know about you but I’m more than ready for a different meditation.

read Kerri’s blogpost on THE TRAIN

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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

Choose The Lesser Chaos [on DR Thursday]

“If I choose abstraction over reality, it is because I consider it the lesser chaos.” ~ Robert Brault

And what isn’t an abstraction? Dealing with ideas rather than events? Not-the-thing-but-is referential-to-the thing?

Every word in every language is an abstraction. Every thought that zips through every brain is an abstraction. Not the thing but referential to it. The word “chair” is not a chair.

I caught myself in a sticky net. Not once, several times. I’ve tried again and again to paint “abstractions” only to whine, ‘I can’t abstract!” [insert laugh track]. A painting of something is, by definition, not the something. Picasso had a heyday playing with people’s minds around this idea, this abstraction.

After an unexplainable medical event, my doctor shrugged and said, “Sometimes there is no explanation. People like to rationalize things. They think if they can explain it, they can control it.”

Explain Pollock or Rothko. Diebenkorn’s Ocean Park series. Ellsworth Kelly.

And who wouldn’t rather spend time pondering the sense of Richard Serra than anything we read in the news?

read Kerri’s blog post about ABSTRACTION

earth interrupted © 2012 david robinson