Even To The Point [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

I lay awake last night and listened to the chimes. They are a great source of comfort to me. There is something eternal in their sound which calms my busy mind. Guy gifted the chimes to us and I wonder if he knows what a enormous gift he gave to us: a soothing sound, a calm mind. In the warm months I sit close to them because I can feel the sound.

The earring stand belonged to Kerri’s mother. It stands on her dresser with a stuffed gingham heart at the base. Sometimes wandering through antique malls I am overwhelmed. The “things” have lost any connection to their storyteller, to the person who used them each day, and so are reduced to merely objects. Their value is no longer in their story but in their stuff-ness. The earring stand inspires a story, evokes a memory.

We’re slowly going through our stuff. There are piles in the basement. Each item in every pile has a story. The stories requires us to move slowly, deliberately. Sometimes the story requires us to hold on. Sometimes the story requires us to move it out as soon as possible. Sometimes the story has run its course and it’s time for us to move on. We need to break the connection. Sometimes we find pieces that we know would be meaningful to others, connections to lost loved ones or to long-ago cherished places. We box and ship these surprises, facilitating a re-union.

When my dad passed I wanted a few of of his shot glasses. He kept a collection, a shot-glass record of his travels and of ours since we always brought home a new addition to add to his collection. They were on shelves all over the house. They lined the mantel. My few shot glasses are prized possessions. If we had to pare down our world to the bare minimum the shot glasses would make the cut. Someday they will likely end up in an antique mall. People will see them as stuff, mere objects, and I suppose that is okay. The connection, the story, will disappear with me when I go. It will be lost to others because the connection is within me, I carry it, not the shot glasses.

That micro-revelation is the gift of cleaning out the house: I am – we are – keepers of connection. We are story collectors. Story weavers. Our possessions ring through us like the wind through the chimes, making us resonate with all that we hold dear, memories that define us even to the point of needing to let them go.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE EARRING STAND

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Caching Zeal [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

The season of fallow. The period of time when nothing seems to happen. The fruit has long since disappeared. The vine has dropped its leaves. The flowers are long gone; only the hard stalk remains.

And yet, plenty is happening beneath the surface. The energy goes to the root. Rest is, after all, an action. Recuperation. Growth need not be immediately visible. First comes the resupply, storing fuel for the impending internal stirring.

Our cleaning out of the house and our studios is just like that: energy going to the root. Creative disturbance. The blossoms of the past are…past. We are attending to the source or, better, we are tending the source. Making space is like dropping old leaves. Empty branches shedding the once-was to make room for the what-will-be. Caching zeal.

Letting go. It’s a mixed bag, this necessary austerity. At the moment it seems chaotic and harsh but in time, the season will change, the energy stored in the root will sense the warming soil and appear as new buds. In time it will make perfect sense.

read Kerri’s blogpost about WINTER THISTLES

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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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Prepare For The Freeze [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

In our home there is no task so daunting as the cleaning-out of her closet. We’ve had several near-attempts. Occasionally, small dents have been made to the outer layer. But, in the end, all forward progress shuts down. This mountain is too formidable to climb. With the closet door open she stands staring in; frozen.

I understand. It’s not simply clothes to be tossed. It’s memories. Associations. The archeology of a lifetime. For my story-thready wife, taking her old clothes to the Goodwill is like tossing her memories into an abyss.

I’ve suggested leaving it alone and building another closet to make badly needed new space for the present-and-future clothes. My suggestion always inspires THAT look. So, I’ve learned to keep silent. Hold my tongue. I’ve learned the art of the silent head-nod.

Now I know, on those dubious occasions she declares, “This is the day…” my job is to prepare for the emotional-lock-up, the mental freeze. The inevitable zombie-stare of defeat. I fluff extra pillows for her favorite chair. I position the hassock so I can rub her feet. I open a bottle of wine.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CLOSET

smack-dab © 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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Proof That We Were [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Time keeps moving,” I wanted to say. “It eventually dumps all of us back into the ocean.” I hold my tongue. In my silence I wonder about the origin of this odd idiom, hold my tongue. It invites some hysterical images. It’s better, I suppose, than biting my tongue. Same thing, less damage.

We sort through the children’s clothes – our children’s clothes – from the time that they were toddlers. Kerri coos and tells me stories. I never knew them at that age but delight in imagining the very independent adults I know stumbling around, infant drunken sailors, clad in OshKosh b’gosh overalls. We giggle at her recollections. I marvel at the tiny shoes. I am grateful that she’s filling me in on their early years.

Every so often we wonder what it would have been like to have had babies together. On the drive to our honeymoon we were visited by our first imaginary child, Chicken Marsala. He was – and is – infinitely wiser than his parents. That simple truth, an imaginary yet wise child born in the minds of two aging artists, inspired us to write a comic strip. It was a great premise! It was also great fun to write and draw and Chicken knocked hard on the door of syndication. Alas, he grew up and left us as empty nesters. There are no cute clothes as proof of his existence but there are hundreds of drawings. Seeds for Smack-Dab.

The river runs. Time keeps moving. We have so many ideas! Most pop up and then roll downstream and join the ocean of possibilities. Some leave their marks behind. Toddler clothes that we capture and develop into mature creations. Those creations are what we leave behind, proof that we were once toddling to-and-fro on this gorgeous planet. OshKosh b’gosh!

chicken marsala © 2016, 2024 kerrianddavid.com

I Will Hold You/And Goodnight…a Lullaby Album © 2005

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about OVERALLS

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buymeacoffee is like a footprint on the trail: evidence that you are out there and proof that we have reached you.

Ding! [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Inspiration rarely looks like we think it ought to look. It rarely comes from the direction we expect. This little bell throws Kerri into advanced fantasies about her “store.” Her imagination is unbridled; her internal space is large enough to hold more than one store. For instance, she has visions of a food truck called And Sauce. Hungry people come to the window and order her special pasta sauce on a variety of delivery options. There are many variations of craft and clothing shops, art stores, there is a series of online products that follow The Little Pillow world-wide explosion. This composer, singer-songwriter has a heart for retail. It’s why she owns her own label and mourns the onset of the age of streaming: selling CD’s was too much fun.

The little bell also makes an appearance (in her mind) each time she sells something unearthed from the basement. “Ding!” she sings with excitement, when the folding screen or the bag of books find a new home. Sometimes, as we sort through the next layer of stuff in the basement, I hear her sing, “Ding!” Another sale made in her mind.

To be clear, we do not own the bell. We saw it one day in an antique store. “I have to take a picture!” she said. “To remember.” It’s among the many lovely quirks that she developed through her life as an artist. Wanting does not necessarily mean possessing. When we first met, showing me a magazine of women’s clothing, she explained, “If I stare at the picture long enough I don’t need to have it.” The yearning is satisfied by the yearning, not the having.

And, the yearning inspires new ideas, clever combinations of what’s already in her closet. This little bell works on the same principle. Retail mania in many configurations rolls out of her yearning for the bell. You’d be amazed at all the clever combinations on the menu of And Sauce. You’d be be delighted – as I am – with the joy-feels that ripple across the house every time the sing-song imaginary bell rings. “Ding!”

Another sale.

Unfolding/As It Is © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s music is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BELL

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Celebrate And Release [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

If this was a painting it would be titled “The View from the Kitchen Window in the Middle of the Polar Freeze.” It’s lovely and abstract yet also carries hints of an impressionist sky. One hundred years of painting history all wrapped up in a single frozen moment.

When I lived on the west coast I experienced my share of earthquakes. They were of varying intensity, some subtle shakers, another knocked my neighbor’s house off the foundation. And although they were different in character and spanned a few decades of time, one thing remained constant: in the moments that followed the quake, the best of human nature stepped forward. People immediately reached to strangers and friends – it didn’t matter – to ensure that everyone was alright. A shared experience, a shaking-to-the-core, loosened all the protective layers. The light came through the frozen facade.

As we’ve written, the polar freeze has driven us into the basement to clean out the stuff-of-life collected over three decades. It’s been a minor fascination that our cleaning process has inspired stories from friends about the time that they cleaned out the stuff-of-their-lives. Amidst the many stories we’ve heard, there is a triple constant: the stuff they saved, just like us, are the artifacts of their children with the intention of someday giving the treasures to their children. Clothes. Finger paintings. Trophies. Sporting equipment. Children’s books…our collection fills many shelves that now dip from the weight of too many books packed onto too small a shelf.

The second constant: the children do not want what the parents have saved. The museum of parenthood. The cleaning commences once the parents realize that saving the artifacts was, in fact, something they did for themselves. And so their life review is called “cleaning out.”

The third constant: the cleanse is actually a portal. A next chapter, another identity, lives on the other side of the purge. New light calls through the frozen memories. The memories warm in the telling. The sharing of the tales of parenthood, lovingly mourned and with gratitude, celebrated and released.

I Will Hold You, 29.75 x 39.25, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE FREEZE

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Talk Turkey [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

(Bing) “You just got a text” I said. We’d been in the basement all day, cleaning, sorting, making piles of what would go, what to donate, what to keep. There’s nothing like an extended polar freeze to inspire a deep purge of the collected-and-accumulated- stuff-of-life.

She read his text aloud, “Umm…are you guys having turkey tonight?” Our neighbor, John, is a master of understatement, one of the funniest people we know. Bob Newhart dry.

“What? What’s he talking about?” I asked.

(Bing) “He sent a picture!” She laughed, “Oh, my god! We have to go upstairs,” she said, bounding out of the basement.

“What? Why?” She was already gone. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said to myself. I heard her laugh again and then the sound of the camera snapping photos. Fear-Of-Missing-Out set in. I dropped my broom and galloped up the stairs.

“Come see,” she smiled. “You’re not going to believe it.”

Two of the neighborhood turkey trio were sitting atop the Scion. The third was standing in the driveway staring directly into the studio window. A set up. A blatant appeal for sanctuary. I expected the driveway turkey to extend a wing in our direction. Instead, it raised one leg, tucking it into the warmth of its body. One of the turkeys atop the car pooped. Choreography. An appeal combined with a not-so-veiled threat.

“They must be freezing,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Not a chance. They are not coming into the house.” She snapped a few more photos.

“It’s really cold out there.” she muttered. The one-legged turkey shifted to the other foot. “It’s too cold to stand on both feet,” she said, looking at me with those eyes.

“No way. Not a chance. They’re turkeys. They are made to withstand the cold.” The second turkey atop the car pooped.

Someone is going to have to clean that off the car,” she said, subtly allying with the turkeys.

I slowly raised my leg, tucking it in, standing on one foot. “It’s cold in here,” I said. Two can play that game.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TURKEYS ON THE ROOF

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buymeacoffee is a warm car-roof on a polar cold day, a wind block for the feathered artists standing at your studio window holding out a wing of appeal.

Uncover The Story [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

Cleaning out, for Kerri, has been like an archeological-story-dig of her life. I am a relative newcomer to the house and came with a truckload of paintings and not much else, so we are mostly excavating her life before me. Sometimes there is a gasp. Sometimes hysterical laughter. Sometimes I know she has found something important because of the profound silence. Sometimes there are tears.

Always there are stories. Treasured stories. Memories stirred by the simplest of finds, a shirt, a cassette tape, a teething ring.

I am the lucky recipient of her story-archeology and delight every time I hear her say, “Come look at this.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TEETHING RING

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Don’t Move [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab].

There is a stack of books by her bedside. Strategies for cleaning out the house without doing psychological damage. Strategies for transcending deep emotional attachment to things so the cleaning out process can commence. As a dedicated minimalist, someone who’s spent the majority of life accumulating no more possessions than could fit in my car, I can only watch her go through the heart-grind of the her necessary preparation.

I learned my lesson early in our life together. She left for the afternoon and I thought it might be a good idea to clean the basement. She still has not recovered from the damage I did to her organizational system. I have not recovered from the searing look she gave me when I proudly showed her the newly cleaned basement.

And so, the necessary purge preparation has begun. I remain at-the-ready, afraid to move until…

read Kerri’s blogpost about CLEANING OUT

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