Heed The Stone [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Stones are markers.

When we wander the cemetery at the end of our street I sometimes see the headstones, not as location stones, but as boundaries-marked-in-time. Before. After. The leaping place of souls.

There are stones placed to indicate a borderline. I imagine the stone with the spray-painted message is one of those: beyond this point is the land of love. Who wouldn’t want to cross this border? Who wouldn’t want to step over this divide and wander in the frontier of love?

People stack stones to mark the way. To help others. To help themselves find the way home. Ease of passage.

This stone quietly standing along the bike trail does not call attention to itself. In fact, we’ve passed it many times and only just saw its message. Like a pictograph left by the ancients, someone-in-time felt compelled to leave a message on the path for others to see. A boundary in time? A borderline? A passage marker? An aspiration for travelers along this route?

Good choices, all.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the LOVE STONE

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Work On It [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

In my pre-Kerri-era, I took a 20 minute power nap every afternoon. I’d hit the studio floor at about 3:15, snooze like a champ, and be ready to go for the rest of the day. All that changed when I moved east. All of my work patterns and life patterns changed.

Although she definitely does not see herself as a nap person, occasionally, after a loooong night awake, I have been able to coax her into a dedicated-nap-fest. And, as a rule, she is fast asleep before my head hits the pillow. It tickles me. I confess: I am plotting to expand her definition of herself to include more naps. I tell her it’s a sign of sophistication. I tell her naps are sign of arriving at adulthood. I’ll tell her anything as long as we eventually arrive at the return of the power nap. The only thing better is a good hot bath.

In time. I’m working on it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about NAPS

smack-dab © 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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My Wise-Eyes [David’s blog on KS Friday]

We were awake in the middle of the night. I don’t mind these doughnut holes in our sleep because we tend to have heart-to-heart chats. In the dark hours we reach deep into reflection and yearning. We ponder. Last night we talked about our writing. The differences in our styles, what we have learned from each other, how we are becoming better-and-better writers because we write side-by-side, share our work and edit each other.

Every artist needs a person to view or read their work who is completely honest. No energy need be spent protecting the artist-ego. In the theatre that person is called “wise-eyes.” And, in order to take full advantage of the wise-eyes, the artist needs to have open-ears capable of hearing honest reflection. It’s a relationship of deepest trust: “Tell me what you think, see, hear…” Wise-eyes are hard to come by.

Last night, as we talked, I was suddenly overwhelmed by my good fortune: we can – and do – talk about anything. I trust her feedback and insights implicitly. She has my best interests at heart and I have hers. And so we grow. I married my wise-eyes.

The gorgeous shock of dried flowers against an impressionist’s blue sky. I would never see this image were I to walk on my own. And that’s the point. She has me opening my eyes to look at the world in ways that do not come naturally to me. Paradoxically expanding my view to include the close-in, the detail. My head is usually in the esoteric clouds. My wise-eyes-wife is teaching me to also look down, to plant my feet on the ground, to (as she says) “gear-down”. To challenge my idea of what comes naturally. I am becoming a much better artist for it.

Untitled Interlude/Released From The Heart © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about DRIED FLOWERS AND BLUE SKY

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Belonging [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

It’s hard not to imagine the light-circles dancing on the far wall as a visitation of spirits. Ancestors or angels come to check-in, to let us know that we are not outside but within the circle of their warm embrace.

Last year Kate took us to a cemetery where many of our ancestors are buried. It was a revelation. Although right along the road, this graveyard was hard to find. It was hard to see. Yet, once inside, it opened wide; a bluff overlooking cornfields. As we walked from stone to stone, she told us what she knew of the life of each person. Of how we are connected.

I felt rooted in that place, surrounded by those lives. Like the light-circles dancing on the wall I felt inside the warm embrace. That’s a rare feeling for me.

Many years ago I had a casual conversation with a psychic. I told her that I didn’t feel as if I belonged anywhere and she laughed. “Belonging is not an issue,” she smiled but did not elaborate. Standing on that grassy knoll on a warm Iowa day, the psychic’s words came back to me. Belonging is not an issue.

Belonging is a word with both a horizontal and a vertical plane. There’s the circle that is seen. There is the circle that is felt. There is the circle of warm embrace that is today. There is the greater circle that reaches back and back and back. Those are the light-dancers, the surprise visitors who, on a sunny morning, show up for a moment or two, twinkling to remind us that all is well. We can rest easy knowing that, no matter what, we are and always will be surrounded by their love.

an oldie: Embrace, acrylic

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAGIC LIGHT

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Deal In Imagination [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself.” ~ William Blake

I think a lot about artists that were influential but financially unsuccessful. The list is much longer than you might imagine. Most artists fit into that category. William Blake shook the cultural foundations but died a pauper. Mozart. Van Gogh. Artists that are successful according to our recognized standard are the exception and not the rule. Thankfully, there is an imperative that reaches deeper than money. A need to create. A need to come together. There is a resonance that we recognize with the currency of genuine appreciation.

Occasionally I revisit a book by Wayne Muller, How Then Shall We Live. It’s about giving meaning to life, bringing purpose to it as opposed to finding purpose in it. Although Wayne Muller might not recognize it, his book is about imagination. Imagination is what we bring to life (yes, a double entendre). Imagination is where we create our purpose. We imagine ourselves whole.

Wander your neighborhood for an hour and comprehend the truth that everything you see sprang from someone’s imagination. The plumbing and electrics, the structures and finishes; someone, somewhere, imagined it before it came into three dimensions. Form and function chasing each other. Someone imagined how to make life easier or prettier or more secure. We are a rolling anthill of roiling imagination. We might think our imagination is self-serving but even the most dedicated expressionist needs an audience to fulfill their purpose. No one throws paint on a canvas or dances on a stage without imagining the witness of others. The moving of spirits to join together. No one builds a road so they alone can drive on it.

Look around. Imagination is abundant. The paper napkins are designed. The silverware is crafted. In our old house, the wood floors were laid by someone who cared about their work; caring is a function of imagination.

So is remembrance; my wild imagination loves to toy with the past: this is how I remember it! This is how I’d like to remember it.

When I am lost and afraid, like you, I imagine myself warm at home. It keeps we walking.

Artists deal in imagination and, so, are stewards of a special kind of riches: the power to bring even the most lost heart back to itself, the power to bring a room full of dedicated strangers into a single shared story.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FLOWERS

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A Sculpture Worth Making [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

The question floated across my screen, something I’d asked a group many years ago. I don’t remember the moment so it was a blast from the past of a former me: apparently I asked, “What if no one else has your answers?”

The timing was interesting since I am currently without answers. Well, more accurately – more honestly – I’m standing still surveying the wreckage.

I appreciated my blast from the past because now, at this point in my life-journey, were I working with a group, I’d flip the equation and ask, “What if no one else has your questions?” I’m no longer a big believer in answers.

We stopped in the long hallway leading to the contemporary art collection to admire the lens. I didn’t note the title or the name of the artist so I cannot give credit where credit is due. I’ve looked at the piece before but never with the same appreciation. Never from this moment in time. It was suddenly, intensely relevant. All points bend toward a common center. A point of view that generates circles. A single intersection.

“It’s an ego,” I thought. It believes it’s the center of everything that’s happening. It made me laugh. It brought to mind the ubiquitous lesson from Quinn: “There are six billion people on this planet and you are the only one that cares what you think.” Or feel. Or see.

No one else has your questions. No one else has your answers.

Standing before the sculpture I imagined flipping the script and reversing the circle: what would it look like to genuinely care what other people think. Or feel. Or see. With no need to understand it or change it or control it. Only care about it. About them. There’s a common center available in that paradigm, too.

Now, how do I make that lens? That’s a question worth asking, a sculpture worth making.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LENS

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Where It Ends [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Today is the day when hoaxsters and jokesters and pranksters abound. It’s the unofficial-official national day of the trickster.

Historically on this day it’s best to doubt everything that you are told, to check the sources of your information. To join in the joking and let off some steam with a bit of harmless mischief.

It’s much harder in this day-and-age since everyday is April fools day! The mischief is not harmless. With so many dedicated conspiracy theorists running amok, shysters selling bibles, serial liars celebrated, vapid minds taken seriously, it’s difficult to tell where the fool’s day begins and where it ends. It’s tough to know where the fools begin and where they end.

So, on this day as on all others, it’s a best practice to doubt everything that you are told [as a rule of thumb, it’s not a bad practice everyday to doubt everything that you think!], to religiously check the sources of your information and to check the sources of information promoted as religious.

Fools and tricksters are meant to make us open our eyes; to step back and take ourselves less seriously. To help us discern between the sacred and the profane. They are meant to shock the system when the system begins to believe that it’s “all that.” They are meant to help us laugh at ourselves.

Play safe out there. Have fun. It is my deepest wish that we might lighten up ever so slightly and learn to chuckle at our foibles. I know, I know…pie in the sky. First we must learn to distinguish between a foible and a strength, a truth and a lie, a joke and a virtue, an ignoramus and a learner, propaganda and news.

Until then, we are all destined to be April’s fools.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FOOLS

[Christopher Wool’s painting, Fool, at the Milwaukee Art Museum]

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Count On It [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

It’s true. There’s rarely been a punch-clock in either of our careers. No one who actually holds the service imperative of a mission-driven-not-for-profit counts minutes and hours because it would only serve to confirm what you already know: if you are good at what you do, you’re working for pennies-per-hour. There’s a reason it’s called a not-for-profit. There’s a reason they call it a service organization instead of a business. Those folks dedicated to the gods of efficiency and effectiveness, those bottom-line devotees, can never fully grok it. It’s almost impossible to see actual service through an accounting focus and a forest of numbers. It’s very possible – in fact, predictable – to strangle a service organization by attempting to make it run like a business.

It’s also true that we used to be night owls. There was a time that my best work, my most productive time in the studio, began at 10pm and ended with the sunrise. There was a time when we took midnight walks. Now, we are transformed. Night is for sleeping. Or at least the attempt at sleeping. We delight (I exaggerate) in rising at the crack of dawn, the birds sing us awake. Dedicated 9-to-5’ers!

read Kerri’s blogpost about 9-to-5

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Edge Of Time [David’s blog on KS Friday]

It was here for a moment. The snow on the wall. The tall grasses bowing beneath the weight. Today the grass is standing. Time moves on. Circumstances flow and change.

Yesterday we sat at a counter in the Public Market and ate gumbo. Kerri and the server, a young woman, talked about the oddities of aging. It was Kerri’s 65th birthday so the topic was vital and current. Both women laughed at how out-of-sync they feel relative to the number of their spins around the sun. “What is this supposed to feel like?” they asked in unison. The old man sitting next to us almost spit out his salmon.

We arrived at the art museum an hour before closing. She said, for her birthday, she wanted to visit her boys: Richard Diebenkorn. Ellsworth Kelly, and Mark Rothko. We sat in front of the Rothko for several minutes and I swear, like a good wine, the painting opened. The longer we sat with it the more it beckoned. The richer the color became. “I wish there was a bench in front of Richard,” she said. She loves her other boys but Diebenkorn is her favorite.

On our way out we stopped by the enormous Anselm Kiefer painting, Midgard. The mythical serpent doing battle at the end of the world. It’s a metaphor in darkness: cycles of renewal amidst constant destruction. A crucible. I always visit Anselm as he is a favorite of my friend David. I sent him a photo of the painting and realized that it has been almost eight years since I have seen him.

Catching a glimpse of my image in the window and not fully recognizing the man that looked back, I said, “This time thing is crazy.” She squeezed my hand.

“Tell me about it,” she said. And then asked, “So, what’s the next part of our adventure?”

Boundaries/Right Now © 2010 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOW

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Welcome This [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

My series, Earth Interrupted, is as yet incomplete. I started it like I start most things – a happy accident – or more accurately, my brush giving voice to something rising from the deep that had not yet hit my brain. I completed five canvases and then stepped away. It needed to simmer. I needed to simmer.

The Lost Boy – my play with-and-about Tom Mck – took over a decade to germinate and find its place on the stage. My new play, Diorama, is an idea that has been with me, stewing, for many years. Last fall it rolled out of me in a process that felt easy though I know better. It took a long time to find “easy”. Now the real work comes: finding the path to performance and release into the world.

I spent the morning looking at my Earth Interrupted series. I’ve not visited these pieces since just prior to the pandemic – so it’s been awhile. The original impulse must have stewed long enough because the series is calling me back – though not in the usual sense. I have no images in my mind. I have no real passion to explore the initial notion behind them. I do, however, want to get lost in what I know will be the slow evolution, the process of allowing the image to find me, not through my mind, but through my quiet. I yearn for the quiet. I quite literally ache for the stillness that I experience when I paint. It’s the process that calls.

This series began as a meditation. It feels as if the sun is reaching through a thick layer of clouds. I am lucky. I listen for the voice rising from the deep. It’s been a long time. I welcome this meditation returning, breaking the surface at long last, and signaling that it’s time to come back home.

Earth Interrupted 1, 48″x53″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SUN AND CLOUDS

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