Welcome Home [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

I realized on a night dive, 90 feet below the surface in the darkest dark I’d ever experienced, that my consciousness was like the flashlight I held. I saw only what was in the small space illuminated by my light. There was a vast world beyond what I could perceive in my limited view. I understood that the most potent choice I have – or will ever have – is where I decide to aim my light.

“Welcome home!” she said as we stepped into the gallery with three magnificent sculptures by Barbara Hepworth. The soft light, the floor-to-ceiling windows drawing us toward the lake. An open clean space. She was imagining this room was what our future home might feel like. I lapsed into studio fantasies.

I’ve always appreciated this room in the museum but for some reason, on this day, the sculptures were magnetic. While Kerri took photographs, I communed with Barbara Hepworth. The pieces are totems. Sacred symbols. Barbara Hepworth was a woman sculptor in a century that pretended the arts were the province of men. Her life spanned both world wars. She reached beyond the horror of her time to something more elemental. I found hope in her work. Guidance. Perseverance. She was shining her light on what humankind might become. Form and emptiness, perfectly balanced.

“Look,” Kerri said, showing me the photo. “It’s a porthole.” A perfect circle. A horizon. “I could stay here all day,” she closed her eyes and breathed in the space.

“Me, too.” Welcome home.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PORTHOLE

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