An Experience [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“In the modern era, one of the most active metaphors for the spiritual project is “art.” ~ Susan Sontag (via The Marginalian)

It was within a meditation on silence that Susan Sontag wrote this thought. With planes and trains and automobiles, with cell phones and 24 hour news cycles, with weed whackers and garbage trucks and sirens, with podcasts to plug into and streaming on demand…opportunities for silence are rare, indeed.

All of my life I have retreated to my studio to “get quiet.” I’ve learned – and it seems to me a no-brainer -that there is a direct connection between silence-of-the-mind and presence. And, the experience of ‘something-bigger-than-me” can only happen in the present moment. It’s a direct experience, not an abstraction.

Marion Milner – under the pen name of Joanna Field – wrote that happiness cannot be found in the narrow focus of purpose because it lives “out there”, it promises fulfillment somewhere in a distant imagined future. It’s only in the broad focus of the senses that happiness can be found because it is immediate. Happiness is only possible/available/accessible in-the-here-and-now. It’s an experience, not an abstraction.

Art brings us into the present moment. Art has the power to break through isolating mental abstractions into the shared space of experience.

Joseph Campbell wrote that our endeavor in meaning-making is the opposite of our distant ancestors. For them, meaning was made (or found) through the group. We are tasked with finding it within ourselves.

“It” is never found in insistent preachers or rule-books or exhibitions of righteousness. These are the noisy aspects of the narrow focus erected on a platform of “should”.

If “it” is to be found, if “it” is to be experienced, inner silence is the threshold.

Take a walk in nature. Become captive to the color of the leaves. Entice the quiet found in the studio. These are the secrets of the composer whose music lifts your spirit, the poet who stirs your humanity, the dancer who challenges your idea of what’s possible…all bringing you into the dazzling present moment. It’s a place the artist knows well, an experience beyond words.

read Kerri’s blogpost about RED LEAVES

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The Composition of a Life [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I cut the post I wrote for today. The image of this Dianthus flower is too beautiful for the thoughts I paired with it. The color of this flower kills me. The composition of this photograph would make Georgia O’Keeffe smile.

I reminded myself to not miss the beauty-of-the-moment in the middle of the national horror story we currently experience.

Chris has been on a quest for 15 years to develop a play based on Viktor Frankel’s book, Man’s Search For Meaning. A few days ago he took another step forward. He’s knocking on the door of his dream. Viktor Frankel was a Holocaust survivor and the book is based on his experiences in the camp. He makes a distinction that is relevant for us today: we have the choice to either seek meaning from our experiences or to bring meaning to our experiences. Our chances of survival are better if we bring rather than seek meaning – especially in a time, like ours, when amorality and cruelty have the reins of power. It’s hard to find meaning in the wasteland.

It’s the reason I cut my post. I was seeking meaning from the rapid collapse of our democracy rather than bringing a greater meaning to this moment-in-time.

We put the air conditioner in the window because our old Dogga suffers in the heat. Last night he was laying in his now-usual-spot directly in front of the fan blowing cold air. I sat next to him and rubbed his ears. I cannot describe the enormity of what I felt in that moment. It was more necessary, more important than anything rolling across our screens.

As I write this a bird – a house finch – is scratching at the window just behind where I am sitting. It is literally six inches from my head. I can see into its eyes. And it is looking into mine.

The color of this Dianthus kills me.

I cannot stop the national slide into autocracy. I can control where I choose to place my focus and there’s so much around me that would be a shame to miss. It’s the composition of a life that would make Georgia O’Keeffe – and Viktor Frankel – nod with silent approval.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DIANTHUS

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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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An Echo [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“…repetition as a means of physically marking time, memory, loss, transformation, and ultimately, transcendence.” ~ curator’s statement for the exhibit of Idris Khan at the Milwaukee Art Museum.

Repetition. A mantra. The hours of practice of a musician. A commute to work. Ritual. We walk the same looping trail again and again, season after season. The same is never the same.

We journey to the Milwaukee Art Museum to replenish our spirits. Mostly we visit Richard, Ellsworth, and Mark. I stop by and visit Georgia and Pablo. Not knowing much about him, we were for some reason drawn to the Idris Khan exhibit. Repetition. Stacked images. Words printed on top of words. Pages of musical scores layered and changed into a powerful visual statement. Symbols iterated until garbled and transformed; I leaned in close, then stepped back, again and again, becoming part of the repetition. A dance!

Such a simple star to follow, repetition. And yet…How many letters in an alphabet? How many notes on a scale? From the limited letters or available notes – symbols repeated and mixed and matched – an infinite array of possibilities. Every page of the Quran photographed and stacked. Bach’s Six Suites for Solo Cello.

Wandering through the galleries, his work made me ponder how our inner lives are entirely symbolic. Our days stacked one upon the other. We look though the stack called our past and somehow, through the noise, believe we arrive at understanding. Meaning. An echo.

Joy, 50″x56″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MUSEUM

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Puff, Puff, Poof! [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“But I’ll tell you what hermits realize. If you go off into a far, far forest and get very quiet, you’ll come to understand that you’re connected with everything.” ~ Alan Watts

I recently read an outrageous statistic. The average American by age 20, across all available media, has seen one million commercials. I can’t confirm it but a quick consult with the oracle Google, produced some equally eye-popping numbers. Regardless of the actual number, we are awash in advertisement. My favorite synonym for advertisement: puff (British, of course).

In my recent foray into software development I read that 90% of the world’s data was generated in the last two years. My particular favorite phrase describing data: units of meaning.

We are living in an angry time. It’s a vicious circle: our units of meaning are often – if not always – absent of context or continuity, rendering them isolated. They’re like asteroids hurtling through space.

People seek meaning. It is a uniquely human activity. Meaning-making requires context and continuity. Our ‘puffs’ would have us believe that we will certainly find meaning and connection if we buy what they are selling – but we soon realize that what they are selling, relative to meaning, is just that – a puff. Like me, you will never find lasting happiness in a new car or your identity in your brand of blue jeans. Perhaps you will experience satisfaction for a fleeting moment – which is roughly the lifespan of a unit of data-meaning. Is it any wonder that we are angry and grasping at any ole’ context that conspiracy theories and propaganda might provide? Anger is an expression of fear, and the fear: that we are hurtling through life without meaning.

“And people get all fouled up because they want the world to have meaning as if it were words… As if you had a meaning, as if you were a mere word, as if you were something that could be looked up in a dictionary. You are meaning.” ~ Alan Watts

The lesson of our times (and past times): there is always a populist grifter ready to exploit anger and ignorance, making promises of meaning-fulfillment pulled from an imagined past like a rabbit from a hat. A political puff.

Sometimes I think this is why Kerri and I walk on our trails. To get quiet, to unplug from the incessant info streams, the madness of news-delivered-like-a-commercial. Puff, puff…poof. To re-enter substantial and lasting context. In nature, in the cycles we participate with and experience, we regain – and rejoin – continuity. We stop hurtling through our lives grasping for ‘puff’ fulfillment or trying to make sense of nonsense. We stand in something more tangible. Eternal.

“You are a function of what the whole universe is doing in the same way that a wave is a function of what the whole ocean is doing.” ~ Alan Watts

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LUSH DAY

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Infinite Palette [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

A Green Haiku

I stare into space

Today. “Green on green,” she said.

Infinite palette.

At the very end of my life I imagine I will understand – perhaps for the first time, in my final moment – that each day was momentous. I will come to understand that every tick-on-the-tock held more import than I had capacity to conceive. To “just get through it” or to assign “good days” and “bad days” a mind-boggling misunderstanding of the opportunity-of-life.

How much of my perception is chemistry? Ventral vagus tugging-at-war with dorsal vagus for story dominance? Meaning made via neurotransmitter? Does my chemistry generally opt for connection or protection? Like most of us, I imagine myself as somehow independent of my environment, an individual, self-actualized. As it turns out, that is proof of delusion. Or human-specific-hubris. I cannot know myself without your reflection. You cannot know yourself without mine.

First we sense. And then we story. And then our stories wear paths in our mind meadow, chemical preferences.

Green on green. Not as simple as it seems. Boundless as this passing moment. Infinite.

[*special thanks to The Marginalian by Maria Popova – June 9, 2024 – for her reflections on polyvagal theory]

Surrender Now, 24″ x 24″ mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about GREEN

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Where [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Where to now? It’s the ever-present-topic of conversation.

On our recent trip to the mountain, we speculated. What was going to happen? What did we want to happen? What did we hope or fear would happen? Supposition is a kind of storytelling. Building a container for the unknown.

On the way home we recounted what happened. We discussed the gems, the surprises. We talked of the special moments that we anticipated and the hard moments that we predicted. We reveled in the fulfillment of intention, a visit to the sanctuary, a return to the stream. Narrating our experiences is a kind of storytelling. Sense-making. Building a container for the known.

Both types of container are too small. There is only so much anticipation that can be held. There is infinite sense to be made so story choices are necessary: what goes into the container and what must be let go? How will I make meaning of what just happened? And what does that mean for the next container of supposition that we must build?

They are connected questions. Where have I been? Where to now? Of necessity, despite all expectation, neither question ever arrives at an answer.

read Kerri’s blogpost about STORIES

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As If [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In a festival of irony, the moment we sat down to write about our peony, our harbinger of summer sun and the return of good weather, the sky darkened, the lightning flashed, the thunder clapped, and the rain is now dropping in buckets. The weather alert screeched with a warning for hail and possible tornadoes.

I delight in how readily my superstition-gene leaps out of the murky depths of my subconscious pond and concocts fabulous explanations about current circumstance. That is, as a human-being, a maker of stories – I am quite capable of connecting the rush of the sudden storm with our attempt to write about peonies. As if our attempt to write about peonies somehow invoked the storm!

This is not surprising. It is nothing new. My ancestors – and yours – created all manner of rituals in an attempt to appease the angry thunder-hurling god. To influence the powers of dark and light. To invite good fortune. To bring rain to crops. We have always personified nature and then imagined it is responsive to our behavior. Our behests. All around the globe, in many varied and culturally diverse forms, we do it in houses of worship to this day.

It might seem that I am making fun – and I am – but more than that, I am marveling at our genuine desire to be connected to “something bigger” and yet how rarely we recognize that we already are. We are as the peony, not separate from but a part of the pulse of life. We are of nature – not separate from it. My theory is that we have a hard time recognizing it because we imagine that we can control it. We use it to explain what we experience. We use it to justify our abuses to each other. Chosen people; Manifest Destiny and all of that ugly business. The personality we project upon it is at once beatific and horrific. We wonder why it blows our house away. We thank it for our good fortune.

In truth, we do influence Mother Nature and Father Sky, just not in the magical ways we imagine. Carbon emissions. Tapping mighty rivers dry before they reach the sea. Dumping our trash in the oceans. Fracking. It turns out that our behaviors are powerful and, perhaps, our destiny is in our hands. We need not pray to the gods for intervention and salvation, perhaps we need to be the gods of intervention that we desire to be, recognize and behave as if are not above it all, giver of names, but integral, intrinsic, no more or less essential than the peony.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PEONY

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Epicenters of Mattering [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

If you asked me why we write I would tell you that it is because of Lydia. After reading my post Arrive, she must have sensed my low spirits and took the time to comment: Perhaps you have already arrived. Breathe. Feel the awe. In every moment. It is because of Alex who reads what I write everyday and bothers to let me know. Buffalo Bob. A simple like, telling me, “I am out here and what you write matters to me.”

Writing is a relationship like painting is a relationship like music is a relationship. It’s a dynamic feedback loop. A younger me would have told you that the impulse to create is internal; the current version of me wonders if there really is any such separation as internal and external. There is no actor without an audience, no writer without a reader. It’s a matter of mattering. To each other. Ultimately, the artist imperative is to share. It is hard to explain. Ours is essential. It is urgent. It is undeniable. It is an inner necessity – a word that I do not use lightly. To deny it would be to die – a statement that I do not offer lightly. Yet, without an audience, a reader, there would be no point.

We recently asked Rob his thoughts about how to get our words beyond our bubble. We love our bubble, our community of dedicated readers and listeners. However, the changes in the world of arts-as-a-business have made the work we were once paid for free for all takers. Although technology brings our words and music and art to audiences all over the world, it has also left us financially insecure. It’s an oddly mixed message of mattering. So many listeners and readers, so few pennies. Rob and others have been knocking on our noggins to open a Patreon membership. It’s taken awhile for us to embrace the realities of this brave new world.

Networks and relationships. Worth. Value. Mattering. Each of us an epicenter with lines of connection running in all directions. Sharing. Giving. Asking. So very appreciative of a “thumbs up,” so deeply moved when our words come back at us with a loving reminder to Feel the Awe. Breathe.

read Kerri’s blogpost about NETWORKS

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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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