Chase A Ghost [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

The question came in through our site from a man who was instrumental in Kerri’s decision to record her compositions. A voice from her past asking a good question.

There are many surface answers to his question. In our case, all would be applicable: to give voice to our thoughts, to build a community, to call attention to our work…This morning, as I ponder his question, I think the purpose of a blog, my blog, might be to chase ghosts.

I began blogging utterly convinced that I had very little of value to say. I’d never considered myself to be a writer. It was a challenge I set for myself. Actually, I had one thing to say and decided I would, every day, attempt to write about it until I ran out of gas. I calculated that the tank would run dry in less than seven days. I was chasing the elusive ghost known as voice. My voice.

The interesting thing about ghost-chasing is that it makes you pay attention to everything. Ghosts can come at you in an instant from any direction and disappear just as quickly. Sometimes you can’t see them at all but feel intensely their icy presence. That was the first thing I learned in my voice-ghost-pursuit: I was paying careful attention, inside and out. It was not intense, not a strain or a struggle. I didn’t have to try. It was natural.

Not surprisingly, paying attention gave me more and more to write about, more to reflect upon. More to offer. “Have you seen this? Do you understand it?”

Chasing ghosts is a great question stimulator. Ghosts are curious and require all manner of suspension of disbelief so they are also terrific curiosity-energizers. Among the first line of questioning is about your self: your perceptions, your beliefs, your ideas of who you are and who you are not. It’s nearly impossible to write about others without exposing your self. Voice chasing leads to an astounding realization: the self/other boundary is permeable. We come to know ourselves relative to how well we know others. We only know our voice because someone out-there is listening and, hopefully, giving voice in return. Contrast principle.

Our basement is unusual in that it has box-after-box of unsold CD’s – the hard evidence of the music industry making a quick pivot to streaming services. The stacks of my unsold paintings take up an entire room. Our filing cabinets are filled with ideas and manuscripts and songs-not-yet-recorded. There are folios of cartoons that didn’t quite make it to syndication, folios of ink gestures, watercolors, and sketches. Another kind of ghost: the work of years past. When we met and married, we began blogging together, originally to try and call attention to the voice-of-work-past-but-not-yet-sold. That ghost, a very sad ghost, quickly left us; the joy of writing together each day overcame the initial intention.

The joy of writing together. We no longer chase the ghost of voice. It was here all along (of course). Now-a-days, we pursue a much simpler spirit: the gift of paying attention, the pure surprise of what shows up when we dive into and write about our daily prompt. “You go first,” I say, since she is wiggling with excitement to read what she just wrote.

read Kerri’s blog about WHAT IS A BLOG?

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buymeacoffee is lending your voice in support of our voice so we can lend our voice to your voice. It’s a circle.

Remember Heaven [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

A lifetime ago my live-work space was above a movie theatre. It was once an office space but somewhere along the way it was converted it into a quirky living space. The largest room had 16ft ceilings and an expanse of wall where I could staple canvas. I loved it. I painted up a storm in that space.

It had been vacant for a long time. I imagine most people took one look and ran away screaming. It needed a serious cleaning. It needed some attention and a few fixes. It needed someone with imagination to see the possibilities. Mostly, it needed some life and energy infused into it.

I put candles everywhere. At that time I painted at night, after the city went to sleep. I had a ritual to begin my work: turn off the light in every room but the studio, light the candles, choose my music, sit far away from my canvas for a few moments until I heard the call, and then begin. Usually I blew out the candles after sunrise, the work session ended with the awakening of the day.

Working after the world went to bed was my pattern for years. It started when I was a child. The house grew quiet. After my parents, brothers and sister tucked into sleep, I’d light a candle, turn on the light, and paint on the wall. There was nothing more comforting or inspiring to me than the quiet of the night, a candle or two for company, and a blank canvas calling me out to play.

Hans told me that “Everyone has their heaven.” Last night, deep into the night, as I lay in bed and listened to the chimes make sweet music of the howling wind, I was suddenly thrust back in time to my movie-theatre-studio, to a particular era in my life, I could feel the candles and the quiet of the night, a brush in my hand…my perfect heaven.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CANDLE

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buymeacoffee is a warm studio late at night, alight with candles, and a clear reason for being.

Voluntarily Contemplate [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

It’s tempting to say that the snow is white. A second look, a better look, will prove otherwise. Purples and cool blues with some muted green and pink thrown in for good measure. A subtle festival of color. In general the light on the trail painted the snow – not surprisingly – ice blue, so the burnt orange in the leaf made for an eye-popping compliment. Some abstract expressionist might use this bit of natural composition for inspiration. Helen Frankenthaler or Joan Mitchell. Monumental paintings with the power to force contemplation. Well…to force voluntary contemplation.

Forced contemplation! A great phrase, to be sure, and another name for “problem solving.” Take a moment and look around during this busy holiday season: everyone you see elbowing their way through the crowd will be deep in forced contemplation. Rushing to the next. Making a list and checking it twice.

I’m a few pages into my fourth reading of Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It fell off the shelf and hit me so I took that as a sign that it was time for a revisit of Robert Pirsig’s novel. The subtitle is An Inquiry Into Values. I’ve learned that the books I read are forms of voluntary contemplation. What has value? What does not? And why? I regularly ask myself a question that comes from the title of another favorite-book-of-the-past: How Then Shall We Live. Wayne Muller’s voluntary contemplation on meaning, purpose, and grace. Given what I know – that I shall die – how then shall I live this day of my life?

There are very few answers to the question but there are values that, like a marble sculpture, take shape and emerge over time. The single value that consistently dominates my voluntary contemplation: walk through this day slow enough to see that the snow is not white. Rather, experience the full celebration of color and live inside – rather than rush through – the perfection of this composition.

meditation, 48×48, mixed media on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOW AND LEAF

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buymeacoffee is a slow walk of appreciation through a world that holds more magic than any single mind can conceive.

Color It Red [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Red is the color of anger. Unless it’s not. It’s also the color of Santa suits and fire trucks. It’s the color of embarrassed cheeks, burning bushes and carpet pathways for the glitterati when bubbling with the anticipation of receiving an award. Red is associated with the base chakra. It’s the lowest vibrating color-energy on the spectrum. It’s easy to see. Male cardinals want their perspective mates to see red.

Red is the color of fall. And orange. And yellow. We walk toward it on the trail. Sometimes it’s too much to comprehend.

Horatio just told me of a trip he took through Canyon de Chelly. Red Rocks. He told me that he always feels that something is “right” when he’s there. Like humans and this big universe belong together. Timeless. Ancient. Mystical. Impermanent. Not separate. Red is the color of belonging.

That’s how I felt standing before this sumac. A staghorn sumac on fire with the season. My only purpose: to appreciate. To witness. Red is the color of awe.

read Kerri’s blogpost about RED SUMAC

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buymeacoffee is…

Be Unbearably Small [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“We fought so long against small things that we became small ourselves.” Eugene O’Neill

“On my last day of work, the back wheels of my car won’t be out of the parking lot before they erase everything I’ve worked for,” Tom said. He was right, of course. I was there and witnessed the dismantling. His words were not resentful. They were matter-of-fact. He helped me understand that a life’s work is not about achievement. Rather, it is about integrity of process. Relationship. Bringing instead of getting.

“I’ve fought my battles. It’s time for someone younger to pick up the fight,” another in my tribe of dear-wise-guides reminded me when I was pushing him hard to care. I am a few years down the road now and I understand to my bones his position. I have limited time here. I have (mostly) turned my eyes away from the fight and toward the wonder-of-it all. I have no idea how to paint it so I am reticent to touch my brushes. How do you contain – or try to contain in an image or word – the inexplicable? It’s the artist’s dilemma and I love it.

Sitting on the back deck staring into the pastel sky, I thought about their words. Quiet summer nights are prime for reminiscence and reflection. I thought about the battles I have fought in my life. The hills I chose to die on. The art meant to heal or change or provoke. To reach and touch a heart. To shake a sleeper awake.

I have been fortunate to have had such wise guides showing me the way. To give me the rare gift of perspective. I am fortunate to understand how unbearably small I am in this limitless universe. Were I to believe myself grand I would not have access to the awe of this summer night, this rolling pastel sky.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the PASTEL SKY

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*happy birthday, columbus.

Arrive At Wisdom [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

The meeting of sand and surf. In the children’s-book-of-my-mind, at the beginning of the story, sand and surf have completely different points of view. They have radically different understandings of each other and opposing orientations to ebb-and-flow, to the movement of the earth and their place in it. They insist that they are in conflict.

And yet, they meet. Every day. In the story of sand and surf they eventually learn that they can focus on their differences or they can focus on what they have in common. They are surprised to learn that one could not know itself without the other. They are gobsmacked by the knowledge that one would have no purpose without the other! In fact, they would have no identity without the other!

With their new understanding, sand and surf begin to ask a different question: who do they want to be together.

At the end of the story, the climax of this children’s tale, they come to understand that their reason-for-being is each other. They are not, in fact, separate. They are symbiotic. They transform each other in their mutual dance. Thus, they arrive at wisdom.

Sand and surf. Harmony, in the children’s-book-of-my-mind. Nothing really changes other than their choice of where to focus. And then, of course, everything changes.

my favorite illustration from Lucy And The Waterfox

Peri Winkle Rabbit Is Lost. A book I wrote and illustrated for a hurricane Katrina relief project. The organizers asked for an original story to help children understand and cope with loss. Original illustrations, no copies. I loved making this little book and i hope some child, somewhere, now an adult, loves it, too.

My gallery site

read Kerri’s blog post about SAND AND SURF

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Split and Emerge [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Although butterflies get all the headlines, the transformation of a cicada is equally astonishing. The cicada doesn’t emerge from a cocoon. It emerges from its own body. The outer shell, a crawling insect, splits and the new form, a miracle with wings, a flying insect, crawls out of its former self to greet the world.

It actually has two emergences. For most of its life it lives underground, feeding on the sap in tree roots. And then, one day, on a cue no scientist has yet discovered, all of the cicadas in the neighborhood crawl to the surface, climb into the air and light, ascend toward the sky, and attach to a tree or some other vertical surface. Once they are firmly attached, the second emergence begins. Like a snake shedding its skin, the cicada sheds its former…form, and enters the last chapter of life completely changed. Air-born.

I’ve never wondered if a butterfly turns and ponders the cocoon. A cocoon seems generic. An envelope. But each time I see the shell of a cicada I can’t help but wonder, as its new wings dry, before it is capable of flight, what it might think, perched atop the old form, staring at what it used to be. Did it know that wings were growing inside all along or is it a complete surprise? A reverse mummy, opening the lid of a body-shaped sarcophagus to venture into the upper regions.

I wonder if it knows the transformation to flight signals the end, only a few more weeks of life. The males begin to sing. The females click their wings. Partnering through an ancient call-and-response. The end of life. The fulfillment of purpose. The beginning of a new cycle of life.

It’s full, full, full of useful metaphors. The old shell appears as if it is hanging on for dear life when dear life was about to burst forth, unrecognizable. Transfigured. And, isn’t that usually the way of the scary new? The old, well-worn shape wants nothing more than to hang on for dear life to what it knows, what it has always been. It’s necessary for the new energy, the new form, to split the frightened shell, wrestle with itself to emerge, and discover life anew. Finally ready to fulfill its purpose, its reason for being.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CICADAS

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Touch The Immensity [on Two Artists Tuesday]

I’ve always felt a kinship with birds of prey, especially hawks and owls. If I fully comprehend the concept of a “blessing” then I feel blessed when one of those great birds cross my path. A sign. A message. An acknowledgement.

A guide.

Last fall we were with a hawk when it died. From my office window I saw it struggling. It was laying in the middle of the street. I grabbed a thick towel so I might pick it up and move it off the road without harming it. Just as I was ready to placed the towel over the bird, like a rocket it shot into the sky landing in the tree above me. We watched it. After several minutes, it suddenly flapped its wings and then fell to the ground. With the towel, we bundled it and put it into a box. We called Fellow Mortals Wildlife Hospital and the DNR to ask what we should do. By the time we reached someone, it had passed.

It is possible to Google anything so I searched for the meaning of the experience according to the good-god-google: Something new is about to begin. Let go. Move on. Good advice and useful every single sunrise.

Searching for meaning. Making meaning. What could be more human?

I thought about the hawk when we came across an owl feather on the trail. At first we thought it was a hawk feather but the good-god-google instructed otherwise. They are easy to confuse since the feather markings are remarkably similar.

It was important to discern the difference since the meanings according to the good-god-google differ. If an owl feather, then wisdom is the theme. If a hawk feather, then the gift of power and courage to overcome obstacles.

Or, it’s simply a beautiful feather that brings to us the great gift of appreciation, no good-god necessary.

Mostly, the pursuit of meaning from our bird encounters plucks the bass string of human yearning: connectivity to something larger. Something much larger than the good-god-google, a numbers god by definition, sporting 100 zeros. Something much larger than prayers or mantras. The resonating recognition that comes when gazing into the infinity of a midnight sky. The briefest touch of immensity when standing before the rolling endless waves at a beach. The vibrantly alive blue ball of earth as seen from the moon.

Pay attention. This bird carries a message meant for me.

Being – beyond the limitation of words, like the feeling of kinship with a passing hawk. The awe of a midnight hoot from an owl. The driving necessity of making meaning of something as precious and passing as life.

read Kerri’s blogpost about OWL FEATHER

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Learn The Language of Color [on DR Thursday]

Earlier this week I wrote of DeMarcus’ notes on color made when he was a first year art student. I flipped through the fading pages before placing the notebook back on my shelf and lingered on these gems:

“If we wish to create we must learn the Language of Color.”

“Color stands for JOY in this world of seeing.”

“Through the language of COLOR, we add JOY to the world of seeing.”

His notes are from a lecture. In my mind I see some fantastic art teacher, a life teacher, standing before a class of enthusiastic hearts that included the young DeMarcus, infusing them with a purpose that demanded they pay attention to others, to their reason for creating. Bring joy. Through the language of color, speak to a world that doesn’t know how to see. Speak to a world desperately in need of Joy. Color theory as community tending. Igniting the idea in the students, the teacher then set them free to explore how, through color, to bring joy to the world. The lesson was simultaneously both practical and existential.

I wish I knew the name of DeMarcus’ instructor. I’d send a deep debt of gratitude into the universe.

It is profoundly easy to diminish the role of artists in our culture. Note the dearth of art programs in schools. The emaciated National Endowment for the Arts relative to other budget lines. What might be more important in our times than artists striving to weave togetherness through the language of color? What might be more necessary than opening eyes to see beyond grey assumptions? We diminish ourselves when we devalue our art.

I knew DeMarcus when he was in his 90’s. Those early lessons still twinkled in his eyes. Or, perhaps, a lifetime of speaking the language of color, a lifetime of offering the joy of seeing, brought a permanent twinkle to his eye . He understood artistry as more than indulgent self-expression. He understood – and helped me understand – that artistry came with a responsibility to others as well as to the self. Service. See, in order to help others see, through the language of color, joy.

prayer of opposites, 48x48IN, acrylic on panel © 2006

my-as-yet-still-unfinished-site [I hope you’re not holding your breath]

read Kerri’s blogpost on COLOR

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Dance [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

We find that the balm to most of life’s greatest challenges is to dance. Anxious? Dance! Confused? Dance! Worried? Dance!

In truth, most of our worries, anxieties, and confusions don’t have a solution or a single answer. They are passing circumstance. Monkey mind run amok. Unsolvable dilemmas. In the face of uncertainty, quandary, or existential mess, it feels really good to dance. And that’s precisely the point. No sense to be made? Dance. Dance. Dance with the one you love! In the kitchen. In the front yard. In the airport.

And, isn’t that the name of the balm! The epicenter of existence! The purpose of life? To dance with the one you love. Preferably a slow dance. There’s no reason to rush when a solution feels so good.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DANCE WITH ME

smack-dab. © 2023 kerri sherwood

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