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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Steward The Radical [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I’m reading Gordon MacKenzie’s brilliant book, Orbiting The Giant Hairball: A Corporate Fool’s Guide To Surviving With Grace. There’s plenty to love in this little book that extrapolates beyond the corporate cubicle. This morning I laughed heartily when he compared two organizational systems, the pyramid and the plum tree. Traditional versus Holistic. Mechanistic versus Organic.

For me, the point of his Fool’s argument, sketched on yellow-pad-paper, comes down to this: the traditional pyramid, a hoosegow of compartmentalization, kills collaboration and snuffs the creative. It is purposeful division. The holistic plum tree, an integrated dynamic continuum, enhances collaboration and stimulates the creative. He draws an arrow pointing to the words “Enhancement of collaboration,” and writes, “This is radical.” [his underline]

It might seem radical to suggest that a system that intends collaboration is radical until you consider our current state of affairs. The latest attack on “the woke” by “the traditional” is, in essence, a pyramid that fears a plum tree. Pyramid people have an investment in exclusion, in standing on the top. Supremacy, white or otherwise. Keeping the cubicles intact, keeping the hierarchy in place.

Plum tree people, the proudly “woke,” reach across and eliminate division because they recognize the truth and power of the continuum, “integrated in a single creative ecology” otherwise known as a “community.” It is the opposite of supremacy. Float all boats.

There’s a race to the bottom in these un-united united states: the recent scrubbing of diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives, the banning of books, red-legislators knocking themselves out trying to bleach our history, bury our past, snuff a questioner’s right to question (i.e. to learn), eliminate a woman’s right to choose; to squeeze gender-identity into a too-tight-airless-box…

In this environment, to suggest a system that intends collaboration, a system that enhances collaboration, is radical. Of course, democracy, by definition, is a system that intends collaboration. It is a system that needs collaboration to survive. It is a plum tree. The real and present danger of the pyramid, as Gordon MacKenzie points out: a pyramid is a tomb.

Democracy is radical. That people of diverse backgrounds and orientations might come to the table together with full respect for their differences – in fact a celebration of their differences, and intend to create “a more perfect union” is-as-has-always-been, a bright star to follow. It is a radical dream that demands open eyes, the capacity to ask questions of ourselves and each other, to tell our full history, to consider the perspective of all the human-beings sitting across the shared table. A radical dream, an ongoing creation stewarded into the future by the radical collaborators, keepers of the dream, the proudly woke.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PROUD BUTTONS

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Note The Evidence [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

Never let it be said that I am incapable of learning. As evidence of the rare penny-drop, please note the absence of question or comment after the first panel of this cartoon. This implies that I am either listening without need “to solve” or that I recognize a comment in any direction might end my life. Either way, a remarkable demonstration of learning.

Also note that I am off-screen. I will leave the reason for my cartoon-suggestion-of-healthy-distance up to your interpretation.

Learning! I’m learning!

read Kerri’s blogpost on COMFORT TOP

smack-dab © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

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Taste The Sound [on KS Friday]

To walk through the exhibit was like taking a stroll through time. For Kerri, it was a design-stroll through her ancestry. Scandinavian Design. Her roots reach into Finland and Norway. 20 and I tease her that when these un-united united states implode, she’s our ticket to Finland. “People are happy there!” 20 lobbies. I nod vigorously to no avail. She is proficient at ignoring our expat-fantasy appeals.

We rounded a corner and Kerri stopped, gobsmacked, as if suddenly in the presence of the holy grail. “Marimekko,” she whispered. On the far wall, hanging as a tapestry, was a large bolt of bold red Marimekko floral fabric. “I love Marimekko,” she sighed, approaching the bolt slowly, reverently.

“What’s Marimekko?” I whispered to 20.

Philistine!” 20 hissed in mock-disgust at my fabric-design-ignorance. He pointed at the bolt. He popped me on the head.

“Don’t you just love Marimekko,” Kerri turned to me and sighed. I nodded vigorously.

“I do. Yes, I do.” Apparently, vigorous nodding is one of my better skills. I made a mental note to add it to my highly ineffective resume.

“Hey!” 20 perked up as he read the placard, “Marimekko is Finnish!” Looking at Kerri he suggested, “If we moved to Finland, you could work for Marimekko. In Finland! You’d like that! Wouldn’t you like that?” he asked and looked to me for support.

I nodded vigorously to no avail. So, I turned my attention to the brilliant bold red bolt of fabric, seeing it for the first time. “Wow. That is cool.” I said, absorbing the color and design. “Plus, Marimekko is fun to say.”

20 and Kerri glanced at me and said in unison, “Philistine.”

Seizing the opportunity to nuance my newly discovered skill, I nodded vigorously, tasting the sound, “Mar-i-mekk-oooooo.”

these are the ties/blueprint for my soul © 1997 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about MARIMEKKO

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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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Tend The Daisy Magic [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

The simple daisy is central to our relationship mythology. She held a daisy the first day I met her at the airport. A few weeks later I flew in a second time to test whether or not I’d merely imagined the power of our first meeting – and she met me with an armload of daisies. She carried daisies the day we were married. On special days we opt for daisies over roses every time [note: daisies are nigh-on impossible to find in February. The only time I sent Kerri roses for Valentines Day they arrived exploded; naked stems in a pile of rose petals. No doubt a message from Daisy].

Each year on the trail we await the arrival of the first daisy. “LookIt!!!” Kerri sings, “It’s here!” Simple joys. Simple celebrations that touch back to our root-story. I delight that we attend to and nurture these source connections. With intention we keep them open and vibrant. It is how we “story” our life, translating moments like the first daisy sighting as an affirmation or our togetherness. A powerful meta-story: Mother Nature says to us, “This is good.”

The other day, walking through Costco, we passed the flower cooler. Kerri was having a-very-bad-no-good-day. Hot steam was swirling above her head. Small children sensed the coming cauldron and scurried from the aisle. I ducked into the flower-fridge hoping to find a bundle of daisies in the hope that they might help her find more peaceful thoughts. There were none but to her puzzled look I said, “I wanted to give you some daisies.”

The impact was immediate. Daisy-calm washed over her, squelching her inner fire. She smiled. Our root story rushed in, a restorative perspective that released her monster-mind-madness. It is the power of a well-tended root story. Peace of mind in the midst of a storm. Mother Nature reached through Costco’s concrete floor, wrapping us in daisy-magic, reaffirming, “This is good.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about DAISIES

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Reflect The Light [on Two Artists Tuesday]

One of my most prized possessions is the homemade notebook DeMarcus made as an art student. It’s his notes from a class on color. The pages become more brittle with each passing year. The pencil notes are fading. Every so often, when I need a masterclass from a simpler time, I gingerly open the notebook and read a few pages.

The first entry always catches me. “Color: Light is a form of radiant energy transmitted by wave movement through space and is perceived visually.” The underlines are his. Radiant energy. Wave movement. Perceived.

It’s the second half of the page that grabs me: ” The (3) Qualities of Light: Physically = Life-giving. Mentally = Intelligence. Spiritually = Divine Wisdom…Think of color as light reflected.”

Keep in mind this is a beginning art student taking notes during his very first course introduction to color. His instructors are teaching him that working with color is working with light that is either life-giving, intelligence emitting or wisdom divine. In other words, working with color matters. To work with color is to give voice and expression to light. The work of an artist is about more than finger painting.

“Light is individualized by its contact with substances into COLOR…Think of color as LIGHT REFLECTED.”

If I could, I’d offer DeMarcus’ little notebook to all those fear-mongers out there scrubbing Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion curriculums and initiatives from their states. Scrubbing color from their palettes. Eliminating light. Life-revoking, intelligence numbing, wisdom stripping.

Repeat in pencil: To work with color is to give voice and expression to light. Think of color as light reflected.

Simple clarity from the first pages of a first year art student written in a homemade notebook more than a century ago. This nation is made vibrant through its rich diverse color palette. Why-on-earth would we knowingly, willingly, turn off the light?

read Kerri’s blogpost on COLOR

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Cheer The Artist [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Even with our earplugs, the music was loud. Our son was the artist on stage, his spontaneous composition making movement irresistible. We danced. The crowd whirled and cheered. I was proud. It was the first time we’d seen him perform live. He was fully in his element. This is what he is supposed to do: Make music that sets people free.

In our current world I can imagine nothing more potent or necessary. I wish his music might reach into the cold heart of Texas, dispel the manufactured fears of Florida. I hope his music rattles the foundations of the tightly held and airless “norm”. It is imaginary. Norm depends upon where you stand and, last I knew, there were many places to choose – all of them central to one. I will cheer on the day that his music pierces the veil of man-made-ugly-and-exclusive rules that are attributed to one angry god or another.

The best artists practicing the best of their artistry erase boundaries and lead people into their shared, common center: a place called love. It’s a boundless place, a place where people celebrate each other, where people dance for the joy of being alive, for the deep appreciation of being-just-who-they-are: unique in all the universe.

I saw it this weekend. Of the artist and the bountiful revelers I can truly say I am Proud.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PROUD

Enjoy The Mountain Calm [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

This one is for my dad. Actually, this one is from my dad. He was in his happy place when he had a line in the water. Catching a fish was not nearly as important as the peace and quiet he experienced while fishing. He had a special spot on the lake; the door to his sanctuary was a fishing pole.

One of my favorite memories is of the day that Columbus taught Kerri to fish. I sat on a rock jutting into the water and watched two of my favorite people enjoy the mountain calm. Late summer breezes fluttered the aspen leaves. The ziiiing of the cast. The plop of the bubble hitting the water. Click. A slow reel in. Repeat. No place better to be. Being there – and nowhere else. What could possibly be better than that?

read kerri’s thoughts on this saturday morning smack-dab.

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

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See The Best Of Good Things [on KS Friday]

The world does not stand still for anyone. When Craig led us down into his studio I felt as if I was living a fable by Aesop. The same technology that essentially crashed Kerri’s career is now making Craig’s musical genius possible. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? “Well, that depends,” says the farmer to his fate.

I was witness to best of good things: the son, a consummate musician, sharing his artistry with his mother, a consummate musician. Craig showed Kerri how he creates EDM, electronic dance music. Layers upon layers of sound mixed and altered through digital magic. EDM is his passion. He comes alive when he talks about it.

EDM was not possible 20 years ago. Watching Kerri and Craig play in the studio together I remembered something that Kerri once said: “I feel like I was born 10 years too late.” Mourning the rapid change to the music industry, brought about by the advent of streaming services, she felt as if “her time”, the music that she most understands and resonates with, was the wave just in front of her. Analog. No acrobatics. Soulful. Her star was rising just as her business was washed away in the raging digital stream.

The music remains. It’s everywhere, available to anyone, anywhere. We regularly come across her pieces used in commercials or underscoring everything from tiktok moments to youtube tributes. She’s popular. She’s just not paid.

If she was born 10 years too late, then Craig was born right in his zone. Digital complexity. Fast-moving, multi-layered, the music of emoji attention spans. It’s thrilling, a sensory assault. Strategic and improvisational, both. Trance music for urban dwellers seeking a drumming-dance path to transcendence.

And, in the end, the essential eclipsed the gap of music styles and time: a mother who infused music into her son was elated as he, now a musician in his own right, immersed his mom into his music. It was thrilling to witness. A moment in rushing time. Ancient passage in a contemporary mask.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE STUDIO

unfolding/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

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

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