See The Third [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Rules of composition are really a study of human perception. It’s not the work of art that’s being examined, it’s the human being. Why do we consistently – universally – respond positively to visual compositions that follow the rule of thirds? Divide a composition into thirds, either vertically or horizontally, and then place focal areas of the “scene” at the meeting points of the lines. A professor in art and design school teaches the rule as a basic tenet, not because it was a concept that was invented but because someone, somewhere in time, noticed that people generally like their paintings, photographs, murals, quilts, architecture… when the focal point lands on one of the thirds. It was a discovery about the nature of people. Human nature.

Even the most abstract painters adhere to the rule of thirds. There is structure beneath seeming chaos.

There is something about humans and the number 3. The structure of a joke has three parts – the set-up, the detail, and the punchline. Most religions sport a trinity: father, son, and holy ghost. Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Buckminster Fuller’s Geodesic Dome is a festival of three. Pay attention and the rule of thirds pops up in everything from brain science to marketing messages. Triangulate and even the most lost hiker will be found.

When I first met Kerri I was disconcerted. Her compositional eye is infinitely better than mine. How could this musician come into my studio, snap a photo of my work-in-progress, and show me that her cropped version of my composition was infinitely better? What the heck? Her crops were never radical; simple adjustments merely. After I recognized how natural yet specific her eye sees the thirds – while I am clumsy in my seeing – in a fit of re-composing, I almost took a saw and scissors to my paintings. It was so obvious. Now, I ask her early and often to come into the studio and tell me what she sees (Imagine my horror when she stands silently for several moments and finally utters, “Well…”).

On the trail she stops often to “take a picture.” I play a game with myself. I look at where she aims her camera and then I predict where the focal point will land. Which third will claim the prize? I am almost never right but always delighted by what she shows me. “Lookit!” she says, smiling. A perfect third. Naturally.

prayer, 9″ x 24″ acrylic on hardboard

read Kerri’s blogpost about LACE AND SNOW

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buymeacoffee is not a third. It is something else.

Triangulate [David’s blog on KS Friday]

It had to fall just right. What are the odds? When it snapped from the trunk, it fell into a perfect three-point cradle? Three points of contact.

Three-points-of-contact is the rule for safe climbing. It’s a shorthand phrase, like “turn-around-don’t drown,” the mantra meant to pop into your noggin at the moment you think it’s a good idea to drive through a flooded section of road. Three points of contact make it harder to fall.

A few years ago I collected conceptual models defined by three elements. Look around and you’ll find them everywhere, from brain processing to filmmaking, it seems that the three-points-of-contact rule provides stable footing for complex models of meaning making. Father-son-and-holy ghost. Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva.

Every story has a beginning, middle and an end. Though, no one tells us that the end is a new beginning in search of an unknown middle en route to an end. I’m currently working on a story and realized that I often tell myself to “triangulate.” Two plot points are a line, the third gives the story shape, depth, and movement.

The best visual compositions work on a model of thirds. Drawing a face is best learned by a rule of three. Many Renaissance paintings are built on a compositional triangle. Perspective works with three points even when we call it two-point-perspective.

Take heart. If you are lost, your rescuers will certainly triangulate to find your location.

As you walk through the day today, notice the patterns of three that are swirling all around you. Red light, yellow light, green. Like a limb falling from the sky, you might discover yourself cradled.

holding on/letting go on the album right now © 2010 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LIMB

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Look To 3 [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

My long-ago-business-partner used to tell groups that every human being wears an umbrella hat called “normal.” That is, we try to maintain and make sense of the world according to our personal (and cultural) criteria. We carry the criteria around with us – it does not exist beyond us. We are comfortable when wearing our umbrella hats. We get really uncomfortable when something comes along that knocks our hats off of our heads.

When we lose our hats, we’ll do anything to regain our comfortable “normal.” The fear of losing our hats is what makes change – personal and cultural – so difficult. Despite what they say, no one wants to lose their hat. Organizations have a nifty phrase, change-management, to shield against the reality that change – real change- requires discomfort. How to prevent discomfort? Manage it! No worries! Everything is under control!

The other strategy – also not very effective in the long run – is to pretend that the hat is still on your head. No worries! It’s all made-up! Everything is normal!

The pandemic blew our collective hats off of our heads. We’ve had a front row seat to the realities and responses of a disrupted normal. The recent photos from Miami Beach, the aggressive non-mask-wearers, the absurd and deadly politicization of a pandemic…all in the name of hat retention and recovery.

In our circle of life, we’ve had the ubiquitous conversation about the return of normal. “When can we get together again?” Prior to the pandemic, our week was patterned on, our lives were grounded in, our Sunday and Thursday night dinners with 20. In a fluid artistic life, dinner with 20 was the shape-giver to our otherwise formless weeks. One day last March, we tossed our hats to the wind. It wasn’t safe to gather.

Over the year we left groceries at his door. He dropped goodies at our door. We waved from the car. We had regular phone calls. A few times, when the weather was nice, we sat in the back yard at great distance and discussed how weird life had become.

We looked for our new-normal-hats but they were nowhere to be found. It’s what happens when change cannot be denied: the management of discomfort is the best that you can do. Keep stepping. Chop wood/carry water. One day at a time. A new normal will surface sometime. A new pattern will be established. Pattern making is what we homo sapiens do.

In the past few months we three were vaccinated. We waited for a few weeks. We diligently read our CDC guidelines. And then, as if a year had not passed in the interim, we gathered to share a meal and drink a bottle of wine. Nothing had changed and everything had changed.

2 at the table is once again 3. We are slowly reestablishing what we once knew as normal. Our laughter is easy as it has always been. But the nation we inhabit, the community we see and experience, is transformed. There are stores we will never again support. There are relationships that will always be superficial. There is a bald ugliness exposed as never before in the nation. Ruthlessness. So many dead amidst such fatuous games of denial. The hot wind that blew our normal-hats away exposed the geography – the actual geography – beneath our nation that espouses equality but has deep division and favoritism woven into its DNA. Control by division. It is a mechanism: black gain is seen as white loss. White gain is built upon black loss. It is a seesaw, an angel/devil game. It’s a system doing – brutally – what it was designed to do.

Disruption is an opportunity for change. With so many lost hats, with so much ugliness exposed, a good look in the national mirror is possible. As we struggle to find our new normal hats, it occurs to me that angel/devil games, deep divisions, are never “solved” in twos. Movement is created by two points. Insight is a three-legged stool. Complexity is addressed through triangles, through a focus on relationship. Opposition-in-twos will keep us forever on the systemic seesaw.

Laughter is restored, possibility uncovered, through the lens of three.

read Kerri’s blog post about 3