reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: an artist’s journey


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one giant meadow. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

we have a meadow in our basement. it’s tucked in the northwest corner. indigenous wildflowers, stacked in boxes, cardboard containers of native blooms.

the oeuvre of decades, shrink-wrapped, flowers from seeds of thought-lyrics, of melodic gestures, of teasing harmonies, of simple evocative lines.

waiting, impossibly, to return to a time of compact discs. waiting, impossibly, for the invasives of streaming to get under control, to support independent artists rather than undermine their success, their ability for forward-movement.

the meadow sometimes beckons – like a soft wind through tall grasses – waving to me, begging me to step into the bramble and thick vegetation. like most good meadows, there is no clear path. you simply must walk in and turn – 360° – looking around, stunned by all the wild – flowers and weeds, both.

the broadcast music inc royalty check arrived. it was for $60.72. though it’s likely a few hundred thousand, i didn’t add up all the counts (listens). but one piece caught my attention. its play on youtube alone totalled 15,212 counts of this piece. my total royalties for this: $1.21. (for perspective on this: even if only 5000 people downloaded this piece of music for 99 cents and listened to it as many times as they wished, it would bring in approx $3465 (there are iTunes fees) instead of $1.21. a stunning difference.)

and we have another meadow in the basement. the canvases of bloomed paintings stack against the west wall; the easel stands in the northwest corner. the digital age of download and print has entered the art world of hanging wire and levels.

canvases, paint, jewelcases, polycarbonate plastic, discography – our wildflowers in the basement. the meadows are cultivated in fields of artistry, of color, of sound, of words and notes and splashes.

robust meadows self-seed. as do artists. we create despite roadblocks, despite the undervaluing of our work, despite the stacks of antique-store-someday-bound cds and canvas. despite it all.

but just like meadows need help – to more than just exist – to eradicate the invasive species, to grow, to prosper, to thrive – so do artists.

at long last – and truly for reasons of existence – we are contemplating a patreon account – a subscription donation platform to help support artists to continue to do the work you value, the work that has moved you, the work you turn to – as we gratefully acknowledge those of you who have contributed to our buymeacoffee tip jar. this simply means a monthly donation – as low as $2/month – that helps to make up the difference that the world has thrust upon artists. some readers may consider this timely, an avenue through which they may participate. some readers may consider this self-serving. either way, we are interested in your thoughts. feel free to email us: kerrianddavid1111@gmail.com. and watch for this – a patreon – one of these days.

we gaze over at the basement-meadows and ponder what is in our hearts, what is left for us to do, what is ours to do. we are each true to our work and, in the spirit of the fault in our stars, we know that we have – indeed – done good work if we have touched even one person along the way.

“do the best you can until you know better. then, when you know better, do better.” (maya angelou)

it’s all a journey in one giant meadow. and the difference between hardly existing and thriving.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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thank you, george winston. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

in 1971 he came up with it: “rural folk piano”. uncluttered, melodic, uncomplicated, “inspired by the seasons and the topographies and regions, and, occasionally, by sociological elements” – a reflection of where he was at. we – solo pianists and composers – owe george winston a debt of gratitude. he has just died, in the last days, but the impact of his work will continue to reverberate through speakers and earbuds and, significantly, through the works of those of us who have followed him.

i chatted briefly with george once. it was after one of his concerts early in my recording career and i can’t remember if he had put his shoes back on. he doesn’t speak much in concert; he lets his melodies do that for him. they are profuse and intelligent and articulate, always evocative. but just like some might think that they know everything i am thinking or feeling because of this blog or my music, a listener might think they know everything george was thinking or feeling because of his music. i’m guessing for george, but think neither is truly the case, entirely. blogs and music compositions, words and notes can certainly disclose some of the soul, but i suspect that, just as is true for me, the complete autobiography is not found in completion there – it is also found in the reflections all around us.

there are few people – instrumental aficionados, especially – who have not listened to george winston’s 1982 release “december”. it is exquisite. it went triple platinum and was on the billboard 200 for 136 weeks. his work – a plethora of gorgeous albums – gave serious credence to melodic solo piano and set the stage for a next set of composers – those of us writing emotional piano pieces, some solo, some with orchestration – and the subsequent contemporary radio airplay that ensued. by the time i wrote my fourth album, a/c airplay was possible and – for that purpose – pieces were kept under 4 minutes, and, even, closer to 3:30.

the reflections in the building across the river are entrancing. black on cobalt, it’s all a curiosity.

the reflection of those-who-have-come-before-us reveals in our own zeal to create, to speak, to have voice. artistry.

it is with gratitude and a deep appreciation for his wizardry that i thank george winston. his star will always shine with brilliance and his legacy will resonate throughout the ages.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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thongophone. in the park. [k.s. friday]

flipflops and pvc. a marriage!

a merger between old navy and, say, dupont could bring play to the whole wide world. stands of thongophones could be simply everywhere. i can see it…people gathering, favorite flipflops in hand, making music.

it was hard to resist the pull of this two-octaved structure. flipflops – the paddles provided – were chained to the wooden stand, laying on the ground, waiting. it was just a delicious invitation – “try me, try me,” it called. and then, channeling the group chicago, “thongophone, in the park…”.

pretty crazy, it had good pitch for polyvinyl chloride, not necessarily known for its musical talent. and the flipflops? well, everyone knows how i feel about flipflops. they are the symphony of summer, so definitely a good choice.

i, generally, don’t walk up to faux musical structures like this. i usually stand back and watch others discover and play, reveling in their adventuring and exploring sound.

but this time was different.

i played first on the lower octave side. for some reason, the first piece i played was the first piece on my first album, galena. the first day i played galena was also in one of those situations i don’t usually take part in…instead, sitting back and watching others and supporting their fun.

that time was different too.

that time – encouraged (read: pushed) by three girlfriends, playing at the piano in the restaurant in galena, illinois – set me on a road i didn’t know was coming. less than a year and a half later, i released my first album. now, fifteen albums and a variety of singles and blahblah later, i look back.

and i look forward. i’m not sure what’s there. but this past week i stood at my piano and played and sang three songs for d and one of his dear friends. it’s been a long time. i apologized for the dust in the studio. i apologized that it was a little messy in there. d said rob cried. despite the dust and remnants of previous work piled around.

by sheer coincidence, today is the anniversary of that first album – 27 years ago. lots of flipflops ago.

today is a good day for a dustcloth, some garbage bags and a storage bin or two.

it’s not a thongophone in the park. it’s my piano.

*****

GALENA ©️ 1995 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY


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different. [two artists tuesday]

my wristlet wallet was different.

circa 1968/1969 and EVERYone – literally everyone – at least in MY mind – had a wristlet wallet. long rectangular leather wallets on a wriststrap, they opened to reveal a couple places for pictures and change and dollar bills. a clutch, the style was s.p.e.c.i.f.i.c. they were s.p.e.c.i.f.i.c.

christmas rolled around and i, in great anticipation, opened my presents. untucking the used tissue paper, i got excited to catch a glimpse. the box revealed a wristlet wallet.

wrong. it was wrong. it was faux leather. it was not rectangular. it had different compartments, a different strap. not specific. it was different. i was a misfit.

my 1970 construction boots were different too. so were my earth shoes, an off-brand. i wore pants from the boy’s department – my sweet momma thought they fit my – whatwasslimbackthen – body better. and my white cable-knit v-neck sweater with maroon and navy stripes at the v was – waitforit – a boy’s handmedown. i ate cucumber sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper and tucked into repurposed hallmark card store bags with pleasesayitisn’tso sandwich bags of chips – not individual commercial bags – and wore homemade crocheted ponchos with fringe. different. i took organ lessons as well as piano and i loved to sit in my maple tree, writing. i had a cb home-based radio on which i spent hours chatting with crunch, merely a few miles away. i had nieces and a nephew way before anyone else and i loved mathletes. different.

i guess my sweet momma was getting me ready for the world, after all. the wristlet wallet – though a disappointment at age 12 – was just the tip of the iceberg.

as i go about throwing on jeans and a black top – what other color IS there anyway? – i wonder whatever became of that wallet. i wouldn’t mind using that right now. i look around at the repurposed stuff in our house and, though my momma hasn’t been here in over fifteen years, i know she’d be nodding her head in approval.

i suppose she knew what she was doing back then.

“different,” she encouraged. “be different.”

2022. i’m good with it.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY


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moving on. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

most of my friends who are my age are retired. they have had long and dedicated careers and, at the time of retirement, chose to retire and were ready to change directions and do something new.

some of them are grandparents now and wee babies and rambunctious toddlers, children growing, growing, take up their time. precious moments spent with these tinies, indelibly etched on their hearts, both.

some of them have chosen to spend time immersed in reading. they have cultivated friend groups who share their passion for diving into books, they discuss and ask questions and share.

some of them have opted for sizing up, adding acreage and livestock to their lives. i can think of no better example of this than linda who, with bill, has adopted multiple alpaca and a horse and a goat and the-most-adorable-donkeys.

others have elected sizing down, heading south, condos and pools and beaches and sun in their future.

some, like the wander women, have chosen a plan, shedding much of the life paraphernalia we all accumulate – absolute free and loose adventure in their sixties, opening themselves up to thru-hike and bike and camp and, inbetween, live full-time in their rv.

and some feel lost, trying on various hobbies for size, seeking satisfaction and fulfillment, an elusive goal.

i am not retired. i am no longer holding a we-pay-you-to-do-this-job but i’m not retired. i haven’t quite figured it all out yet, much like, well, probably, many of you. but i spend lots of time creating…writing, cartooning, writing. i have found birds and plants are speaking to me more these days and i have also found that i don’t require being around a lot of people. i guess i’m a little bit more introverted than i thought.

people have told me that – in losing my last position in a four decades long career path of music ministry – i can redefine. they, in all innocence and with sincerity, have told me that it’s an opportunity for a new beginning. i hasten to say that they might be sighing inside to themselves as they say this, grateful that they don’t have to start anew. we’ve all done it…sometimes it’s easier to be generously gracious when it’s not your challenge. nevertheless, it does feel like a new beginning, so that part is right.

but, in seeking inspiration, coming from life, from the universe, from reading an article, from a conversation, from moments blowing dry my hair, i realize that maybe in looking forward i am avoiding that which is obvious.

linda had more time to pick up knitting needles after she retired. she uses the wool from her alpaca, which she has cleaned and spins, to create beautiful knitted gifts. my favorite fingerless gloves, the ones that always remind me of the canyonlands with my beloved daughter, were made by her. she returned – in this time of a-little-more-space – to what she knew, what she loved to do.

the map of inspiration may bring me forward. but in its forward-ness, it may remind me also of what i know. the map might point out my waiting piano, the pencils scattered on the music stand, the boom mic stand in the corner. it might point out the pieces of writing i’ve started and put aside. it might point out the glee i get from producing our cartoon. it might point out the camera and the poetry and the ahhh’s they bring me. it might connect the dots back. to me.

and in touching back maybe i will be moving on.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2022 kerrianddavid.com


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i am an artist. [two artists tuesday]

i read it on a thread. someone commented to an author i follow. “never be shy about your work,” she encouraged. i took a screenshot.

never be shy about your work.

humility is a virtue, we are taught. desiderata reminds us, “if you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.” always.

but somewhere in there – in the spectrum between meekness and arrogance – is the space to be proud of what you do, to stand in it, to share it.

“what do you do?” people ask. many people can answer that in a word. as artists, it often takes a paragraph, all run-on sentences with no breath so as not to get that lost-in-space glazed look on the asker’s face.

when i broke both of my wrists, the medical staff wrapped up both of them, casting and explaining the possible ramifications of the breaks “at my age”. when i fell the second time on a wet floor and re-injured my right wrist to the point of it having a frighteningly small amount of range of motion, the specialists asked questions and each politely said, “i heard you play the piano” as if i sat around noodling, surrounded by porcelain figurines and teacups, playing chopin-light or maybe little easy-piano-pop-hits. i was literally hesitant (!) to speak and qualified my statement-to-come by saying, “i’m not saying this to be self-aggrandizing, but….” and then i continued, “but because it’s a fact that i have 15 albums out in the world and piano is my major instrument and this could change my life work.”

those specialists had no qualms about saying they were specialists. none. i wondered why i hesitated, why i was apologetic.

never be shy about your work.

i have worked hard in my area of specialty. i have struggled like any artist, have written on scraps of paper and flimsy napkins, have squeezed out time in-between everything else that takes time, have stood in the rain playing and singing on flatbeds, have lugged boxes and boxes and boxes of cds. i have also sold thousands and thousands of albums and have millions of streams. it doesn’t equate to any kind of riches except the kind that is the deep satisfaction of doing something you love.

i used to be much more aggressive – and assertive – about “getting the word out” about my music. though i recognize that vocal styles come and go, instrumental piano is not irrelevant…it has no shelf life. it’s just as peaceful and evocative today as the days i composed it, the days i recorded it. so that would mean that 14 of these 15 albums still have some sales merit, not just the $.000079 cent so “generously” royaltied by online streaming.

never be shy about your work.

in the last church position i held, i was in a meeting with two of the leaders. they were streaming the services and i was commenting on the level of professionalism we needed to try to achieve. i wasn’t willing to link my personal and professional social media to this online streaming until the sound quality (in particular) was indeed much better. one of the leaders stared at me, clear disdain on his face, and told me he had no idea why i would say such a thing or hold such a stance. i explained that i am a yamaha artist and that only PART of my work in the world was the job (which he deliberately pointed out was part-time) i had at that place. for the umbrella of my life i was an artist and that i have always strived to bring the best quality to my work. i told him that it was important to me to make sure that nothing i did musically in the public arena was schlocky (including at that place) and that, as a yamaha artist with fifteen albums, i would hold to my position of not-sharing until there was something more professional to share. i would not undermine my own artistry because mediocrity was ok with him.

never be shy about your work.

he – eventually – found a way to fire me. in the deep dark cloak of covid. with no one really knowing why, including me. well, except, maybe, for retaliation. que sera.

never be shy about your work.

i am proud of the albums that will eventually find their way into antique stores around the country. i see them on resale sites now.

but i also know that – from time to time – someone writes to me. and in their writing they tell me that my music has meant something to them. my music has helped them, given them a sense of serenity, made them think, made them dance.

and that is what counts.

so before the vintage-store-influx i guess it’s my job now to not be shy.

i am a composer. i am a pianist. i am a singer-songwriter and recording artist. i am a writer. i love being on stage, telling stories, playing music. i love the feel of wood under my feet, a boom mic in front of me. i have fifteen albums and a few singles. i’m researching how to get more out of pandora and itunes and all the streaming devices out there. i’m 63 but i’m thinking i might still be relevant. i may need your help because no one gets anywhere in a tiny bubble; no one walks this path alone.

i’m pulling up my not-shy-boots.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY


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buds and blossoms. wrapped in gold. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

if i were to get a tattoo (not to mention the “sisu” tattoo i would love to share with my daughter) i think it might be a simple tattoo depicting the japanese practice of kintsugi: the golden repair and honoring of flaws, beauty in human brokenness. there’s no telling if i will do that. there’s also no telling if i won’t. i’m not averse to ink. i know that ink is an expression of where you are in your life, of what you believe in, of what you seek.

“age and stage,” 20 often says when we talk about the stuff of life. tight bud to full bloom to blossoms falling, petal by petal, to the dirt. all the iterations in the middle.

everything is like that, i suppose.

the first time my boots hit the wood as i crossed from backstage to the apron was memorable. i won’t forget it. each time i’ve walked to the piano, adjusted the boom mic, took a breath and started…memorable. i won’t forget. i remember being in the middle of one of my concerts, in the middle of one of the pieces…i forgot where the piece went…i was lost. i made it up. it was a solo piece; no one else had to share in my lapse of memory. i followed the theme and noodled my way through to an end no one would ever hear again. my producer hugged me and laughed later, “nice coverup.”

the pace of my walk is slower now than it used to be…steadier. now i know that no matter what, no matter the mistakes, no matter the braindrops, no matter the missed lyrics, the thinking notes…the story will get told, the bud will open and, like any artist, i will give of myself, despite of whatever i get or don’t get in return. age teaches you that it is not the return that matters. age teaches you it is in the giving.

we talked in the kitchen this morning about the work we have done in our lives. david’s paintings, hung and not hung, my music, recorded and not recorded. we talked about our youthful desire to have everything seen, everything heard…and not in a little way. we talked about how age has brought us to this place – a place where seen and heard doesn’t really matter. painted and played matters. drawn and written matters. expressed matters. received en masse doesn’t.

it really is “age and stage”. it’s not just the moments of our children, tiny beings not sleeping through the night, toddlers in terrible-two-tantrums – people reassuring us “age and stage”. it’s not just the trials of parents letting go of those adored humans who are now adults in the world, a little less access, a lot less time – people encouraging us “age and stage”. it’s not just our aging moms and dads, significant changes in ability, in perspective, in health – people comforting us “age and stage”.

it’s us. it’s our age and our stage, we are reminded. we try to fix what is broken, try to start something new, try to perfect the blossom. and we realize that it was a bloom all along. it was beautiful. it counted.

were we to be able to see – from the beginning – all the stages – the tight bud, the slightly opened petals – the bloom – the blossom falling to the ground – we might take it all more lightly, we might not cling to ideals of success and how we receive it. we might know there would be mistakes and dropped notes, lyrics mixed up and words not spoken. we might know there would be vulnerabilities and painful angsting, gorgeous improvised melodies, pictures without everything we desired, without everything coming to fruition, vamped decisions, regrets and, yes, bows. we might know that we would join with the rest of the human race on broken roads.

and we might know that the stages of our ages were all wrapped in gold.

and maybe ink.

“and the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” (anais nin)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY


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the stuff we see. [two artists tuesday]

we cannot help ourselves. we see stuff. i usually don’t suppose that’s unusual, until someone stares at us – with that blank look on their faces that betrays the “oh-sheesh-they-are-SOOO-weird” thought they are having. and then i realize we might be a little unusual. i shrug it off. “we-are-all-worthy-we-are-all-worthy” i repeat.

the shark was on the side of the trail. lurking. all crusty and gnarly, his face. he was obvious. he was cause for conversation, tales of scuba-diving in cold long island waters and off the coast of tropical islands. we can’t help but see and we laugh and gasp out, “look! it’s a ……..!”

seeing. it’s a burden every artist carries. it’s in the backpack with the parmesan cheese and the twizzlers and the tiny box wine and the kind bars. it’s probably good that we are mostly alone during these moments; our imaginations fly wild and free and we crack ourselves up.

and isn’t that the point? the laughter? i can’t think of anything better than laughing together, even at our own expense. we tell stories to friends, emphasizing the goofy, the silly, the utterly-profoundly dumb, self-deprecating and reveling in it. getting my hair cut and claiming the highest forehead in the guiness book of world records of foreheads. having a pedicure and claiming the biggest big toe in modern history. even, recently, at the doctor’s office, asking, please, for a sticker or a gold star for passing my bloodwork. just silliness. we can’t help it.

but to walk with him and find the sharks on trail and the ducks stuck in trunks (see below) and the tree mooning us (see below) and the desert hills from space (also see below) is to walk inside laughter. it’s to have maybe learned – at long last – not to take everything quite so seriously.

it’s to learn how to get older and crusty and gnarly ourselves and to hold it all lightly.

because in truth, the shark tree was beautiful.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY


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i’m with vince. [k.s. friday]

it pains me to even write this, but there’s actually more than one. fart-noise-apps, that is. “tap and fart” and “fartworld” are two examples. i could be considered mirthless – and i don’t care if i am – for not wanting to jump on these and install them on my iphone. what kind of person wants a fart app, anyway?

“the devaluation of music and what it’s now deemed to be worth is laughable to me. my single costs 99 cents. that’s what a single cost in 1960. on my phone, i can get an app for 99 cents that makes fart noises – the same price as the thing i create and speak to the world with. some would say that the fart app is more important. it’s an awkward time. creative brains are being sorely mistreated.” (vince gill)

i am on the devaluation-pushback-wagon with vince. we’ve never met, and we are in different stratospheres from a making-bank-standpoint, but there are some basic tenets on which we clearly agree.

i have beat this drum again and again. as an independent musician, composer and recording artist, it is likely i will continue to beat it and beat it and beat it, and each thump of the djembe will float into the atmosphere, unresolved. because times have changed. and apple music and spotify and pandora and tidal and amazon music have it down to a science. point-zero-zero-zero-something of a penny for a stream. i wrote about it seven years ago and it hasn’t changed. 99 cents seems like a gold mine!

yet, doesn’t the thought of feeling like it is striking gold – at 99 cents – take your breath away?

and how would YOUR life be without music?

the imperative for an artist to create – a composer to compose, a musician to play, a painter to paint, a writer to write, a dancer to dance, a potter to throw – is undeniable. it is how we speak to the world. it is a creation, an invention of the heart and soul.

vince gill has had multiple number one hits. he is extraordinarily successful. yet, he is apparently just as disgruntled with the industry’s standard of payment to artists as little-ole-me. though i doubt it’s quite the same for him, it raises questions for me of the great whether-or-not.

whether-or-not to ever record new material, an expensive venture always.

whether-or-not i can ever squeeze more royalties out of my fifteen albums in the world streaming freely in rivers of computers and iphones and tablets and androids.

whether-or-not to pursue stage-performing ever again.

whether-or-not to keep writing.

whether-or-not there is relevancy.

or, since the world seems to value other noises above music – and i am incredulous and saddened about this – whether-or-not to point my imperative to creating some obnoxious noise app.

because farts make up to $10,000 a day.

sigh.

*****

download music from my little corner of iTUNES

listen on PANDORA radio

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

WATERSHED from AS IT IS ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood


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odd-one-out. [k.s. friday]

he was this guy who would pick me up in his blue convertible camaro and have flowers tucked into the visor. or a stuffed animal peeking out from the glove compartment. when it was my 18th birthday, he drove 45 minutes late at night to decorate my vw bug with roses and install a big sign on the oak tree outside our front door. he bought cards and concert tickets, taught me how to play tennis and took me to restaurants all over the island. in the spirit of the 1970s susan polis schutz calendar he gifted me, he also gave me a small poster, which i still have.

“i am not in this world to live up to your expectations. you are not in this world to live up to mine. i am i and you are you. and if by chance we find each other, it’s beautiful.” (fritz perls)

the small evergreen was particularly beautiful, standing out in a part of the woods that surrounded it with tall hardwoods. its singularity made me stop and photograph it. i felt connected to it, the odd-one-out in a large grouping of the more-similar. i told it that it was beautiful and blew it a kiss.

this sweet pine tree in the national forest was tiny in comparison to nearby 80 foot giants. it must love winter, when the leaves of its neighbors no longer form a canopy blocking it from the sun. as you hike, your eyes adjusting to the brownness of the trail, it becomes a source of color, and you hungrily take in the green of its needles, its softness in a world of bare trunks. you begin to notice other tiny bits of green here and there, a little surviving underbrush here, a little sapling there. color returns.

when i was still 18, and he was a few years older, he asked me to marry him. he was a kind man, and probably still is. i was not – at 18 – ready. i still had more love stories to relish and love stories to regret. i had good sun and hard darkness ahead. i had moments of the-only-one-in-jeans to experience and times of growth when the canopy opened to the sky. i had hardwood forests to stand alone in.

and life moved on.

“but i look up high to see only the light and never look down to see my shadow. this is wisdom which man must learn.” (kahlil gibran)

i know the little pine tree blew a kiss back to me.

and then we hiked on.

*****

download music on my little corner of iTUNES

listen on PANDORA

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

MEANDER from AS IT IS ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood