daisies were on my shopping list. our daughter was coming into town and i wanted some fresh flowers on our table and in her room. so, daisies are our go-to.
but the pink tulips caught my eye. long slender stems and the palest pink buds, i could feel my whole body slow down gazing at them.
every time i look at them it feels the same way.
the buds never opened. yet, the tulips are still proudly standing tall, ten days later. it is an image of potential. a visceral right-in-front-of-us portrayal of stately beauty. or maybe it’s an image of choice – of taking a different road. these tulips are stunning. and it is not in their blossoming open.
both of us artists, i can tell you there are many, many unopened buds. they stack in corners and in notebooks, in the recesses of our minds, on our laptops. they are pale pink and soft. they are deep-red and fiery. they wait for their moment.
and some buds don’t open. i read those buds may have faced a particularly cold winter, or had too much — or too little — exposure to heat and sunlight. i’d add that they may have had naysayers naysaying at them. they may be competing for sun with other buds, other flowers, other ideas.
or maybe they just like it that way. as buds. standing tall and quiet, emanating peace and tranquility.
every time i have looked at these pink tulips i have thought about their color. i have imagined it on a wall – the palest pink – with white crown moldings and trim. never having had a pink wall, i’ve wondered about how it might feel to be in such a room. i’ve wondered if it might feel the way it feels gazing at these buds.
i’m cheering our tulips on for another few days, maybe even another week. i want to keep them around. they are making me breathe differently. they are giving me pause. they are making me imagine.
and maybe that’s the point. it’s not always about the blossom.
i would be lying if i told you i didn’t cry at the string shop.
i did cry. i’m crying now.
i am a professional pianist. a composer. proudly a yamaha artist with an intensely beautiful C5 in my studio and fifteen albums plus of vulnerability out in the world. i play the guitar and the ukulele. i dabbled on the trumpet in college for five minutes or so. but, oh…the cello.
the moment i touched my cello i had a bond with it. and, holding the idea close of learning to play mournfully heart-draining melody lines, i purchased it. because artists dream, i played.
but reality is reality.
and now – with 45° of wrist forward range of motion – my cello needed a new home. it’s just a fact.
i held onto it long after i knew this. it’s hard to let go a dream. and i’ve never before sold a beloved instrument.
yet, cellos – like all instruments – need to be loved on: played, listened to, tweaked, played more. a paesold, german-made, warm and resonant in tone, it begged to come out of the corner of my studio. though i tried to ignore it, it is like ignoring the stare of an australian shepherd who clearly wants you to do something (and we have experience with this). so my cello kept staring at me and staring at me. even without entering my studio – for i have not spent much time in there in these most recent years – i could feel the stare of the cello through the wall.
until finally.
i know this cello is valuable. yet, the string shop i sold it to – for much less than its value – was full of string music and luthiers working, a performance space and a full marching line of cellos on the wall. it will not be lonely as it waits to be re-homed.
the shopowner knew how hard it was for me to sell this cello, to leave it behind, to leave at all.
i touched its maple and spruce, exquisitely varnished. i spoke to my cello. and i blew it a kiss as we left, entirely and utterly choked-up.
and i wondered how my cello-dream might morph into something else.
buymeacoffee is a website tip-jar where you may choose to help support the continuing creating of artists whose work resonates with you. thank you for your consideration. ❤️
though not as existential as ‘what is the purpose of life?’, when i read this question – “what’s the purpose of a blog?” – in our website email i admit to sitting and staring at it for awhile. good question.
since you are reading this, you must find some value in a blog. somehow it must resonate with you. something we are saying must find a spot to linger a moment in your mind or heart. or maybe we are dear to each other and you are staying in touch – albeit virtually – with what’s going on in our lives. maybe we have never met but you are walking this path of living for this period of time with me, with us. i’m not sure why you have clicked on this, but i am curious and, mostly, i am grateful.
this is part of what i wrote back to the question:
“we originally published our mutual website and blogs as a way to draw attention to our varied artistries. david is a painter and writer and i – well, you know.“ (the question was posed by a person who was quite instrumental with encouragement for my first full-length original solo piano album.) “but i was also doing a lot of writing (the written word) and we developed several cartoons and products. it was a mélange of artistic mediums, hence the name – the mélange.
as you know, being an artist presents many challenges, not the least of which is to earn money. people turn to the arts for sustenance, for comfort, for reassurance, for insight, to celebrate their bliss. but, as in the music world, for example, that is often derived via “free” formats…formats that pay the artists little to nothing: spotify, pandora, apple music etc. in an effort to hold true to our artistries, our site – developed a few years ago – combined all of what we do under the bigger umbrella of ‘the arts’ and put it out there.
theoretically, the purpose of a blog is to draw attention to product, to establish credibility, to perhaps be inspiring, to share thoughts, to form a community, to connect with like and not like-minded people, to ask questions, to drive engagement, to repurpose old content that still has life to live.
our blogs are read in over 80 countries – according to the stats. it’s a delight to see that anyone at all is reading what i or david have to say. even better is when they share content – outside our concentric circle – that means something to them or respond because something we said or posted or generated resonated with them.
many artists (and others) blog or vlog (video blog) now. they include ways to help support them. in our case, we have a BuyMeACoffee link (that’s the QR code on the blog pages) which is like a tip-jar website. others have patreon which is a subscription to which people can sign up and regularly support the continuing creating of artists whose work they value. it is simply an effort to continue to be artists in a financial world that doesn’t value artists in a financial way. sigh. with the encouragement of others, we will likely open a patreon account one of these days.
david and i sit and write each morning together. we choose images for the week and post them. then we sit – side by side with our laptops – and write our blogposts, not peeking or sharing until we are done. this process is truly meaningful to us and brings great joy as we read what the image has brought up for each of us – often quite different. david is much more esoteric than i am and my blogposts are usually thready, really from the heart. it’s a good balance, particularly in relationship.”
so, what’s the purpose?
the person who posed this question is an actuary. i suspect that a blog seems somewhat frivolous to them, maybe even out of the realm of pragmatic, certainly not sustaining or financially rewarding. and – though having millions of followers or subscribers could be very lucrative – i suppose all those other points could be true. and yet, there is this imperative we both feel – to write – that we answer, each and every day. it’s both the blessing and the curse of being an artist.
i can’t imagine that there are readers who read each and every of our six-days-a-week postings. but to think that someone in a different US time zone, in africa, in south america, in the EU or indonesia or the middle east or australia or canada or ukraine is sitting with coffee and taking time to read my words is humbling. it’s how i feel about listeners spinning my music. the same. humbling. shy of being in the same room with me or having some kind of live exchange or sharing time together, my music and my words are the closest you can get to me, to what i am thinking or feeling, questions i am trying to answer, the way i parse out what it means to live. it is relationship on the relationship target circle – the circle a couple circles in, where you are not only acknowledging existence, but you are paying attention, responding, even if silently.
we don’t know what would happen if we stopped writing. all of sudden – boom! – full stop! we don’t know if there are those people who would miss these ramblings. we don’t know if there are those people who might just notice, a tad regretfully, our blogs were no longer there. we do know there are those people who would never even know we were gone. it’s a funny thing. and as an artist you must be careful not to let ego and its attention-seeking behavior stand in your way. you just keep on. until you stop. and then, because imperative is – after all – imperative, you do something else. artistry is a living and breathing thing.
i hardly think that the words i write are gloriously wise or the smidgiest-bit funny or new thoughts in an old universe. i just know they are uniquely mine and, for some crazy reason, i am open to being vulnerable enough to share them.
maybe one day you and i will have a conversation about this. and you might be able to tell me what the purpose is of writing a blog.
in another life i am a potter. i have multiple aprons caked with clay and stained with glaze. i have a potter’s wheel and a giant old table in a big barn that looks out over a lake and mountains, the sun streaming in during late afternoon happy hour siesta-sans-sleep time. and the pots i throw don’t collapse in on themselves.
there is something so very visceral about throwing pots – sitting on a stool, wheel in front of you, a chunk of clay – prepared – kneaded, wedged, ready. my hands are sensitive and the texture is smooth, not sticky. my foot starts the wheel and i form a circle with my hands. and the sun streams in, a gentle breeze through the barn doors, the soundtrack from the movie ghost playing in the background, patrick swayze moving closer. eh! the dream sequence stops here.
i’ve mentioned my pottery successes before: a couple tealight or small trinket holders and one highly-valued dessert bowl. nothing like this stunning handleless wine cup, but maybe someday. rachel stevens – the potter – is clearly gifted, with a textural approach to applying glazes, transfers … like a collage of pottery elements melded into one piece. her spirit, her intention of the beautiful – both evident.
heidi gave us these vessels for our wedding and we treasure them. their earthiness reminds us to stay grounded and centered; their loveliness is a reminder of all that is art and beauty and goodness.
we don’t use these each time we sip wine. we have lovely stemware as well. but the days we do, i am back in the barn…surrounded by crystal singing bowls and potter’s wheels, old farm tables and swivel stools, the sun and a breeze streaming in, the mountains out there as i glance up. a girl can dream.
minus the beyondness, minus the trees, one would barely know it was foggy.
but context is everything.
up close, the boulders are clear. they are like the notes on the page, the score. technically, they are vital. but context is everything and it is the artist’s job to look beyond the obvious, to seek that which tells the whole story, that which evokes more. it is the musician’s job to play that which is beyond the obvious, to play that which evokes. more.
peter spering, in an online forum that was great-debating which – of technical wizardry and feel – was more important in playing music, wrote the words “…technically great but creatively dull”.
the boulders without the foggy trees: we have all heard this music, seen this art, read these words, watched this dance. if you have listened to a computer rendering of a piece of sheet music, you are aware of neat and tidy technicality, seamless, even perfection. you are also aware of the lack – of any emotion, any expression, any air, any space. boulders will only sound like boulders. there will be no question. there is no beyond. there is no fog.
to answer the this-or-that question from the forum – technical chops or feeling – is both impossible and necessary. music is the expression of the human condition. music is love in sound. it is a marriage of both the technical and the evocative.
yet…if art is to convey questions and answers, to explore and navigate, to inform, to find meaning…if the recipient is to be moved, to be smitten by life, then music – the simple and the complex – must be played with heart. and technical wizardry will cease to matter if it falls upon souls with nary a touch, without any dents or brushmarks or trace that it had been there.
“it is enough when a single note is beautifully played.” (arvo pärt)
because a single note – played with heart – will impact you. it will bring you to a place where – even without standing on the shore – you can see the fog, the trees, the dim horizon.
and you are able to “feel the world stand still”. (arvo pärt)
“all i can do is be me. whoever that is.”” (bob dylan)
it’s an imperative. composing, songwriting, producing, performing – they aren’t really choices. they are inherent – something inside that begs you to feel it. it is an ancient call for an answer that tugs and prods and taunts until you comply, baring your soul. it makes you vulnerable and demands courage and fortitude, sacrifice and a stalwart sense of purpose. it is not a straight path. It is fluid. it is failure and a phenom. it is devastation and ecstasy. it is necessary.
standing backstage – our son and the board clearly in view – i am whisked away to the place parents are taken when they see their children doing something they wildly love to do.
i have stood on a giant mountain – one of the highest skiable terrains in the united states – and felt this feeling as our daughter flew past on a snowboard, everything in her aligned in the freedom of expression that single piece of wood opened in her.
and now i have stood on a wood floor in a crowded nightclub – way past my bedtime – and felt the exhilaration of my son’s music – truly moving him, bringing forth who he is from a place deep in his heart.
and in both circumstances, i have been in awe. and in both circumstances, i have celebrated.
because though they have both been scrappy and deliberate, non-traditional, intentionally creating the ability to have the room to express – with any combination of full-time work, layered jobs, skimping and saving, lack of resources – in an ever-changing river, they have led with who they are. what is important to them – deep down – is their truth. their heartbeat. figuring it out as they go.
our son is an EDM artist – electronic dance music. his music is powerful and pulsing, driving you to dance. it is layered and complex and technical and, as a composer – even understanding a slice of the process – i stand back in wonder. we are both creating music and, even in its difference, it has the same goal.
“some people feel the rain. others just get wet.” (bob dylan)
he is feeling the rain. and his music invites everyone else to feel it as well. that’s the imperative. it’s what has compelled me to compose. it’s what compels me to write. it’s what compels david to paint. it’s what compels the potter to sculpt, the dancer to dance, the climber to climb, the actor to act, the skier to ski, the athlete to push, the chef to craft, the aerobatic pilot to soar on bluesky days, the creator to create. it takes some guts. but it’s necessary. for the world.
“dear artists. don’t hold back. that’s it…” (okuntakinte)
the shaggy manes clustered in front of the stage. it was a crowded mosh pit and there was no allowance for height. they were all just smushed in there, trying to see in-between pogo-ing to the music.
i couldn’t tell who the artist was. i was simply watching the audience reaction. it was clear to me that this was big. the artist had drawn a large crowd and all the shaggy manes were jazzed to be there. with rapt attention, they engaged in the concert, though all i could hear was silence. they were still there when i left, still standing, still moshing.
we create – paint, draw, compose, write, mold clay, cartoon, dance, act – for the shaggy manes in the world who wish to engage in our art form and, also, for the shaggy manes in the world who do not. we are noisy. we are silent. whether they walk away, stand quietly or pogo-mosh is not up to us. it is only up to us to put it out there. after that, we have no control. no machinations can force our work to resonate with a shaggy mane.
and as our work floats about in the universe – gaining or losing momentum, either – we trust that following the imperative is what we can do, what we must do.
and i am reminded – time and again – even if one shaggy mane gets it – one shaggy mane is moved – one shaggy mane is changed, even for a moment – then i have done my work.
neither orange nor red are my favorite colors. but as i glance down nearby, i see two pencils – one a red mechanical pencil and one an orange colored pencil. they are the closest to me and, because i am a pencil person, i’ve been using them for days.
i remember many years ago, my son mentioned that some day he would like a montblanc pen. it’s pretty funny how a little time changes things. now, i’m quite sure, he would not care to have a montblanc; as a matter of fact, i’d bet he wouldn’t care about any brand of pen – even a bic for that matter – as he rarely writes down anything on paper. it is a generation – now grown-up – sans the need of paper, sans the need of pencils, sans the need of fancy-pens.
i’m not sure how i could function without pencils or pens. or, for that matter, notebooks and pads. i am a lover of paper and all things analog, while at the same time also loving the digital world and its conveniences. (take this blog, for instance.)
i have a box of fifty colored pencils that is brand new. it was a gift, along with an adult coloring book – if you haven’t tried this activity, don’t knock it. it’s zen-like coloring pages. i haven’t yet used these new pencils because i have older pencils and didn’t want to use up the new sharp points. ahh, i am my mother’s daughter.
the other day i took out the new tin of pencils and just gazed at the array of color – all beautifully laid out in a spectrum. i suddenly realized that it might be time to try them out. because after taking this photograph of this amazingly beautiful bush out on the trail, i could see that crayola wasn’t going to touch the nuances of staghorn sumac orange and red and yellow. i could see that it would be impossible to shade all the variations – rich – prayer flags burning a place into my memory. i could see that maybe fifty won’t be enough. there’s a set of 72, of 174, of 220, even 520 – the montblanc of colored pencils.
and i could see – gazing at this sheer beauty – i guess i like orange and red a little more than i thought. there’s more to them than meets the eye.
“to so much of the world, solitude is strange.” (anna quindlen)
i always thought i was an extrovert. i enjoy people and social gatherings of all sorts. back a ways had someone asked me if i was an introvert or an extrovert (or the middle-of-the-road-ish ambivert), i likely would have answered “extrovert”. but then…
then i realized that the true way i rejuvenate, the actual place i go to in order to find calm, is inside, into my own space. it hadn’t occurred to me in all my extroversion that i always sought quiet, calm, peaceful in order to re-enter the fray.
in recent times i have been digging through the basement and the attic, opening bins and boxes with journals and composition books, finding diaries and poems, reflections and no-melody-song-lyrics. some of these were written in a tree just outside my growing-up bedroom window. some of these were written in a tiny basement apartment with wallpaper that looked like red brick. some of these were written in a converted garage and some in a new home in the sun. they are decades old. and they make it clear that i have always sorted to a place of quiet to recharge, to reflect, to express.
this photograph is one of my recent favorites. its bare minimalism speaks to me. one leaf, alone.
artists, sensitive to the ambient, the nuance, the emotional, resonate with everything around them, vibrations conscious and unconscious. individually, in the context of our medium, we ask and answer the questions that pummel our hearts, a call and response to beauty and understanding. and then, the leaf.
the one leaf, alone, stood out. red against the camel-taupe-tan of the trail. i stopped.
if there is no other photograph in all my photographs that speaks to the uniqueness, the singularity, identity, the one-ness of humankind, then this might be the one.
though none of us exist in a vacuum – and the spectrum of introvert and extrovert stretches like a red rock canyon – each of us is – at our core – one leaf, alone. there is a distinct simplicity in that.
he was waiting on the trail for us. the eastern tiger salamander, poised, ready. we’ve never seen one – in all our hiking. so this was extraordinary and this little guy was trusting as we picked him up and moved him to the brush on the side of the trail, an effort to keep him from being hurt by fat-tire bikers passing by.
it’s the 300th week of our melange. we’ve been up and running these blogs-with-images for 300 weeks straight, sans interruption. some of that period of time it was five days a week; since may 2021, with the addition of our smack-dab cartoon, it has been six days a week. there is an imperative for us; writing begets more writing.
we sort the stories of our lives – threading back – and find clues and reasons and validations. we sort the stories of our lives – in the here and now – and find questions and individual moments – specific themes and thoughts. we sort the stories of our lives – moving forward – and see the utterly undeniable need to be present, to notice beauty, to go slow, to appreciate.
silly stories, divulging stories, grief stories, stories of wistful, ordinary stories, stories of pensive thought or roiled-up rant, stories of the essence of gossamer threads, we share with you – our dear readers – our lives. it is – truly – the yada yada yada of life.
we came upon him on a sunny and clear day, in a bit of shade on the trail. though a nocturnal creature and usually in an underground burrow or under a log in the daytime, this salamander was just there, waiting for us. as is our way, we talked to him for a bit. he didn’t answer any of our questions about why he was there, if he was ok, where he was headed. he didn’t seem to be moved by our telling him it was the first time we had ever – in all our time hiking in the area – seen an amphibian such as him. nor did he seem to care that we thought he was “a cute little guy”.
it might have been just too many spoken words – or he may already read our daily blogs – because as we carefully picked him up and moved him, hoping to save him from harm, he eyed us and squeaked out, “nada yada yada.”
reverse threading 