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a squall of light. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

it will surely get worse before it gets better.

it was while i was waiting for the person to arrive to pick up the desk that i started. it wasn’t really on purpose. it was simply a way to keep an eye out the window at the front of the house. i opened the small chifforobe cabinet and began to pull things out and stack them on the floor of the studio. then i went over to the small desk and did the same thing. before i knew it, it was chaos on the floor of the studio, piles on the padded artist bench, even small piles on top of my piano.

in the unearthing of space, i am finding notebooks of lyrics, slices of songs, chord progressions jotted on scraps of paper. there are piles of process cds – from demos of songs to recording studio takes, edits, production in all its phases, final products of albums released into the world. there are radio charts and encouraging cards, pencils and erasers and staff paper.

i think of my son – at the other end of the journey – the closer-to-beginning part of his artistry. though he is waaay past just-beginning, his heartbeat is quickened by his own growth in his music and by the outer reaction to and support of his EDM. i remember those days and i celebrate for him and with him. they are the days that feed artists when we are depleted, when we are in the midst of hunger, when we are pondering our place in our art form, when – if we are feeling disoriented – we are trying to see where it was – discern how it was – we got lost so that we might find our way, when it’s a little bit agonizing, when we are a lot a bit tender, when we are wondering.

later on – much after the computer desk was gone – after the frenzied muse had left the building – i groaned looking at the mess.

but there is no going back now. it’s time to keep going, to keep going through, eliminating, filing, re-designing the spaces and space in my studio. time to bring in new light, time to give it a chance.

in more than a bit of vulnerability, i must say that i don’t really know if that will change anything. i know that the studio will look more spacious, it will be slightly less muddled in there, more austere, more piano-focused. i feel like that could definitely be a good thing…a tiny step toward actually playing, actually composing. cleaning out will remove some of the tangible tokens of feeling remote, or of hurtful, harmful things that have undermined my artistry, that have waylaid me. it might remove some of the visible and invisible layers between me and my music. i guess that’s all to be seen. as overwhelmed as i am – thinking about all the work in front of me – i do see some magical bits of light in the dark, even amid the squall of chaos.

when my grand first arrived – over 25 years ago – it was the only thing in the room. just a big C5 on bare wood floors with high ceilings and freshly painted white walls of plaster and beadboard. it was pure and glorious.

since then – for various reasons – i added a chifforobe, a writing/reading chair, a desk, music stands and mic stands, other instruments.

maybe sorting through, reorganizing, removing the desk, minimalizing stuff, clearing the space will surface the essential reason for this studio, will distill the paralyzing fog that has settled over the space and in my heart, give light to a dimmed imperative. maybe a tiny bit of balance will return. maybe it’s all still relevant.

i stand in the doorway and acknowledge that i don’t know.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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sunny starry snowflake seeds. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“…you can trust the promise of this opening. … for your soul senses the world that awaits you.” (john o’donohue – for a new beginning – from benedictus, a book of blessings)

i was keeping it, even though it was broken. my sweet momma used to use it as a fruit bowl – on our kitchen table or counter when i was growing up. i feel like i remember bananas in this starry snowflake basket bowl – which hasn’t had its curved glass handle for many, many years now.

as we moved about our home, choosing to be more minimalist in approach, i came upon this glass basket bowl. the broken edges were rough and, though it was sitting out, it was not something i would wish someone to touch for fear of the possibility of getting hurt. i considered this bowl for some time, placing it on the dining room table, gently dusting it out, cleaning its starry edges. and then i realized that it was time for this basket bowl to be disposed of. i took plenty of photographs before gently letting it go, for my threadiness needs – sometimes – to be handled with care.

and then we moved on to the next. and each thing that we moved about or stored or repurposed or disposed of made room – room for our old house to breathe in a bit more light, for us to discover something new that might transform the space.

we can both feel it. the sun’s rays are now reaching further into the living room – way under the old two-person glider that came in from the deck. we’ve sat there many times now already – visiting with our boys on thanksgiving, sipping coffee and watching out the front window, sipping wine and watching the crystals on the big tree branch dance in happy lights. there is change. there is opening.

i have a list – the spots in our home that need our attention, stuff-wise. it is not a short list. we have plenty to do.

but the rewards are great and give us incentive to keep going. we are in no rush. we’ll just take on a little at a time.

and one of these days it will be my studio. i’ll finish what i started there quite a while ago. stopping wasn’t because i didn’t want to complete the going-through-cleaning-out-reorganizing. at the time, stopping was because it was just too much right then. but now…now, some time has passed and maybe i am soon ready to file, to store, to pass on, and – in likely cathartic moments – to throw out that which is no longer relevant, that which served me well until it didn’t, that which is broken in little or big ways.

and, in the process of all this, hopefully i will see the promise of the opening – the sunny starry snowflake seeds – just as we have seen it in the other beloved parts of our home.

all the world awaits each of us each day. we just need to clear the stuff – real or imagined – out of the way to see it.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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writealot. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

it’s true. we write a lot. without fail, six days a week now. we haven’t missed a day since the beginning of our melange 355 weeks ago.

it is likely you have not read all of these posts. we completely understand that. life – these days – reading-wise – is lived more like a reader’s digest condensed book than a novel; there is just simply not enough time.

i haven’t ever gone back to read it all – every single post. maybe some day i will do that. it will surely tell a tale – narrating our lives, pondering artistry, speaking to issues about which we feel zealous, documenting times we are celebrating or enduring – ourselves, in our family, our friends, our community, our country.

sometimes these posts are light, hopefully uplifting. sometimes they express confusion. sometimes they ask hard questions. sometimes they are enraged. sometimes we are trying to answer a need we see. sometimes we are a little bit eloquent. sometimes we are awkward. sometimes they are full of the absolute joy of getting to be alive. sometimes full of wonder and gratitude.

it is likely you will not agree with every post. we don’t expect that nor do we wish that. these are simply our perspectives and, you will see, sometimes even the two of us – viewing the same image prompt – write from completely different perspectives.

i imagine that there are times you have vehemently disagreed with me or david. and that is also good. hopefully, that will mean that someday we might have a conversation about that, talk about it, share thoughts and knowledge, even emotions that disagreements evoke.hopefully, that will mean it might be generative.

the thing i can say is that we are merely doing the best we can to write. every single day that our melange is published. not to elicit attention nor to be overbearing in our words or our stance on things. we don’t expect you to adopt our stance – we are merely expressing our views. we are just vulnerably putting it out there and, frankly, it takes courage to be as transparent as we have been. but an artist’s work demands that, demands voice. and we are two artists reflecting on real life…two blogs…two vehicles for our creative hearts, sorting it all out – this life – as we go, just like you.

though it might be tempting to assume these posts are the full and complete autobiographies – the diaries – the whole kitnkaboodle – of our lives, i would caution by saying that we are writing to prompts – photographs i have taken – and there is more to our lives – and our life together – than these images. just as we cannot – would not – assume what you have been up to every moment of each day, neither can a reader of our blogs. these posts are not the entirety of our days. so, maybe we might spend some time together – by communicating in some fashion or in the same room – to learn a few more details, hear a few more anecdotes, ask a few more questions, express a bit of concern and empathy, understand where we are all coming from.

we heartily welcome your perspectives and your comments. we appreciate your reading. we appreciate your feedback. and we are grateful for anyone who has ever directly impacted us with financial support – of this blog, my music, david’s artwork, our combined artistry.

thank you – so very much.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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donuts and stars. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“the optimist sees the donut. the pessimist sees the hole.” (oscar wilde)

i suppose this could easily be applied to aging. somehow, in some rush of years, i am 65. it’s still a wonder to me and it has now become clear why my sweet momma was so astounded when she was almost-94 and thought she looked like “an old lady” when she looked in the mirror.

like my sweet momma, we are choosing to see the donut. which, i suppose, means one day we will be astounded as well. (truth be told, we are a tiny bit astounded by some tiny body-change each and every day, but we are holding off on the big-time astonishment as long as we can.)

so instead of seeing – and ruminating on – what’s missing in the here and now, instead of trying to clarify the blurry of what’s out there ahead of us, we – as an ever-aging couple – yikes – are zeroing in on the gifts of the present, the sweet phase – as we are calling it, and tapping the rich potential of the future. there is so much we don’t know but we are excited about exploring what’s next.

artists don’t really have solid retirements. it’s risky business, this being-an-artist thing. we keep on keeping-on because it’s an imperative, a driving force. we write, we paint, we compose, we mold thoughts and questions and experiences and impressions into tapestries that we – vulnerably – put out there for others to read, see, listen to, touch, feel.

we work for the donut-lovers and the donut-holers. we are not selective. we believe art is fundamental. art provides access and awareness. we are simply part of the delivery mechanism.

and so, even as we get older, that doesn’t change. we look to times of new projects, artist residencies, experiments outside our usual mediums. we aren’t simply done. and, maybe, in the words of grace hopper, “we’re just getting started.”

regardless, every day we walk toward astonishment we have decided to do it with as much grace, joy, anticipation and gratitude we can possibly muster. we will be (gluten-free) donut-lovers in the sweet phase and we will reach for each star past the donut hole.

“we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” (oscar wilde)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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idris, richard, mark and ellsworth. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]o

we walked out of the parking garage and up the grassy hill to the path along the lakefront. a perfect day outside, we strolled as long as hunger allowed us and then we turned around, completely sated by art and fresh air, heading for the public market and bowls of gumbo at the fish market counter.

the idris khan exhibit “repeat after me” intrigued us. layers of digital repetition, scores of music sedimentarized into a single panel, stamped words superimposed on stamped words, scribbles on top of scribbles, it was surprising and fascinating. beautiful – seemingly blurry – images in larger-than-life scale, it felt an interesting statement of the concurrence of everything as it happens in this plane. in the collections of classic scores, words stood out to me: presto…poco rall (poco rallentando)…tempo markings…because he allowed them to be visible, i wondered if they were adjectives of his life then or just simply part of the music he was layering. i admonished myself then, aware of the overly analyzing curator mode to which i was succumbing. i remembered seeing christopher wool speak…the curator was going on and on about the psychological underpinnings of his work and he sloughed it all off – he was merely creating what he liked, what he felt he wished to express. art doesn’t always need to be analyzed – it is sometimes just your heart speaking out loud, on canvas, in image, in wet clay, in melody, in haunting harmony.

walking through this exhibit – from room too room- i was so aware of all the music books, sheets, scores in my own file cabinets. i kept thinking of ways i could incorporate all my collections into art pieces – for surely, there is little use for some of it otherwise and it will certainly go the way of recycling that millions of pages of music-on-paper have already. perhaps even an accent wall expanse papered with pages – the genius of composers gone before physically surrounding a studio space. the energy – sans the analysis.

idris khan called us. but, as always, *richard and mark and ellsworth* were there for us as well – steadfast and notoriously inspiring. we stopped by to say hello and they nodded the quintessential guy head-nod, barely discernible but a clear thank-you-for-always-stopping-by. we wouldn’t miss it.

we drove to have gumbo, hearts full and talking over each other about what we had seen. and then, the ride home was quieter, reflective and flush, revitalized.

*****

*favorites richard diebenkorn, mark rothko, ellsworth kelly

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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undressed inchworms. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

embrace of life – by mimi webster, the john denver sanctuary, aspen, colorado

THIS is how i feel in the mountains.

all worries, concerns, things we are suffering or things too complex – shed – as clothing falling off, a nakedness of joy, exulting in the sky, the purity of air, the scent of early spring in high elevation.

THIS is how i feel there.

it is not unlike how i feel at the side of the ocean, with waves lapping my feet, infinite blue meeting aqua on a horizon too far away to particularly discern, salt air sticking to my hair, sun beating down, uninhibited.

it is recent discovery that we realize it is a new time. though we both are – and have been – aware of the tenuousness, aware of how nebulous it all is – and one of us distinctly more thready than the other – we are beginning to see life in smaller morsels. we are not sprinting past on our way to somewhere which will ultimately be on the way to somewhere else. instead, we are slower and more deliberate. we are undressed inchworms – exposed – in miles and miles of life. intentionally.

at the entrance to the john denver sanctuary, embrace of life stands, gloriously. i needed no reminder. i walked in – throwing my head back to the sky – throwing my arms out to collect it all, to wrap in it, to bring it all home. my heart is open. wide open. air rushes in as we walk among boulders chiseled with lyrics and prose. each moment is shimmering.

THIS is how i feel.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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grinning. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

we waited until the really torrential rain stopped before we drove on to aspen. the forested slopes, sagebrush-dotted mountains and an amazing canyon are just too much to miss in driving rain. the marmot, the bighorn sheep and the mountain goats were all out on our way there – the reward of patience and not rushing. they grinned as we went by, slowing to gaze at them, all pretty close to the shoulder of the road.

we were gifted with a herd of elk lounging in a meadow on our way back from the ditch trail. it’s not to be underestimated – the size of an elk. they grinned at us from the field and told us that the real hulksters – the moose – wouldn’t be making an appearance that day.

and then, back a couple hours on the other side of the canyon, right in the middle of breck, this tiny family of foxes. momma fox watching over her kits, the incredibly adorable curious little babies romped around the old building, scurrying from one plaything to another, scooting under the foundation. none of them seemed fearful and we were grateful that people weren’t chasing after them like the nincompoops in national parks seem to be doing these days. they were grinning at their audience, just happy-go-lucky-living life and momma fox was watching over her brood carefully. we were enchanted.

we saw them a few times while we were there. each time we laid back, quietly watching, enthralled at their courage and delighted at their zeal.

this is always a hard place to leave – these mountains. we try to make the most of the gloriousness while we are there. every breath here counts.

and i wonder if someone is watching from some other planet or galaxy or dimension. they can see us – david and me – romping and scurrying, playing and scooting – just like the baby fox. they might think we were just happy-go-lucky-living life. they might be enchanted.

and we’d be grinning in response.

*****

EVERY BREATH from AS IT IS ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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the spirit with us. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

you can feel it.

there is a spirit in this place – the john denver sanctuary in aspen. it is palpable.

we go there – specifically – to feel it.

because it feels like the past, the present and the future all at once and – here – it all wraps around your heart.

we are both john denver fans. not the ridiculous push-to-the-front-of-the-crowd-for-a-signature type. just the quiet, eternally-grateful type. he has inspired us. he has inspired me. he made the simple melodic gesture a visceral thing. he elevated folksy messaging and storytelling; he reinforced the beauty of a lack of adornment. simplicity.

and when we stand in this beautiful place – designed to honor him, his composing and songwriting, his vision of the world – we are standing in and with his spirit. and you can feel it.

we slowly walkabout, arm in arm. we hum the songs chiseled into granite boulders. we stand immersed, pondering, in front of quotes of john muir and leonardo da vinci and helen keller and rachel carson and jacques cousteau.

we seek out annie’s song.

and we can feel it. the spirit in this place.

we feel at home here.

we stroll away and take it with us, carrying it in-between the times we stand there.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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not normal. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“starlight. starbright. first star i see tonight. i wish i may, i wish i might, have this wish i wish tonight.”

he said, “you’re not normal. you two are not normal.”

he didn’t mean it in a mean way. in fact, he quickly explained it was a compliment. he elaborated that it was his way of saying that we lead with creativity and artistry and that just isn’t a normal thing, that we don’t necessarily give credence to how naturally that is a part of who we are, how we move in the world, what we do with our time.

because our success is not measured like the success of others, it’s a little hard to take in this compliment. the success of our imperative is measured in resonance with others, in touching hearts, in poking thoughts, in giving space. the success of others is measured in salaries and annuities and perks and material goods. there is a vast disparity between the payroll of the artist and the payroll of the white-collar-ed.

at the queen tribute band concert we attended there was a woman in the next row who held an intense conversation during intermission. she spoke about their son who had chosen a different route – not to go to college – and who was succeeding mightily nonetheless. she spoke about how others looked disparagingly upon him, but how she supported his choices. the most telling thing she said was, “at least in life he isn’t doing a job he hates.” i did a double-take. the tone of her voice, the look on her face showed she was underplaying her own feelings. she is clearly doing a job she hates. for the long haul.

we’ve all had jobs we hated. it’s a fact of life. bills need to be paid, obligations need to be met and we are responsible people.

we talked about this on the way home from the concert. eh…who am i kidding? we talk about this all the time.

our life is different than most anyone else’s we know. our dreams are maybe a little different too.

we immerse in moments that remind us of the good fortune of merely breathing. we flail in moments that remind us we are not “that kind” of normal. but seeing stars in dried flowers and hearts in verdant underbrush and angel wings in clouds and appreciating the sunshine on the quilt, the old birdhouse on the mantel, the tiny cairns on our shelves, the harmonic overtones in the air all remind us.

i wish i may, i wish i might, have the wish i wish tonight…

to not worry. to know that this work that we do in the world is valued. to feel some of the same ‘normal’ as most of the people around us.

but if i have to worry and wonder and feel ‘not normal’ to be the artist i am, to maybe have something i do resonate with someone else, touch them, make them think, change them a tiny bit, give them a little space of peace, then i’ll take it. because i don’t hate what i do.

because i love doing what i do.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

SEE AN OWL mixed media 24″x48″

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the towel. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

the first sentence in the new york times arts section front page article reads, “chris domig was ready to throw in the towel.” but then…

for years he persevered and persevered, through thick and thin, this dear friend of david’s. a consummate actor and dedicated off-off-broadway theatre co-founder and artistic director, he was not hindered by the somewhat invisible but definitely impenetrable wall in new york city’s theatre world. and then…

the front page in the arts section belies the rest of the story. but every artist knows it. the ever-present imperative to create and to succeed, not only from a soul place, but from a place where you just might be able to afford to pay the bills, to have a littlebit extra, to hold the esteem of your colleagues, to be recognized. you hold the towel close, knowing that at any moment it might be the thing you do – you just might throw in the towel.

chris decided to take on mitch albom’s tuesdays with morrie. but it took a long time to land. everything takes longer than you think. a long fermata of longing. every artist knows this. most craftspeople know this. most philosophers know this. poets write of it. composers strew melodies around like patio lights. painters throw paint and prep canvas time and again. dancers pirouette, spinning ever faster. writers wordsmith, deleting and reading and elaborating and deleting. beavers in bogs – singularly focused, ridiculously hard work – and the tree still stands. and then…

the sea dog theatre tells this remarkable story – tuesdays with morrie – through the interwoven magic of len cariou and chris. it is earning high regard and the reviews are outstanding. it has landed.

and the towel is set aside.

*****

LONGING from AS IT IS ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood

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

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