reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: recording artist


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now.never not.never not now. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it’s a heavy load. to be the woke – the empathetic, voiced, visioned, courageous, big-feelinged folks – both disparaged and desperately needed.

when all else has been sloughed off, when all else has failed, when all else is dross, it is art that will remain…there will still be heart.

this quote – way too big to actually write about without a feeling of undeserved arrogance, way too big to even begin to dissect without a feeling of ineptitude – it is an urge, a plea, a last-licks, it is an imperative we artists follow anyway: to turn complex feelings into something people can touch, can hear, can see, can taste. to turn that which we cannot see in any simplicity – beliefs, faith, love, philosophy, interconnectedness, bigotry, hatred – into something we can feel, something that resonates, something that gives us bite-sized bits to try and grok.

contemporaneously, without bruce springsteen there would still be the streets of minneapolis. but his music, his lyrics – his song has given beat and melody to the excruciating pain and stalwart dedication of the people in those streets. his music has given the rest of us – those of us in other places – also in pain and with dedication – something to grab onto, something to hold and wave and hum.

contemporaneously, without bad bunny there would still be a half-time show in the super bowl. there would still be grammy winners. but his tear-filled words, his staunchly raw comments ricocheting off the walls of the arena gave goosebumps to the rest of us – something we could grab onto, something to hold and wave and speak.

contemporaneously, without the cartoonists populating social media, the stuff that is happening would still be happening. but those cartoonists are bravely offering humor – sometimes truly dark humor – to give us something to grab onto, something to hold and wave and maybe, just maybe, laugh at.

there isn’t any way to rise and reclaim this place without the artists who are the building blocks for actual humanity, the collective melt in the melting pot, the mortar that holds it all together even when it collapses.

“people got to come together, not just out of fear…” (chicago – where do we go from here? – 1970)

it is never not the artists’ time. now is not different.

“let’s all get together soon, before it is too late

forget about the past and let your feelings fade away

if you do i’m sure you’ll see, the end is not yet near…“

the artists have already taken all those big, complex feelings and turned them into something we all can believe in. they’ve been doing it all along. the whole of time.

the world does need artists’ voices, artists’ vision and artists’ courage.

steep yourselves in it all. urgently. get brave. get going.

“where do we go

where do we go

where do we go from here?”

*****

YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE © 2003 kerri sherwood

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so. to sew. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i used the old singer when i sewed the shutter-curtains for the nursery. i placed it on a piano bench and sat on the loveseat to sew. it was mama dear’s no-bells-no-whistles machine – the kind that is stored in a black case – and i was hoping that her seamstress skills would transfer to me as i stitched. i didn’t quite finish the curtains before our daughter arrived – a week earlier than expected.

i have another machine – a sears kenmore – from when i was about ten or twelve, i guess. it’s in a sewing cabinet – the machine stores down under the lid – and one can sit right at it to sew. i’ve sewn innumerable things on this machine. it doesn’t have bells and whistles either, so it’s a workhorse.

because i was dedicated to the art of sewing – at least back in the day – i’ve accumulated many patterns through the years, storing them carefully in a bin so that they would keep their tissue-pattern-integrity.

i just opened the bin and took them all out, laying them on the dining room table, organizing them to move them along. there are about 75 of them, many toddler patterns and craft patterns. the 80s and the 90s were craft-heavy times and i was right in there sewing bunnies and dolls, quilting pillows and piecing sweatshirt appliqués. the fabric store was an inspiring adventure limited only to your imagination. attending art and craft shows was glorious fun, a place to get new ideas and marvel at others’ craftiness.

it was quite late in the 90s when it occurred to me to show at these art and craft fairs as a musician. way different than concerts or even wholesale show marketing, i’d set up a booth with a keyboard and displays and play all day while simultaneously selling cds. the being-a-mom skill of talking while playing transferred easily from mom-ing to entrepreneur. providing music for the background of people – most notably, women – to shop with friends and linger over beautiful homemade objects was a joy and i sold thousands upon thousands of cds at these shows over the course of some years.

until, of course, the advent of writeable cds.

being able to rip a cd from another cd enabled the buying market to do-it-themselves and severely shrunk cd sales from independent artists.

and then came streaming, a death-blow to these same independent artists.

but i digress.

i wonder how many people sew now. i wonder if moms still make matching jumpers for their baby girls and themselves. i wonder if people are still sewing bunnies and dolls and pillows. with the bankruptcy of joann fabrics – a legend for those of us who devotedly bought fabric there – i wonder if imagination is sparked as brightly in small fabric departments of other craft-type stores; joann’s was packed with fabrics and knowledgeable store personnel who could answer most any question from aspiring seamstresses.

sewing is kind of like riding a bike. you think you’ve forgotten how to thread the machine – until you sit down in front of it and your hands automatically weave the thread in and out of tiny sprockets and around dials. you think you’ve forgotten the little tidbits of wisdom you’ve gleaned along the way as you lay out a pattern or cut or piece a few patterns together to craft your own iteration of something – and then it all comes rushing back as you touch the ever-familiar manila-colored tissue paper.

i thought i would just move all the patterns along. and then a few caught my eye. “i could make those overalls,” i thought, and “what an easy pj pattern” – and i was hooked.

maybe half a dozen patterns made the cut – to stay with my sewing supplies. the toddler patterns moved on – for other moms or for grandmas to joyfully create. the craft patterns will move on as well. i already have a yo-yo quilt in my future and who knows what i’ll do with all the sports t-shirts left behind by the girl and the boy. we’ll see.

the coolest part of it all – revisiting all these patterns – was remembering the fun challenge of a sewing project and the excitement of a newly-purchased bag of fabric, feeling my grandmother’s legacy surge through me, the expansive way creating creates more ideas for creating.

*****

LEGACY © 1995 kerri sherwood

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whatever it is that calls me. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“whatever it is that calls us, that’s our path. and as we walk that path, we have a chance to shine forth who we are. it affects other people around us.” (richard bach)

we were talking about identity. in these later days, i have realized the nonsense of it all. in those striving-striding days of yore, younger versions of ourselves pushed for identity. we poked and prodded and molded and shaped and re-shaped our identity, pushing it out in front of us – as if to parade it, seeking validation. we – somehow in this society based so mightily on valuation – based our value on it. we let it rule us; we let it impact our decisions. we let it undermine our confidence. we let it stoke our egos. all of it.

and, suddenly, it all makes absolutely no sense.

so often, who we are falls prey to what we are.

he asked what we would do in retirement. i laughed. we’re already there. we’re doing it. it’s not a lot different than an artist’s path before retirement. it’s all-the-time.

we just are.

the path of artistry is not for the meek. it’s not a path of return-on-investment, for the investment of one’s heart far outweighs any yields, particularly in a society that underestimates its arts. it’s not a path of certainty, for scrappy is the only thing that is unquestionable. it’s not a path of sanctimony, for any sense of haughty righteousness must fall to the wayside of vulnerable creating. phony should not co-exist with authentic. caste should not co-exist with truthful art-making. all that pretense stuff – wrapped up in some version of identity in which one trembles when asked “what do you do?”

i’ll never forget a dinner i once attended, now years ago. seated in a fancy place with people i did not know, surrounded by those on ladder rungs i might not ever visit, i was asked that question, “what do you do?”

i answered that i was an artist…a recording artist….a composer…a singer-songwriter…a performer. the person – on that other rung – stared at me and gave a little laugh. “nooo, what do you REALLY do?” he asked.

i walk a path. i try my best to create. i try – not always successfully – to shine the truth of who i am, without bending or sacrificing the who of who i am. i try to affect others in a good way.

i know that there will be hundreds – likely, thousands – of cds with my name on them someday in some antique store. people will walk by and either give a quick second look or none at all. they won’t know who i was. they won’t know what i composed, the music i recorded and performed, the words i wrote. they won’t know what my voice – or even my laugh – sounded like.

but i will have walked a path that was mine alone. i will have joined hands with those i loved to walk alongside. i will have yearned and regretted and belly-laughed and wept. i will have realized that art – including music – is the answer to all the questions.

the deer prints will fade as the snow melts. it will be much the same for mine, i suppose.

were i able to go back to the linen-clothed table in the dining room of the country club, i should have looked evenly across the table and answered the guy who asked me what i really do, “whatever it is that calls me.”

*****

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countless stars. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

the way back north – though we would have lingered on and on save for our sweet older dogga at home waiting – was beautiful. we knew it would be; we have taken these back roads every single time we drive to chicago. following the lakefront, through little towns and along ravines, the holiday lights on our way home – in the dark with full hearts – are always magical.

to sit and spend any time with your grown children and their partners is always a gift. some people are privy to that all the time – fortunate to live in the same town or very close by, fortunate to have time together often. others of us have less time together; proximity can be challenging, so the time together with them is treasured and exponentially valued. we are always grateful to have that time.

earlier this week we had a chance to be with our son and his boyfriend. we brought all the makings for a thai chicken soup, our son’s requested “christmas lunch”. we gathered for photographs by the christmas tree and visited in the kitchen while we cooked. hearing their recent adventures, their thoughts, their latest dreams, hugging them in real life – it’s truly the stuff that this holiday is made of.

i remember the day after christmas from growing-up times. it was a day that was kind of the denouement of the season. it was a slow day, a reflection of what all had transpired, a review of it all.

we kept all the decorations up for a while back then. i don’t remember taking them down as a child. this year i think we will keep them up a bit as well…keep the light going. the trees add warmth to the cold of this season, particularly at this corrosive time in our nation.

he said that he hadn’t had his chance to put the star on the tree before he was no longer welcome. but this year it was HIS home, HIS tree, HIS star. and he owned the very-important-moment of placing his own star on his own tree, undeterred by disrespect of him or biased bigotry. it made me cry.

no longer welcome. holding a ‘welcome’ ransom is as absurd and cruel as holding the star ransom. in the christmas story, the star represents the celestial guide to the manger. but, more so, it represents light in the darkness, hope, the arrival of love. love…that which should level the field for all, that which grants grace, reminds us of compassion and inclusion, of unity, of hand-in-hand support of one another.

on the way home we talked about the lights on people’s houses, in their yards, inside their open front windows. we talked about multi-colored lights vs white lights and our own interpretation of these.

although we both grew up with multi-colored-light-families, we both always choose white lights. for me, that simplicity is part of the season. for me, it’s like a thousand stars, constellations of beacons in the darkness, of hope, of love. white lights bring the galaxies of the universe inside.

this day-after-christmas will be slow. it will be a day of reflection and rest.

and it will be time to continue to keep the happy lights lit, countless stars surrounding us.

*****

TIME TOGETHER © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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

“know then that the body is merely a garment. go seek the wearer, not the cloak.” (rumi)

and the babycat chair – cloaked in snow – shielded all from the view of its real soul. its new trapping hides its decrepit wickered weave. one would not know not to sit – certainly not to sit back – with snow covering this seat, this chairback. the babycat chair’s garment of white belies what is truly there.

and yet, this chair – the other day – seated a squirrel or two. as i watched out the window, they took turns sitting, munching on something i could not identify, comfortable squatting on this handy seat.

i – like you – have known plenty of people who have cloaked themselves in all the trends, who have kept up in fashion, who dress for the time and continually refresh their wardrobe. indeed, they look fabulous and, like just wearing the right couture, their vehicles and homes and sundries are all cloaked in that same shiny wrap. with some, it might be hard to gauge what is truly inside, what soul is silent, what soul is loud. we may not know but we are entranced by the packaging, the masking, the shell – that which is superficial, evanescent, transient.

the spirit of the babycat chair carries on, with or without snow. its aging – like the aging of barney-the-old-piano in our backyard – lifts up the unchanging truth that aging is not negotiable.

we – inside our cloaks – whatever they might be – transcend the broken wicker of what we put on to cover who we are. like the babycat chair – but exponentially – the spirit of what we mean, what we have meant, remains.

what do we each choose that to be, individually, in community, in this world?

*****

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tacet season. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

in the initial moments when we clear our barnwood potting stand – pull all the plants for composting, stack the clay pots and garden tools to be put away, brush off the stand, close the wrought iron gate, and then step back – i feel a sadness for the loss of our tiny garden. this year yielded a wild crop of herbs and tomatoes, jalapeños and lavender. we thoroughly enjoyed our sweet potato vines and our miniature licorice plant, the sweet dianthus, our peonies. this summer’s heat and humidity was a boon to our backyard. so it is somewhat hard to see it ending.

but the tacet of our garden – after such an amazing fully-bloomed tutti – is just as important in its performance. the quiet of this time will serve to gather its energy, to bring impact to subsequent growth, to give rest to roots bound by pots.

this winter we will propagate some of our summer plants. it is a new venture, introduced to us by the gift of our dear friend – a small indoor greenhouse. we will be learning what these tiny plants need, trying to help them root, keep them alive, bring them back – out of silence – to a spring in which we have a bit of a headstart.

the clearing of our house is kind of like that, too, as we move from room to room, closet to closet, drawer to drawer, bin to bin. we are still in phase one of all this, but each bit of giveaway, of throwaway, of repurposing gives air to some more space and in that space i can hear the vibrations of possibility gathering.

there are two new fuzzy white pillows in my studio on a metal strapped swivel patio chair we brought up from the basement. it feels like sitting in that chair – sinking in – could lend itself to the expression of the tacet i’ve been in, the long time of fallow. i don’t know what that means. it could just mean gaining clarity. it could mean setting it all aside. it could mean a few new notes that lead to a few new songs. the times d mentions the word “when” i counter with the word “if” because i really don’t know. there’s been a lot of pain and the wounds haven’t yet healed over. the tacet and my reticence continue.

but the potting stand reminds me: even after a period of silence, a period of fallow and nothing really happening, there is actually much in play. energy is stoking up. the time of rest is giving import to the time of sprouting. and, though this summer’s heat and humidity were incredibly generative – much like the middle years of my artist life – so will be next summer’s heat and humidity, even if the conditions are different, even if the heat and humidity are less intense. it is still a growth season.

just like now. the season has not ended with the pulling of plants from pots. negative space defines positive space, silence creates tension, the narrative of our plants continues.

just like mine. i am still in a season of growth.

*****

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

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who’s got time? [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“life hack: stop trying to be cool. be nerdy and obsessive about the things you love. enthusiasm will get you farther than indifference.” (posted on barkersounds IG)

this could possibly be my new mantra. nerdy and obsessive and (possibly overly) enthusiastic.

indifference slays me. the whole aloof, apathetic, flippant thing. all that gets under my skin, which is particularly sensitive to all the stuff on the opposite end of the spectrum from nerdy, obsessive about the things you love, and enthusiastic.

so that might explain the excessive photographs of barney, the old piano in our backyard, losing keys and structure in each season, its patina dusty wood. it might explain the innumerable pictures of breck – in every season – its leaves – budding in early spring through its golden age in autumn. it might explain why i take a zillion photos and generally completely annoy my adult children with my wish to capture them on film (well, “film” so to speak).

my sweet momma was a person who was also pretty nerdy and obsessive about the things she loved and, most definitely, enthusiastic. her “wowee!!!” goes down in history as a word she owned, and each of us knows we are referring to our beaky when we use that word.

life is short. that becomes more and more apparent as the years go flying by. the age spots on breck’s leaves are like the age spots i find on my own person. everything is fluid and keeps changing and the youth of our budding – like our aspen’s – is fleeting.

i can see no reason to not be nerdy. i can see no reason not to be obsessive about the things i love. and – yes – i can see no reason not to be ridiculously enthusiastic.

i mean, who’s got time for anything else?

*****

GRATEFUL © 2004 kerri sherwood

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children and dreams. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

it made me cry. it was all i could do not to down-and-out messy cry. had i lost control it would have been ugly. i grieved for every single american child as i struggled and hiccuped my way back to some semblance of calm. phil vassar’s lyrics were poignant and profound and deeply troubling.

the concert was amazing. phil vassar is a prolific songwriter, a consummate performer, his voice strong, his ballads clear. i’ve seen him in concert several times and was thrilled to see him again. he is now 63 and, having had both a heart attack and a stroke, he is making his way back – to the attention of the public – for the public forgets quickly.

there are artists you hold onto, particularly when you are an artist yourself. you know when there is something absolutely special about someone – you can feel it. every song, every note, every sung lyric – this man is a master singer-songwriter. there’s nothing really fancy about him…he plays a painted acoustic yamaha piano, often standing (which i can totally relate to). his band is extraordinary and tight, the perfect backup for him.

“cause 419 lakewood had no silver spoons/just an old beat up upright that played out of tune/now i’m singing and living the life that i love/and when i count my blessings i thank god i was an american child/an american child/’cause dreams can grow wild born inside an american child.” (american child – phil vassar)

every american child.

and that’s why i cried. because it’s no longer the same. i cried for my adult children. i cried for my friends’ grandchildren. i cried for the children i don’t know. i cried for what this country has lost, the dreams that have been violently stolen, the hope that has dissolved, the democracy that hangs by tiny filaments.

at the end of the concert, phil vassar – in seemingly no hurry at all – sat on the edge of the stage and chatted with people, took selfies with his fans, signed shirts and hats and cds.

i stood at our seats and watched, both proud of him and a little bit stunned at how very gracious he was – his obvious, deep gratitude to a concert hall that should have been filled.

i knew he couldn’t hear me – and i didn’t go up to tell him – but as i stood there i whispered, “you’re relevant, phil vassar. you’re so relevant.” deep down, he already knows. he’s always been relevant.

an american child. the american dream.

“there is no trust more sacred than the one the world holds with children. there is no duty more important than ensuring that their rights are respected, that their welfare is protected, that their lives are free from fear and want and that they can grow up in peace.” (kofi annan)

“a promise once made/will it shine, will it fade/will we rise with the vision or fall?” (american child – john denver)

*****

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

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

it’s the last two. the very last two jalapeño peppers. today or tomorrow we’ll make ann’s jalapeño poppers recipe and celebrate the crazy-abundant harvest of these two relatively small plants. their season is clearly over; there are no tiny flowers left, there are no miniature peppers. these plants are done producing. but, in a new discovery, i have found that we can overwinter these perennials (more easily sustained in warm climes) – if we bring them indoors before the first frost we can give them a headstart for next year.

last year we only had one plant. its harvest is what convinced us to have two this year. maybe next year it’ll be three. in these last years, we have discovered the equation of this garden – what we get out of this garden is a direct result of what we put into it. it – and the experience of it – remain part of us, for we have paid attention to it.

like artistry – if you follow the imperative – being true to who you are – and who you’ve been and who you are becoming – and not beholden to societal expectations or fiscal returns – its produce potential is crazy-abundant. amorphous, ethereal, it will shape and re-shape, build and break down, condense and stretch – you are feeding it always. in the quiet and in the noisy, in season and out-of-season, overwintering. it’s all fluid, continuous.

i wonder when i will compose again. sometimes i can feel it building – the tension of the imperative. on those days i walk into my studio and touch my piano. it’s just a gesture, an acknowledgement. but it counts. it connects me back and forward, both. it is perennial.

and i can see – they are one and the same – these jalapeños and my music.

“not even the tiniest perennial grows only to die. it comes back again and again when the season and the time is right.” (kate mcgahan)

*****

BRIDGE © 2004 kerri sherwood

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north stars. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

we pulled up to the recycling tent to drop off the computer-type equipment we had – several old printers and associated cables and plugs. we had been looking forward to this event – an earth day event held locally – in order to continue the purge of stuff, but in the most environmentally-friendly ways.

there were a few people in the tent waiting to help and we really appreciated their work volunteering. they immediately moved forward to our vehicle to help us unload.

i got back into littlebabyscion and glanced over through my fully-open window to repeat our thanks. that’s when i saw one guy glaring at littlebabyscion and saying something to someone next to him. the focus of his gaze was undeniable.

i decided instantly.

“looking at our wheels, eh?” i addressed the guy.

he looked at me, surprised to be caught in the moment, “uhhh….yeah.”

“well, they may not be fancy but this little xb has faithfully driven 280,000 miles,” i bragged.

he stammered. “wow, that’s really cool,” he managed.

“yup,” i said. and then, pretty emphatically, “you can’t judge a book by its cover!”

i’m hoping he felt a little bit sheepish after we drove away. it is not likely, but i still hope he did.

now, to be fair, littlebabyscion’s wheels are the stuff of grimace-potential. the outer layer of aluminum alloy is both peeling and rusting – but, hey, so are we – after a few hundred thousand miles. we have plans to take a steel brush to these wheels – on a non-windy day – to clean them up a bit, make them less shoddy-looking, but it hasn’t been a top priority. glimmering, shiny wheels are not as important as some other tasks or chores, so babyscion’s rims just need to get in line. besides, LBS had really shiny rims back in the day – almost 300,000 miles ago. heck, even 100,000 miles ago there was still a bit of sheen. shiny is part of who LBS has been. so, i, for one, am not going to judge this absolutely amazing little vehicle for a bit of wear or a few wrinkles in the middle of dedicated and extended mechanical life. LBS has a really good heart.

we are relatively used to just being us – in a world of people trying to be more. we are artists, remember.

and so, we are people who have walked this walk – the one of being the book judged by the cover. we have also repurposed with fervor, made-do with less, driven with not-so-perfect rims. and we stick to the be-you mantra. we are not going to participate in the judging of books by their covers. we are going to seek heart. no matter the difference, no matter the sameness – we believe that being you – the best and most filled-with-goodness you – is all you can or should be. and we are here to lift you up in that. we are not going to grimace or glare or make snide comments at you in your pursuit of goodness. our job – as humans – with kindness and generosity and acceptance and grace our north stars – is to be us and to let you be you.

hopefully hearts are more important to you than shiny rims.

*****

GRACE © 2010 kerri sherwood

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

 

LBS…a few years ago….

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