reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: two artists doing life


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marimekko roots. [k.s. friday]

sisu is alive and well at the milwaukee art museum. i was thrilled to see the scandinavian design installation. i was pretty sure it would all feel familiar. all my life, i have been surrounded by pieces from scandinavia, finland in particular.

in what is likely a sin-of-casualness, quite some time ago i placed the vintage marimekko dish towel into the kitchen drawer, wanting to use it, to see it more often than the rare times i open up the cedar chest. i took out other finnish linens as well, placing them in regular rotation. they are simpler, organic linens, raw in color. but the marimekko…it’s happiness in a towel.

so when we walked into the room with the brilliant marimekko maija isola’s unikko (poppy) design hanging as a giant banner of fabric, i was inordinately happy. gorgeous and bold, you could stand there for a long time and just soak it in, like sunshine on a bluebird day.

i have many finnish relatives. all delightful and spread about in finland and various other european countries, i haven’t had the pleasure of being in their company since i was eight and my grandmother took me to finland for ten weeks to experience the land of the midnight sun, the sauna and the lake of the northern cabin, the town named after her family – klamila. but, at eight, i wasn’t fascinated by bolts of fabric or designer glass. instead, i pretended there was a horse on the back porch and spent long hours on the porchrail, reins in hand, exploring the wilds of finland. it would do my heart good to meet this branch of family once again.

i knew my sweet momma and my grandmother were cheering as we slowly made our way through the installation. reading all the placards and admiring the simplicity of pieces of silver, of china, of exquisitely designed coffeepots, we had to, of course, veer off the scandinavian path and visit the diebenkorn and the rothko before we left.

the marimekko towel was the next one up in the drawer. i took it out and pondered the feasibility of using such a treasured item. and then i could hear my momma echo my grandmother’s words: of course you should. it’s your roots.

*****

THESE ARE THE TIES ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

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true rainbows. [d.r. thursday]

chicago is aware. wide-awake LGBTQ aware.

to be there is not to be in a nod-to-diversity. instead, the city embraces diversity. it is true to its intention. the rainbow flags and “proud” banners and painted buildings are emblems of this good intention.

but one must be wary of emblems, of symbols, of misspoken intents. to live in today’s world is to bring a bit of doubt to the table, to ask questions, to do your homework, to be informed. for not every mission statement will stand up to scrutiny, not every symbol of goodness will survive real review. it is surprising – at best – to realize that agenda has superseded goodness and has taken your trust for a ride. beware of generalizing virtue simply because it falls under the umbrella of a symbol.

i have been immersed in places in which i placed all my faith, sans skepticism or dubiety. i have been in communities that touted their transparency, their compassion, their participation in good mission. all the while, the flags of opacity, of hidden agenda, of untruths spoken and truths unspoken, flew quietly and deliberately in, usurping any good intention that remained, driving out the hard work of community-building, of the joy of the embrace. out of alignment, were the symbols capable, the symbols would shudder.

and so, i walk into the thick of the city, sensors on. i know there are issues, problems, but i know there is attempt to address these, to ask hard questions, to communicate, to resolve any perceived conflict.

i know that the rainbows are true.

*****

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daisy to the sun. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

though we haven’t heard from him – on his youtube channel – for a long time now, joey coconato has a thing about meadows. he was in the presence of superb forests, the most majestic of mountains, rushing water and red rock canyons, but you could feel his reaction when he came across a meadow. it was like a breath of fresh air. a deep breath. i see a meadow and, now, consequently, think of joey.

the meadows we pass on our trail are revitalizing. post-invasive-species-eradication, they are greening and the vegetation is multiplying, more quickly than we can keep up. like breck – our aspen tree out back – we notice new shoots of growth every day, new tiny blooms of color. and then – there are the daisies.

this daisy caught my attention. even more than the others. mostly, maybe, because it wasn’t facing us. instead, the daisy had its back to us. and it seemed to have turned its face to the sun, soaking up energy and warmth, in a full-on beach-towel-on-the-summer-sand kind of invitation.

there have been days when face-to-the-sun is the best we can do. our meadows, sometimes fraught with invasive species and problematic drought, need us to just stop a moment and look up. turn our faces to the sun, let the shadows drop, soak it in.

when i think about our hiking and the moments that stay with me in the bank of yearning, they are the ones in pine forests, in and amongst quaking aspen, alongside quiet streams. they are on mountains with views between branches out to other mountains, ranges in the distance.

but the moments that are really prevalent – really impactful, even in their familiarity – are also these – the ones we know best, the turn in the trail, the scent passing a certain stand of pine, and the new beginnings – rebirth – in the meadows.

and, like daisy, we turn our faces to the sun.

*****

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the good ole hardware store. [two artists tuesday]

i am a hardware store junkie. there’s a certain joie de vivre found in the midst of an ace, maybe even – on their best days – in a lowes or a home depot. but ace hardware. that’s the stuff. the smell of fertilizer assails you upon entry and you are transported to another place – a magical place – where you could wander for long periods of time, gazing at tools, watering cans, market umbrellas, weber grill accessories, birdfeeders, alligator extendo-backscratchers, benjamin moore paint chips, no-idea-what-they-are-but-nonetheless-fascinating-thingamajigs. magical. and, in that place, it’s just too easy for two artists to dream.

they are having a big sale on backyard umbrellas. the kind you can tilt. perfect for a patio space that begs the reading of a book while lounging on an adirondack chair. we are pondering. brick red seems like a great punctuation in our verdant yard. but then, that green…a celebration of life. at least i can toss out the yellow, but the beige…well, it’s the color of the deck. so who knows. and then, there’s the budget. in the meanwhile, the rainbow of market umbrellas tempt us. joy in a hardware store. and that rainbow…

because everything nowadays seems to have a political affiliation, i just did a little research. read up on the big three – home depot, lowes, menards. read some articles about ace, thankfully, mostly privately owned. what i read just now – easily just skimming the surface of articles thus far – was somewhat eye-opening and will now dictate where i shop. lurid accusations of founders, large dark money contributions to right-wing nationalist groups, support of the sale of items touting anti-democracy – i’m wondering what all this has to do with power drills, lawn seed, building lumber, nails and hummingbird swings.

as ever, i am breathless from reading about the stance of powerful billionaires hungry for more, ensconced in agenda, dedicated to power and control in every arena. i want to believe that store managers are supported and encouraged, not threatened or belittled. i want to believe that these powerful founders – men – truly uphold the equality of women or of any gender identity, of races other than their own, of religions other than their own, of the freedom to learn in this country without banning crucial historic details, without censorship. i want to believe that hardware is hardware and that positioning and lobbying and not-so-veiled political blackmail has nothing to do with hammers and do-it-yourself in a country built on an experiment with liberty and justice for all.

i just want to believe in market umbrellas and the good ole hardware store.

*****

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yes. proud. [merely-a-thought monday]

on friday i projected being proud to be there – at chicago pridefest. i underestimated it.

even in its boisterous volume – loop high-fidelity-noise-reduction-earplugs and all, even in its crowded-can-hardly-move streets – take a breath, take a breath, take a breath, even in its vast array of body-expression – everyone seeming so comfortable on this day in their own skin, i felt at home. there was not one time we experienced any rudeness. there was not one time anyone excluded us. there was not one time anyone looked us up and down, measuring, discerning, approving or disapproving. there was not one time anyone seemed in-your-face superior. there was freedom. there was the peace of acceptance. there was – love of one another – as far as the eye could see.

our son’s friends ran to greet us and a tiny little girl passed out rainbow happy face buttons. we browsed the merch booths and returned to the corner in time for our son’s performance. an EDM artist, his show was seamless and powerfully energetic.

i might have worn different shoes. the health app on my phone said 9.7 miles. i’m thinking it was more. it was impossible not to dance, so i’m pretty sure that added to the steps i took, but keen sandals are not really dancing shoes. i don’t know if the tevas would have been better. what i do know is i had really happy feet and that doesn’t even start to compare to my heart.

though most of the time i watched my-son-on-stage-in-his-element…his imperative, as david said, “making music that sets people free.” i turned around a few times, to look at the crowd behind us.

people blissfully dancing, moving, touching, hugging, smiling. there didn’t seem to be one iota of self-consciousness or doubt. it wasn’t about wondering if they belonged, if their actions – or their very beings – would be measured against some heteropatriarchal b-s.

and i was so proud.

proud of our son and his music. proud of his really kind friends. proud of the people dancing around us. proud of the fishnet statements and the rainbows and the exposed skin.

this is what the world should model itself after. this is what our country should model itself after. this is what our communities should model themselves after. period.

and then – in the forwarding of love as the only north star – all could be proud.

*****

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what matters. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

one of my favorite memories of time spent with columbus was fishing with him up at the mountain lake. gently he handed me a fishing pole and explained the fish thereabouts and we made our way down to the shoreline. i could have stood there all day, my line in the water, casting again and again and dreaming. surrounded by mountains and aspen trees and tall pine, i was standing in heaven. the fish didn’t really matter.

the times i spent fishing on long island were generally from a boat. crunch and i would mosey out into the sound – at all times of day or night – and drop in a line. we’d talk quietly and ponder life and watch the stars and drift a bit. it, too, was a bit of heaven. and it never really mattered if there was anything on the stringer at the end of the day.

up in ely, 20 took us out on the vast lakes. the boundary waters were absolutely quiet. we dropped in lines with no real expectation. trolling around, we were surprised when we ended the day with a few fish. i can’t remember that i caught any of them.

i haven’t ever fished in wisconsin. no real reason. we prefer the pontoon boat up north or getting a little lost in time in the canoe.

and it is true – i’m not really good at fishing. though i relish the time in the boat or, better yet, on that mountain shoreline, it’s not really the fish that matter.

what matters is the serenity found in the waiting, the time spent outside being quiet together, the being there.

*****

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proud at pride. [k.s. friday]

and tomorrow we will go to chicago. we’ll metra downtown and walk to boystown. there will be sooo many people. and with them, we will stand on the corner of halsted and waveland and watch our son perform on-stage outside in the rainbowed city.

and we will celebrate pride.

to say i am overjoyed at his producing of music these days would be an understatement. his zeal is full-on and he is squeezing every last minute of every day as he works in his professional position full-time and djs edm (electronic dance music) the rest of the time.

at his condo in chicago, in his studio, he demonstrated to me how he creates. as an analog artist, it was a fascinating experience to glean this complex digital mixing of tracks, layering, feathering, a sedimentary piece of music produced with great intention. it is hard not to dance as i watch. it’s hard not to be aware of the invisible bit of baton i hold, poised to pass. and i am aware of the contagious quivering of excitement, the gift of his sharing his process, how much i understand – on a cellular, heart level – how this creating feeds him. and then…then, there’s the joy…

different genres, but i still grok how my son feels. knowing that what you are producing is resonating with someone – someones, if you will – is powerful inspiration. i won’t forget the release of my first album and, even at number fifteen years later, it was with both the same excitement and vulnerability as the first. time and study and experimenting and lessons bank courage, though, so we each keep on keeping on, growing – much like anything in life to which we give time and attention.

i’d imagine that the day my yamaha c5 was delivered into my studio felt much like the day he upgraded his decks and gear. i’d imagine the day i stood in the sitting room with the chicago radio station on – waiting – and then my music aired – the first airplay ever – feels much like his tracks being signed to major edm labels, waiting to be released. i’d imagine the applause, stepping into the apron, at the end of a piece, feels much like the exhilarated dancing and cheers of the crowds at his gigs. i get it.

you know you are merely one artist in a universe of artists. humility. relevancy. there is much to learn. for both of us. always. the arc of an artist is never really done.

we have spent nights watching our son stream from clubs. 2am is later than it used to be but it’s a thrill to watch him in his element. we’ve listened to every single track he has sent us, every idea, every gesture in whatever iteration. we’ve connected our remote speaker and played his music during our happy hour, i’ve listened with ear buds on soundcloud, spotify, iTUNES. but tomorrow…

it is with much pride we will stand and watch our son. it is with much pride that we will be surrounded by his friends and by the community. it is with much pride that we’ll dance and cheer along with the gathered crowd. it is with much pride that we celebrate pride.

*****

UNFOLDING ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood

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under… [d.r. thursday]

one time – probably about eight years ago – we had a giant argument under this vast ceiling. giant. there are not many places to go stew when you are at olgivie – it’s the terminal chicago station for the metra we take to the city and full of people. an uncomfortable time at best, it basically forced us to look at each other, invite in a little grace and figure it out.

one time – probably last week or so – we had a tiff on the trail under the bluest-blue sky. it’s not like one can go steaming through the woods, looking for a place to sit and sulk. one has to keep moseying on, down the path. and so, seething for those moments, we linked arms – as is our custom – kept walking, invited in a little grace, figured it out.

one time – ten years ago now – under the dropped ceiling of o’hare’s gate f8 – having both just flown in from different places in the country to meet there – david got down on one knee. never-minding the zillions of people walking by, pulling luggage, toting backpacks, crying children, coffee spilling, overhead flight announcements, we started the next part of our journey together – already in grace, already figuring it out.

when we go to chicago, we either drive the backroads or take the train down. we never drive the interstate there. it’s just too much – too frenetic, too rushed, too busy. we both feel that part of getting there IS the getting-there.

so that must translate to relationships as well. part of getting there IS the getting-there. and that includes the tough moments as well as the really easy ones. it includes the times when you are “ucky” (as the guy at the oyster bar said the other night) to each other and the times when you are generous. it includes the times you wonder what you’re doing and the times tears of gratitude rush to your eyes. it includes the times you know very well that your best-neighbors-to-the-west know you are arguing and the times that people-you-don’t-know stop you to tell you they love watching you wander the neighborhood arm in arm. all of it.

the architectural ceiling of ogilvie makes me smile. though we don’t live in chicago, the many times we have exited metra into the station have given us easy time downtown. the getting-there was simple – sit on the train and watch the outside woosh by. and each time we exit onto the platform and head into the atrium of the station, every moment we’ve spent there suspends from the high rafters. the good ones and the rare-but-admittedly-not-so-good ones.

and then we walk out into the day, under expansive sky, arm-in-arm, and get about getting to the next.

*****

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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.

*****

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the allure of the galvanized. [two artists tuesday]

i guess the allure is in the texture. rough-hewn, rusting bolts, galvanized metal. there is something about this that reminds me of the b-24 bombers my sweet poppo told me stories about. something about the rivets that make me think of his own WWII bomber – “boomerang betsy” – shot down, and the “strawberry bitch” bomber we visited at the national museum of the air force in dayton, ohio.

my dad and my brother spent great deals of time using their phenomenal mechanical skills. they brought a 1930 model A back to life, transformed a long island lighting company van into a camper, rebuilt engines, tinkered with vw bug after vw bug, and kept vehicles going. neither were mechanics specifically by trade, but when i was little and they were out in the garage or in the driveway working, i loved spending time watching them and maybe handing them a tool or two.

the other day we went to pick up littlebabyscion, who had had a new catalytic converter installed. not a small job, but a totally necessary one to pass emissions testing. we were glad to bring LBS home afterward, “pass” form in hand. tiny problem though – it was making a new sound. now, that can strike some ample fear into a person when the odometer reads 267,000 miles. but – having listened to this sweet little vehicle for 266,750 of its miles – i felt i could sort of pinpoint the type of noise it was. so we brought it back.

they put it up on a lift. this, in and of itself, doesn’t sound like a big deal until you consider the 267k miles, its 17 years of life and wisconsin’s love of salty roads in the winter. they g.e.n.t.l.y. put LBS on a lift. we were invited in to look underneath.

now – for me, this is a neato-keeno kind of thing! from underneath, the mechanic explained what we were looking at and – based on my mention of the type of sound it was making (like a clip holding the exhaust piping had come undone and was rattling) he found a weld that had failed. he installed a stainless strap and lowered LBS back to the ground. no more noise. well, no more of THAT noise. jokingly, he added, “you’re hired!” over his shoulder at me.

there’s something about rough-hewn galvanized sheet metal begging my attention.

and there IS something about more analog-type engines and their underworkings that really does fascinate me.

maybe it’s all the steel and rivets and bolts and strategizing and solving mysteries. if a, then b, analytical thinking, even syllogisms.

or maybe it’s really just because it conjures up all the times i sat gazing at my dad and my brother, the smell of grease and the look of old metal in all its glory.

*****

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