Keirartworks's Blog

hmmm. hmmm? Observations, actions and connection points through art.


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sitting bones

This morning’s cold has made the rain weightless.  As I watch from my third floor window I can feel the pull and flow of ocean, save that it’s air – currents made visible by tiny crystals of frozen water.  The north wind, playing.

My walk at dawn was full of the promise of this; I’m glad to be in the saddle now watching it happen.

NorthWindPlaying

The saddle today is all about music education – not just classical, not just conventional, but real and applied like a cord that weaves through every part of life (in Austria the bricklayers sing opera as they work). I’ve got alot of ground to cover from now to Sunday evg – on familiar roads, abandoned roads, through fields, bush and escarpment on animal trails – always pulling this cord (chord?) of an idea through it all.  (I’m tempted* to play a little with this idea (like the North Wind) and pull up the Minotaur in the Labyrinth myth….)

MusicBinders

There are models out there that answer the need for a strong, universal program for kids to learn and play music.  Every one of them needs to be altered to fit the place they will be.  Every one of them needs strong advocates on the ground, a solid team of non-competitive, collaborative teacher/player/coaches, and the clear understanding that without including and involving the parents, the community will never engage, the bricklayers will never sing on their scaffolds.

celloHip

There will be some valuable breaks from the computer – practise on cello & viola & piano, learning vocal lyrics, arrangements; rehearsing & playing a great benefit gig for the Phillippines with great friends (& incredible players); hikes in the playful snow.  Through it all my heart and head will still be in the saddle here, building a good plan.  I love this work.  Love it, love it.

detail of 4'x4' painting in progress:  D-ring snaffle bit

detail of 4’x4′ painting in progress: D-ring snaffle bit

I have the bit in my teeth now and girth snug on my belly – I’m both horse and rider, and we’re off.  See you on Sunday if you live here. Have a great weekend, wherever you are,  if you don’t.  ‘Hope you get to play.

Here’s the Phillippines poster:

calm in the eye poster1(1)

 

*maybe later, since it would require a pretty serious re-write.  I’m not sure that the bull-headed beast is a bad thing that needs to die in this version, and not sure we need one hero (we need many). Cut or change Theseus’ motivation, re-write Ariadne’s lines, keep the labyrinth as a metaphor for accepting what you don’t and cannot know until you’ve gone the distance,  give the Minotaur an archetypal weight and purpose because we need him, there’s always a scary beast….


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For my Dad

In my mind I see heavy ropes as thick as my leg, one end of each securely tied to My Ship, the other attached to an immense anchor, to a wharf – strong ropes for whatever the need – this is my father, to me.

As captain, it’s up to me to make good use of them.  Should I need to slow the ship, should I need safe harbour or to anchor against a fast current, to get my bearings, find my depth, pull myself over a sand bar or tie myself to the wheel in a storm, dad’s ropes are there ready – strong, secure, unbreakable.

They are his ropes, too.

He uses them to pull a clear, functional focal point from wherever it lies obscured – in a dense work of fiction or philosophy;  a schoolhouse built in 1867 but declared redundant; the adolescent mess of a student’s mind; the unfocused power of a young athlete.  He pulls paintings out of tangled landscapes; sets out of plays;  the will to fight out of people numbed by despair; sparks out of an old ford.

He uses his ropes to tie himself – to a duty,  a purpose, to a cause, to a task, to a beloved friend.  These are the strong cords of loyalty; the silver-cored, platinum wrapped, finely crafted cords of family.

He uses them as intention – to connect the earth to the sky, with trees.  Maple, spruce, pine, cedar, ash, chestnut, olive, ginko, locust, oak.  Hundreds and hundreds of trees, planted my my father.

His ropes draw nourishment from the deep deep well of intuition and the will to create. Most graciously of all, they pull from the rare, fine place where he sees and accepts what is, fully, quietly and without judgement.

Oh, but he binds himself, sometimes, in worry.  He flagellates himself, sometimes, in atonement for the effects of his rage, his insensitivities.  I think we all do this.  Perhaps a little less would be better?

Hey – there’s a crack in everything.  That’s how the light gets in.

Happy 80th, Dad.   Good number.   Let’s go skiing.

K