Cori Connors: 4-13-19 LAYERS II (KERSHISNIK)

For the second half of my Lent Writing this year I am revisiting the trigger words I have used already, but writing from a different perspective. On 3-11-19 the word was LAYERS. Today I'll use the same word in a different light.

I stood in the swirl of hushed words, museum-soft conversations mixed with cheery greetings and the friendly slapping of backs that come with comfortable hugs between friends too long separated. My eyes scanned the walls of paintings, layered up to the tall ceiling of Brian Kershisnik's Provo studio. We had travelled down from Farmington to share Brian's sacred work space, arranging ahead of time meet friends, Tom and Gael Shults there. Carla and Dave Eskelsen, the third line in our decades-old musical triangle, had unexpected conflicts that kept them from coming. There's always a hole when they are not with us at times like this. But golly, it was good to reconnect with Tom and Gael, and to share time and space with Brian, in his element.
Brian, the Shults' and Eskelsens, and a blessed handful of others, are part of our songwriters circle, which we named Saltwerks about 30 years ago. Old friends are the sweetest kind of friends. They know the in's and out's of us. Usually Saltwerks meets at our house in Farmington, but we have been less diligent in gathering, and I miss these friends. Usually, when I see Brian, it is with a guitar in hand rather than a paintbrush, and it's in my space, at our house up north. Brian Kershisnik is a fabulous singer/songwriter. His music, and his writing, and guitar playing are vital membranes in a multi-layered man.

At the end of Brian's Q & A we begged him
to play one of his songs for us. Many people were
surprised at this magical layer they had not known.

But today, he was in his element as a world-renowned visual artist. His works are in high demand. They grace the walls of museums, galleries, universities, historic buildings and homes. And today Dave and I were lucky enough to find ourselves in Brian's wonderful art space, looking up.

Twice a year Brian opens his studio to the public, inviting friends and not-yet-friends to come see what he's up to. The walls and shelves are lined with works-in-progress, paintings and sculptures in various embryonic stages. It is quite a sight to see. I stood there, listening in on a conversation that drifted into my ears, and noticed in the reflection of light on a large piece above me, that there was, in an under layer of the oil painting, the outline of a skirt on one of the figures. As I looked closer, from my vantage point, I could also tell that the basic position of the woman had changed. You'd never know it looking straight on, but from underneath I could tell that the artist had changed his mind, and the woman was at some point transformed. Her dress went from wide and flowing to plain and thin, and her dancing back became straight. It got me thinking about layers.

Brian Kershisnik's current works in progress. Layers on layers.

One of the first principles I teach in songwriting workshops is the concept of change. We must allow our art to evolve. To expect that art comes to us perfected by inspiration is either ignorant or arrogant. Experience has taught most artists that we must work through layers upon layers of manifestation. More seasoned artists will tell you that art is more often found instead of created. We labor away uncovering the layers. Unwitting observers will perceive it as an artist creating, because they are adding upon, offering paint, or words, or motion to whatever their canvas might be. But in truth, the adding upon is really peeling away various not-quite-right's. We use them up, one by one, knowing that somewhere in the pile of possibilities there is something close to the truth.

At some point in the open house we all settled into a circle around Brian and he answered questions, offering us a glimpse into the prism of his creative process, his struggle to balance the business of art with the creation of art, and the meaning behind some of his artistic decisions. It was an inspiring, candid glimpse into a multi-faceted being. He talked about drawing with friends when he was a child, about his international upbringing, moving from country to country with his family. He confessed his strengths without pride, and his weaknesses without apology.

Candor is one of Brian's gifts. He has a poet's heart.

During the Q and A I sat in Brian's comfy rolling chair, a simple black office chair with splotches of paint on the arms. I held in my lap his painter's smock.

As he talked I swept my fingers over the layers of paint on the fabric. Brian is a good steward over his paints, and for as long as he has used this smock, there is relatively little paint on it. He is not sloppy with his tools.
"If I mix too much green, I find another one of my paintings that might need it." He works on dozens of pieces at a time. It boggles my mind. But he knows when to move into the space of a piece as it evolves, and when to move out. He will completely remove major parts of paintings, covering over the less eternal truths in his quest to release what wants to be known. His vulnerability is his blurse, his blessing and curse. He allows himself to be used, and in the process risks all sorts of things the average person is unwilling to risk. It is his beautiful sorrowful ecstasy, and I breaks my heart and causes me great joy that he has to go through such things in order to produce that which he was called to do.
Gael and I insisted that Brian put on his smock, to complete the visual we had in our minds. Gael asked where he bought it, because she is also a painter and wants one of her own.

"Well," Brian said, "Go down to D.I. and get an old shirt and then an old bed sheet that kind of matches it. Cut off the shirt just below the chest and sew on a pleated layer of the bed sheet. You won't even have to hem it if you use the sheet right." He had sewn the smock himself.

I think it's symbolic that the layers of paint on his
white smock seem to protect his vital organs.

Brian's smock in it's infancy,
working on his divinely moving piece,
Descent from the Cross.

When the open house finally wound down and the evening was settling in, the five of us shuttled over to Pizzeria 712 for some nourishment. We sat together, sharing bites of our meals, discussing the divine nature of mankind and the value of a really good pizza and slow roasted short ribs.

By the time our five spoons slipped in and out of our shared cup of chocolate pudding, we were sweetly leaning in toward each other, speaking comfortably about the emotions we imagined Jesus' family and friends might have felt as they lowered him from the cross.
"Friday had to have carried the most profound chorus of despondency," Brian said, alluding to the painting I had mentioned, Descent from the Cross.

He went on: "When we read about that pivotal event, we know the outcome. We cannot read it without knowing what would happen. But they did not know. Those who lived it, they could not have known for certainty that he would come back." He imagined their great stunned sense of hopelessness, that the Son of God, whom they believed had the power to save himself, had not done so. Even the angels had to have been mystified. Knowing the thoughts behind Brian's epic painting makes it all the more beautiful. The stark reality that Jesus was dead had to have ripped their hearts right out of those who loved and believed him.

Descent from the Cross, Kershisnik

We, who can see this end from the beginning, try to empathize with them. But it's hard to peel away knowledge once you've received it. We know he came back. We know he rose on the third day. We can whisper from our knowing places, "Don't worry, Peter, you will get past your denial. Don't fret Mary, you will see him soon. And Thomas, you will feel the scars in his hands and wrists."

But Brian, leaning against the small table at dinner, explaining why he spent so much of his soul on that piece of art, showed us the possibility that they did not know then what we know now. Their life altering despondency on that ironically named Good Friday, dark as it was, sets powerfully and sweetly against the radiant light that revealed itself that Easter morning.

Jesus taught in layers. Rings of meaning under the living bark of his parables. He offers to each of us just enough for us to digest. Then, if we live long enough, and seek for it, one by one the layers peel off, until, like Michelangelo, we are left with the masterpiece that always dwelt within the stone.