Brian Kershsnik

By the age of 18, Brian Kershisnik had lived in four different countries. His father, a petroleum geologist, relocated the family from Oklahoma to Angola; from Angola to Thailand; from Thailand to Texas; and from Texas to Pakistan.

“I’ve always felt somewhat out of place, but I think that being a stranger may be more of a universal experience than belonging,” says Kershisnik, who ultimately settled in the small Mormon town of Kanosh, Utah. “I believe that humanity is largely motivated by a sense of belonging to something we haven’t quite seen yet but can almost remember. Being awkward is a part of life.”

Reading a Very Small Book

And, he realizes, a part of art. The people in his paintings—drawn in bold, charcoal outlines, but often left with unfinished features— are often out of place themselves. In Father and Son Dancing, a man holds his infant son on his shoulder. It could have been painted as a pure expression of joy, but this father is clumsy, heavy-footed. In Flight Practice with Instructions, a man tries to fly, but is tethered to the ground like a kite on a string. He is not flying as much as practicing flight, a crucial theme for the artist.

“Several summers ago, I saw a man in his front yard practicing his cast with a new fly rod. My comment to my wife was quite accidental. ‘Look. That man is practicing flying.’ She is quite used to my making such mistakes and rather than correcting me suggested it was a good idea for a painting. As I began sketching, I realized how vital the issue of ‘practice’ has been in my work, though I had never before named it. How splendidly human it is to practice. Everything we do can be seen as practice, as long as we believe that the failure of our current task will sooner or later—and probably gradually—give way to something lovely, even beautiful.”

I’ve been reading a wise and wonderful book, The Zen of Creativity, by John Daido Loori. This author’s descriptions of the spirit and meaning of the Zen arts ring true with me as I explore how these concepts mesh with my own daily life.

For example, Loori explains the word ’sabi’ as the suchness of ordinary objects, the basic, unmistakable uniqueness of a thing in and of itself.

Earlier this week, as I packed a picnic basket for a final end-of-summer picnic outing, I took a few moments to examine the basket itself. Made of sturdy white oak strips by a North Carolina basketmaker, this beautiful piece of functional art has contributed to many happy events over the years. (After all, what is more special than a summer picnic with friends and family?)

And yet, as I stopped and really looked at my picnic basket, I moved a little closer to understanding the concept of sabi. There is definitely a suchness about this object, and I am indebted to Loori and his book for helping me see it.