i’m already elsewhere

an inspirational can't miss exhibit if you're in nashville before dec. 2024.

I have a t-shirt that reads “Music is what color sounds like.” Set aside for a minute that it’s a gray shirt. It does have some color in it, mind you, but its main color is gray.

I’ve always liked that shirt. It speaks to me, but in a language I can’t quite understand. And I always chalked that up to the fact that other than having above-average recall of song lyrics from the 80s, I haven’t a stitch of musical talent.

But last night I went to an art exhibit at the Nashville Museum of African American Music.

Damn—I got the order of those words wrong again. We almost didn’t make it last night because I kept mixing them up and Lila—Siri’s Australian cousin who lives in my phone—couldn’t straighten them out for me. Mostly because I kept expressing my feelings with words that filled the blank spaces. Like “shit!” and, well, you know.

But I looked it up and Google tells me it’s now correct. I’ll even leave you a link at the bottom of this piece so you can check it out after you’re done reading my ramblings (it’s morning, after all, and this is what I do in the morning).

The exhibit featured a brilliant artist and wonderful human named Dr. David Ikard. David lives in the neighborhood behind mine, a neighborhood Kim is quick to point out was not on my radar until she was. We often walked by David’s house and marveled at the beautiful pieces that filled his garage. Until one day when Kim was walking solo. David was outside, so being Kim, she started a conversation that opened the door to a new world of artistic expression. Kim and David became friends and, much like going to art museums in general, I got to tag along for the ride. And that’s how we got the special invite to David’s exhibit.

I should be clear here that Kim is an artist. She would say she dabbles, but she’s an artist. Me? I’m more of a canvas for my tattoo artist’s interpretation of the twisted thoughts that form in my brain. I even have one of Kim’s pieces on my leg. But that doesn’t make me an artist.

My brother was an artist. He could draw anything and make it look easy. He taught me a little when I was a teenager, buy my skills were limited to heavy metal album covers and Looney Tunes characters. And I don’t think you can use the word art to describe copying Foghorn Leghorn pictures or reproducing Eddie from Iron Maiden. At least not with a straight face.

Come to think of it, my brother’s true artistry was in the kitchen. He taught me a few things about cooking, too, but I don’t have the range in that medium either. Hmm. it’s been almost two years since he died, and this may be the first time I ever thought about him as an artist. Makes me wonder how many people have told David his art conjured memories of a departed family member or friend. I’ll bet it’s more than just me. His art is that inspiring.

My art, if you can call it that, has always been with words. To paraphrase my hockey buddy, Terry Lancaster, I arrange words in an order that some people find pleasing. Sometimes. But let’s get back to David and his art. After all, that’s what inspired me to arrange all these words this morning.

This was different than going to a gallery in Portland or Toronto or Lisbon. As I’ve often told Kim, I go to art galleries to witness her experience the art. It was the same in Portsmouth, when I went with Jake. I enjoy watching people watch art. And, if I’m being honest, I sometimes make up stories about them. But I’ve rarely felt something about the art itself.

Sure, there were works in those places by artists whose names is recognized. I could look at their pieces. I could read about them and their inspirations. And I could enjoy them at a surface level. But I never really felt much in the art. Last night was different. I’ve actually met David. I like David. David was telling his story. And I love a good story.

The best way I can think of to describe the exhibit room is a deafening explosion of vibrant shapes and colors, if you could control the way those shapes and colors landed so precisely that every splash was in harmony with every other splash. Every bit of texture, a graceful movement in David’s artistic dance. And as I looked around the room, I started to get it. An art exhibit at a museum of music. Music is what color sounds like.

I instinctively gravitated toward the back of the room where an LCD monitor played a video of David talking about his process. The artist, telling his own story. Showing us how he brings his visions to life. And then we met his mom and we were treated to David’s story from a new perspective. Same story. Different storyteller. Equally delightful.

She had kind eyes that reminded me of my grandmother. Eyes that had seen a lifetime of good and bad and chose to focus on the good. I’m grateful to have heard the story about middle school David’s mural from her perspective—it made David’s version several minutes later even more impactful.

I know several authors. We’ve talked about our writing processes and about the pride we can’t help but feel when someone enjoys our work. But watching David talk about how he felt when he saw the exhibit was a rare treat for me. Like witnessing a songwriter experience their own song as a listener.

I could go on for pages, arranging words about David’s work the best way I know how. But as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. And since I’ve just about hit that word count, I’ll let a few pictures do the rest.

they speak much louder in person.

Thank you, David, for opening a small piece of your world to the public. I can’t say for certain if this will change my relationship with art galleries, but I can’t help feeling somehow different than I was before this experience. Moved to a new plane. A plane where color is what music looks like. So it seems fitting to close with the same Picasso quote you used in your bio, “I’m already elsewhere.” I wonder what I’ll learn there.

Oh, and here’s that link I promised. Check out the exhibit if you’re in town before it’s gone. Or just drop by David’s house like Kim did. On second thought, maybe don’t do that.

Nashville Museum of African American Music

Cheers.