There is a particular smell to a Florence morning in springtime. Damp stone, warmed by the first sun after an early shower. Jasmine on the garden wall scenting the air. A thread of olive woodsmoke drifting up from a house down the hill, soothing in a way I can’t quite explain. Espresso from a cafe two blocks away in the village, carried on air so clean it feels like it’s been rinsed. Cypress. Wild rosemary. The faint, sweet rot of old wisteria petals on the cobblestones. The bells start at seven. First one church — an ancient stone tower in the village — then another, then a third answering from across the valley, until the whole hillside is talking to itself in bronze. I have been waking up to this for three weeks. I live, for now, in an old stone farmhouse in the hills above the city. The windows are tall and the shutters are green, and when I push them open in the morning, the valley spreads out below me like a painting someone began 400 years ago and simply never finished. Olive groves. Terracotta roofs. Yellow villas. A ribbon of road disappearing into a stand of umbrella

 The smell hits you first.Espresso and diesel and something ancient, stone warmed by 10,000 summers, the scent of bread baking somewhere in a 200-year-old wood-fired brick pizza oven behind a door you’ll never find. Florence in the morning smells like civilization itself decided to stop trying to improve and just … be. The light is gold and pink, splashing at intense angles on terracotta rooftops the color of dried blood, and the pigeons don’t flinch when the motorcycles scream past because the pigeons have been here longer than anyone and they know the motorcycles always miss.I know this because I have been nearly missed several times.Driving in Italy is a game of Mortal Kombat, except nobody told you the rules before the match started and everyone else has been playing since birth. Motorcycles materialize in your peripheral vision, dozens at a time, a high-speed swarm of chrome and leather, buzzing in and out of lanes that exist only in the riders’ imagination. Cars dart around you with two horn blasts and a gesture. I drive like what I am: a tourist, apologetic and cautious, waving politely at everyone who honks. They are not waving back the same way.But I am learning,

Roosters crow before dawn here. Not as an annoyance … as a reminder. Instead of sleeping in one of the tourist-filled hotels in the Renaissance city of Florence, I chose to spend my five weeks here living on a quaint old olive farm, 20 minutes outside of Florence, high in the hills overlooking this magical city.  Crazy Drivers My drive involves 50 hairpin turns, on roads barely wide enough for one car, threading between ancient stone walls. Meeting another car head-on means someone backs up. As I wind through the Tuscan hills, I pass ancient villas with giant manicured trees meant for royalty, gates buried under cascading wisteria, and farms with rows of purple cherry blossoms. Springtime here is magical. Distinct Purpose But here’s what I keep thinking about: I chose this. I could have done this differently. Found something more convenient, more economical, more practical. There are a few strong art academies in America. But I could not resist the lure of living here for five weeks, fully immersed, in the place where Michelangelo and Da Vinci lived and worked, surrounded by the things I love … great art and great artists. Most people never make that choice, and

Two stories compete for my attention this Easter morning as the Texas heat starts pretending it’s summer and it’s 95 already.  One involves pastel eggs hidden in dewy grass, chocolate rabbits, and very docile bunnies. The other involves a brutal public execution, a borrowed tomb, and the most shocking reversal in human history. Both are true. Both matter. But only one changes everything. Red Blazer Days Easter morning in our house went off like a starter pistol. My brothers and I would tear through the rooms hunting eggs and baskets, then commence the serious business of consuming as much chocolate as humanly possible before anyone noticed. Then came the transformation: Sunday best. The 6-year-old version of me had firm opinions about fashion. My favorite red blazer was non-negotiable. But no blazer was complete without my 007 gun and holster strapped underneath, two Hot Wheels cars wedged into my pockets, and the general confidence of a man who had already solved breakfast. Mom, meanwhile, was an act of art. She made her own hat for every Easter, always elegant, always a surprise. She covered her shoes in matching fabric, pinned on the corsage Dad had brought her, and led us out

 A fierce storm tore its way across the state, blowing sticks and branches, leaves and debris with the force of a baby hurricane. The looming dark sky provided warning before its full dramatic performance: billowing clouds, gusting winds, whitecaps on the water, and winds you could hardly stand against. Then the curtain finally came down.The responsibility of home ownership includes cleanup after the storm. Lots of branches down, lots of leaves, and as I walked out to survey the damage at the waterfront, I spotted what looked like a good-sized log drifting against the side of my dock.I should move that, I thought, like a responsible adult. So I kicked my shoes off and was about to wade into the water … when the log moved, and stared me down like it was ready for an oversized meal. It was an alligator pretending to be a log. I have decided he can remove himself at a time of his choosing. I will not be rushing him. I don’t need the drama. Nor will I dangle my feet in that water again.But here’s the thing about that storm: It cleared the air. It stripped the dead branches off the trees. It reminded

The water does something at this hour that defies explanation. Thousands of shifting diamonds blink across the surface as the Florida sun finds its angle. I’m squinting from the shore at silhouettes of palm trees and lounge chairs so perfectly arranged they look airbrushed into a brochure. A dolphin surfaces 50 yards out, indifferent to my admiration, then disappears. And overhead, an osprey circles in that slow, focused way that tells you she’s not sightseeing. Then she stops. She announces, then dives. The osprey calls out before she commits. It’s not a warning to the fish; the fish can’t exactly reschedule. It’s an announcement: I’m here. I see you. Here I come. Then she folds into a javelin, hits the water with the kind of commitment that makes you wince, and rises with golden talons wrapped around something that didn’t get a vote in the matter. She didn’t circle forever. She didn’t weigh the risks or consult anyone. She didn’t overthink it. She announced. She dove. She ate. I’ve been thinking about that all morning. What the Osprey Knows Here is what the osprey is not doing: She is not explaining to her osprey friends that she’s “taking some time.”

God clearly has a sense of humor. While much of America spent this week battling hurricane-force snow, record lows, and the kind of ice that makes your driveway look like an Olympic luge track, I’m watching the sun rise over the Atlantic. Pink clouds. Mild waves. A forecast promising near 70 by afternoon. I’m in Hilton Head, SC, and hosting my Winter Art Escape artist retreat, reconnecting and painting with old friends and new, each of whom had stories of missed flights, white-knuckle drives, and the kind of slipping and sliding that makes you question all your life choices. Meanwhile, I’m sipping coffee in paradise, wondering how I got so lucky. Except I know exactly how I got here, and “lucky” had little to do with it. Blessed would be a better term. The Pinball Theory of Life When I was a kid, there were these magnificent contraptions called pinball machines. You’d stand there gripping two paddles, fire a silver ball upward into a maze of lights and bumpers, and pray it didn’t ricochet straight into oblivion. The goal was simple: Land that ball in the high-value hole. The reality was chaos. No matter how skilled you were, random bumpers

How can something so beautiful be so dangerous? One of my favorite things to photograph is a thick coat of ice drawing down from a tree branch — nature’s chandelier, delicate and crystalline. But of course, when branches sag and break and fall on power lines, everything gets complicated.  Finding Beauty Everywhere As many as 40 states are dealing with this weekend’s massive storm. The ability to find beauty in tragedy is a gift. We can’t always control our circumstances, but we can at least control our response to them.  Pay Attention Now The grocery store shelves are bare. It’s alarming to see people who weren’t paying attention to the storm warnings scramble at the last minute to find almost nothing left. It pays to pay attention. Perspective Changes Everything It makes me appreciate the life I have — the simplicity of life when groceries are there when we need them, when the heat in the house works and the electricity works. It reminds me that compared to people in war zones or famine zones, this little three-day outage doesn’t give us much to whine about. Others deal with this every day. Change Is Possible Not everyone in the world

Something is amiss. Summer weather filled our holiday season, and we’re still getting amazing sunny days when we should be shivering. The birds are singing like spring. The dead trees are about to sprout spring greens. Nature is confused here in Austin, Texas, this year. The house has a different sound now. I noticed it first this morning when I meandered into the kitchen in my bare feet — the floorboards creak louder when there’s one less person moving around upstairs. The coffeemaker’s gurgle echoes off the kitchen walls. Even the dogs’ collars jingle differently, as if the sound waves have more room to travel before finding a surface to absorb them. The Last Sunday Dinner A week ago today, we gathered for what would be our last Sunday dinner as a complete family for the foreseeable future. Yesterday, Berkeley, our youngest triplet, drove away with a U-Haul to start his dream job at a space company five hours away. As I said grace over our meal, my voice cracked. The words caught in my throat like breadcrumbs. The reality of our last Sunday dinner, after 23 years of them, was, well, pretty hard to take. You see, I know

The crackle of burning embers fills the living room — that primal sound that’s comforted humans since we first tamed fire. Wood smoke mingles with the lingering scent of pine needles from the Christmas tree and leftover scented Christmas candles. Outside and across the backyard at my art studio, the porch by the outdoor fireplace has become our gathering place for holiday moments, including that magical night when old painting friends reunited — brushes in one hand, Christmas cookies in the other, a model to pose,15 years of weekly painting nights warming us as much as the flames. The Box in the Garage This weekend we’ll be boxing decorations, each ornament wrapped and boxes labeled, stored on sagging garage shelves until next year’s resurrection. Time to remove the wreaths, the four-foot toy soldier, and the Christmas lights. It’s the ritual of transition — the careful packing away of one season to make room for whatever comes next. And we are entering a new season. But there’s another project that’s been haunting me that finally got attention this week. Thousands of photos finally made it from old hard drives to my phone/cloud. Still waiting: more years, more boxes, slides from the

I’m watching the sunrise paint the limestone cliffs behind our home in shades of rose gold and amber — colors that would make any plein air painter reach for their brushes. Steam rises from my coffee cup, creating little ghost dancers in the morning light, and somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove is singing what sounds suspiciously like the first notes of “Silent Night.” Eighty-one degrees on Christmas Day. That’s what the weatherman promises us here in Austin. While half the country dreams of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas, of frost etching the panes of cathedral windows, of that particular blue-silver light that only comes with fresh snow, we Texans will be hiking in shorts, maybe taking the kayaks out on the lake, listening to cardinals and mockingbirds provide the soundtrack to our holiday. Memory’s Muffled Music I close my eyes and I can still hear it, though — that specific muffled quiet that falls when snow begins to stick. Growing up in that smallish Midwestern town, Christmas morning had a sound all its own. The scrape of a neighbor’s shovel on concrete at dawn. The whoosh and thud of snow sliding off the roof. The delighted shriek of a

The fireplace in the living room crackles like small bones breaking, and the smell of burning cedar mingles with the steam rising from my mug of hot tea. Outside, the frigid cold arrived this past week to remind us winter is here — sudden, decisive, unapologetic. I’m bundled in blankets and fuzzy sweat pants. My tea tastes particularly bitter this morning. Or maybe that’s just the aftertaste of an email I received last week. I know I shouldn’t let people get to me, but some things sting like winter wind through a cracked window. The Surgical Strike Sometimes life delivers pain when you least expect it. Earlier this week, between meetings and YouTube shows, an email struck with surgical precision: “Eric, your ego is out of control.” I could have deleted it. Should have, maybe. Instead, I took the bait: “Thanks for the feedback, it usually is, but is there something specific you want to point out?” To his credit, he didn’t retreat. “You talk about yourself too much. You talk about how many houses you have too much, about all the portraits you have of yourself. You need to let the artists on your show shine and stop interrupting

The fireplace in the living room crackles like small bones breaking, and the smell of burning cedar mingles with the steam rising from my mug of hot tea. Outside, the frigid cold arrived this past week to remind us winter is here — sudden, decisive, unapologetic. I’m bundled in blankets and fuzzy sweat pants. My tea tastes particularly bitter this morning. Or maybe that’s just the aftertaste of an email I received last week. I know I shouldn’t let people get to me, but some things sting like winter wind through a cracked window. The Surgical Strike Sometimes life delivers pain when you least expect it. Earlier this week, between meetings and YouTube shows, an email struck with surgical precision: “Eric, your ego is out of control.” I could have deleted it. Should have, maybe. Instead, I took the bait: “Thanks for the feedback, it usually is, but is there something specific you want to point out?” To his credit, he didn’t retreat. “You talk about yourself too much. You talk about how many houses you have too much, about all the portraits you have of yourself. You need to let the artists on your show shine and stop interrupting

The angry sound of a trillion BBs is hitting the old metal roof of this Texas ranch house as a thunderburst opens up overhead, dumping a tsunami of water so vast it will flood all the nearby rivers in minutes. Here, the Texas Hill Country stretches in gentle waves of limestone and cedar, vineyards catching early light like strings of jewels draped across the landscape. A hawk circles overhead, its cry echoing off the hills as it navigates thunderheads the size of skyscrapers. Last weekend’s drive through these rolling hills still lingers — the old farmhouses weathered by decades of sun, the way light plays across the land at golden hour. It’s not Tuscany, but maybe that’s exactly the point. Italy’s Siren Song Three weeks since returning, and Italy still inhabits my bloodstream like a fever I can’t break. Florence calls with the voice of every Renaissance master who ever mixed pigment on a worn wooden palette — and I can’t get it out of my head. My right brain — the creative me, the dreamer, the one who loses hours drowning in a single Caravaggio — refuses to let go. I can still smell the turpentine of ancient studios,