Dark-bottomed clouds fill the sky, ready to spill out overhead at any moment. How the wind moves clouds at such high speed is a mystery, with the weight of a water tower inside each cloud as they move gracefully across the sky like carefree dancing ballerinas.

My massive backyard oaks are bending to the will of the wind, which just flipped up the carpet under my little covered-porch sitting area, perhaps to nudge me inside before the looming storm. Though I think I’ll stay a little longer to hear the BBs of rain hitting the tin roof overhead. Somehow the racket is comforting.

The chill in the humid air is a reminder that winter approaches and my quiet back-porch mornings may soon require cozy sweaters, jackets, or even lighting the outdoor fireplace to provide warmth and the soothing smell of burning embers.

The rope swing hanging from a winding oak branch is quietly moving on its own, as if an invisible child is swinging in the wind. The neighbors’ horses playfully whinny in delight that the hot Texas sunshine is no longer beating down on their backs.

The neighbors’ cattle — three adults and one baby — are pressed against the fence, curious about my presence and greeting me with a good moo-ning.

A Less-Than-Tidy Mess

Across the yard about 50 feet, my little studio building sits, awaiting a visit from me to tidy up after an extensive video shoot on Thursday.

The shoot was for a project I’m passionate about, a new product, not yet revealed, that will help me meet my personal goal of teaching a million people to paint. It’s rooted in my own bad experience and self-esteem issues.

A Lucky Break

When I turned 40, Mrs. Rhoads bought me a painting lesson, my first, which went badly when the instructor, Sam somebody, told me, “Just express yourself. Throw the paint on to the canvas.” Perhaps you’ve heard the story.

“But this isn’t how I want to express myself. I want to learn how to paint things that are real … like a still life or flowers or people.”

“That’s old school. No one does that anymore.”

I shrank, left the class with my one colorful masterpiece (not), discouraged and feeling as though there was no hope for my learning.

I had picked up materials at a store, tried to paint, but could not translate what was in my head to a canvas. I had a globby mess. So, after the art class experience, the materials went into a box relegated to the basement. So much for painting.

Taxi!! Taxi!!!

A year later, stuck in a long taxi ride, I chatted with the driver, who was an artist. After hearing my story, he told me about a man who had studied in the lineage of the great masters through contemporary masters in Florence and America.

Once I got up the courage to show up at his class, which was about copying Old Masters, I sheepishly walked in, and I saw the amazing paintings being done in the class — which should have encouraged me. Instead the voices in my head took control, as they often do.

“You can’t do this. No way can you ever get that good. Talent is required, and you have no talent. You can’t even draw a stick figure.”

So I did an about-face and headed out of the room.

An Art Savior

“Yoohoo — can I help you?” said a voice in the distance.

“Oh, well, um, I heard this was a class I should attend, but, well, um, I can’t possibly do this. So I was just leaving.”

After introducing himself, Jack Jackson told me he could teach anyone to paint, no special gifts required.

“Step over here, let me show you something.”

He immediately engaged me in a simple project, where I could see instant progress. Two hours later, he had me working on my first painting.

I’m so thankful he stopped me at the door, because had he not, I probably never would have started painting. His influence brought me my art life today, which has resulted in three art magazines, my work in a few galleries, a couple of art conferences and newsletters, and an art video instruction effort.

Yes, one man, in one minute, saved and changed my life.

Amplify Painting

Therefore my goal is to amplify what he did for me. I want people to learn to paint, and do it well.

I want to catch them, encourage them, and give them tools for instant success so they can begin their lives as painters and experience the benefits. I want them to know they don’t require special talent, and that if they follow a simple process, they can learn to paint.

Critics will say, “Eric, painting isn’t easy. You can’t oversimplify painting.”

Feeling Pride and Progress Fast

How many people drop out of piano class, discouraged with no progress and the boredom of learning scales? Good teachers understand that baby steps, a feel of progress, and the ability to play a simple song is what keeps students coming back.

My friend Calla showed up at Jack’s art class too, but got discouraged because her head told her she couldn’t do it. She dropped out and missed a lifetime of painting.

That should never happen to anyone.

Art Instruction Reinvented

So I’ve developed a new system to make it easy. Though it’s rooted in a process many painters understand, most don’t use it.

I’ve found a way to simplify, a way to help make fast progress, a way to take baby steps. A way to give encouragement to keep aspiring artists interested. And I’ll be offering it up for free, because I want to eliminate barriers.

What is it?

It’s a little soon to say — nor do I want to ever use my Coffee blog for commercial purposes. But it will be revealed soon, tested, modified, and exposed, and I’m sure you’ll hear about it. In fact, I’m introducing it on a worldwide TV broadcast, a show that has well over a million viewers in 11 countries.

Teaching a Million to Paint!

My hope is that I’ll make my first step toward teaching a million people to paint. And if it works, we’ll keep pressing on.

Many of you are already there … you already know how to do it, you already teach. Therefore I’d like your help.

Do You Hear the Clues?

Simply said, listen for clues like “I wish I could do that, but I don’t have any talent. I can’t draw a stick figure.” When you hear that, engage them, help them, teach them, because if you do, you will change their life. And you may be the only chance they ever get, so you’ve got to jump on it fast, encourage them, and follow up.

I Need Your Help

I’d like you to be part of the team trying to teach a million people to paint … then help them progress to a life of continual growth as painters. You see, I don’t need pride of ownership. It does not need to come from me, through my system. It just needs to happen.

Sanity for a Crazy World

You may not have noticed, but our world is pretty crazy at the moment. What impact would we have if 1 million more people started to paint? I think it would be huge. And once we get to 1 million, we can set bigger goals. But let’s start with one person at a time.

What Can You Do This Week?

Share your gifts that you think others will cherish. And if you’re already drawing and painting, help those you encounter take a step to discover it for themselves. If you’re not drawing or painting and would like to … raise your hand and I’ll connect you with someone to guide you.

Set up in a public place. See how many people say those magic words and listen for clues of interest, then say, “Let me show you. Talent isn’t required. It’s just a process, like cooking or typing. Here, take my brush.”

Though I may never know how many we collectively touch, even one more person who finds painting will be a step in the right direction.

Enjoy your Sunday! Me, I’m gonna go find someone to teach.

Vibrant red-orange light was about ready to peek over the Atlantic Ocean. Giant granite rocks and rows of majestic pines were silhouetted against the golden sunrise while the upper part of the sky was a deep indigo blue with a single star glowing in the distance.

A gentle mist dampened the grass on this almost-freezing morning, and I was rubbing my hands together to keep them warm. Overhead a bald eagle spread her massive wings and squeaked as if to let me know I was in her space.

My headlamp was glowing on my easel in the pre-sunrise darkness as I hurriedly laid in my shapes with paint, knowing I’ll have little more than three minutes to capture the rapidly moving colors of sunrise.

This morning I’m back in Texas, looking out over my backyard’s own beautiful light, but remembering that just two mornings ago, I was up at 5 a.m. to experience the sunrise on Schoodic Point in Acadia National Park.

Lingering memories are going through my head as I return to reality from my little artists’ retreat where about 60 of us gathered to paint for a week that passed far too quickly.

Memories of lobster, caught that morning by a local fisherman, on our last night together. Memories of a room filled with probably 700 paintings we produced during our week. Memories of endless laughter, silly jokes, dancing and singing to nightly music, and painting portraits on several nights.

Up early each day, we had breakfast together, then set out hopeful of finding a masterpiece or two. Some produced as many as four or five paintings a day, others just one or two, each representing an amazing spot and a memory of that time painting with new and old friends.

Last Sunday I awoke in that place; I had already done a touch of painting and begun developing the friendships that deepened over the week.

A show of upraised hands filled the room when I asked on Friday, our closing morning, how many had developed new and deep friendships that could last a lifetime, though most of these people had never before met.

Of course, there were also many returning “regulars” who connected with friends established in the last two years of Fall Color Week. But everyone, including myself, made new friends.

It was a feeling of mixed blessing. A week of painting was enough, and the anticipation of returning to my family was a joy. Yet sadness filled my heart and those of people around me, thinking of this special week of special moments.

Goodbyes were tearful. Hugs were heartfelt. Some didn’t want to let go, and one woman started crying on my shoulder, knowing she had escaped a difficult time in her life and a looming divorce, and grateful for a chance to occupy her mind with painting and chats with friends for a week away.

Another said, with tear-filled eyes, that last year she had gone home to an ill husband and this year would be returning to an empty house. Still others were just sad to leave those who had been their roommates and friends during this week of escape from their busy lives.

Gushing thank yous pump up my ego, but make me feel that for most, this little break from reality was the medicine they needed. I feel grateful to be placed in a position where I can provide such a gift to others.

It’s a special moment in time, and one that won’t last forever. Though there will be future events (God willing), each one is special, each unique, each serving a purpose.

So many coincidences occurred, it’s as though they were meant to be. One artist told a story of a painting mistakenly sold twice by her gallery and never delivered to the first buyer, whose name she never knew. The artist and original buyer, comparing notes, found one another at this event, though they live far apart.

Others found connections in common interests, and in one case, two people turned out to be distant relatives. All brought together “by accident” at a random event for painters.

Last week I talked about rewarding yourself by getting away. This week, I feel a sense of deep meaning because so many people had what they said was the experience of a lifetime. That encourages me to make sure I’m doing all I can for these folks, my cherished readers and friends.

I want to do more, invent more ideas, put people together in new ways, because it’s important work. Sometimes I feel I can’t do enough, fast enough. Yet it needs to be done. There truly is so little time.

Nothing in my career has given me more gratification, more satisfaction, more joy, than bringing artists together and giving them these experiences of a lifetime. It’s a reminder that we all need things like this, and we all have special gifts that need to be shared.

To those who spent the week with me in Maine, my heart aches missing each of you, yet I have a beaming smile on my face as I replay moments from the week.

To those not there: Find something, anything, where you can give to others. I learned this week that there are a lot of hearts in need of someone to step in on their behalf, and we can each play that role.

Enjoy your week.

Silhouettes of pine trees glow against the deep indigo sky with a waning gibbous moon illuminating the scene. Hints of red are streaking across the nearby ocean as the glow of sunrise is about to blast its color into the atmosphere. Sounds of seagulls whining, waves crashing, and a foghorn seem unusually loud on this quiet Maine morning on Schoodic Point, the lesser-known and more spectacular branch of Acadia National Park.

Rockefeller’s Place

A giant Tudor home with exposed beams, built by John D. Rockefeller, Jr., is my home for the coming week. Though new on the inside, with modern conveniences, the exterior looks as it did when Rockefeller donated the building to the park he loved so much. Here with me in the surrounding rooms and apartments in this former military base are a group of passionate painters.

Sharing our love of painting and the desire to fill our canvases with bright fall colors, waves crashing against the rocks, lobster boats, lighthouses, and quaint fishing villages, we gathered here on Friday night, in time for a full moon and some nocturne painting after cocktails. The air is crisp and cool, the sky is clear, and the weather is expected to be perfect.

Happily on My Own

I’m not sure if it’s the pride of doing something entirely on my own in the midst of my busy life, but this event, which I call Fall Color Week, is my own. It’s just me. No helpers, no staff, no photographers or videographers. Though I love their company, I also love knowing that two times a year I do my own painters’ event for 50 or 100 people with no help. Oh, everyone steps in, but if they didn’t, it would still go smoothly.

This event has become one of my favorites. Each event has its own flair, its own culture, its own regulars. Some attend more than one event, and some prefer the exotic trips to Cuba, New Zealand, or Africa. But at this event, I’m in the exact same boat as my attending friends. In the Adirondacks, I sleep in my own bed every night and am able to kiss the wife and kids goodnight. Here, Facetime or e-mail are my only options.

Rarely Alone

When we held our first event here, I had the realization that I’m rarely alone. I can’t remember a night alone in my own home. Usually, I’m the one leaving. And though I’m with friends all day here, as we have breakfast and dinner together and we paint together all day, after we finish our evenings of portraits or music or jokes, I return to my room and I experience being alone with my thoughts.

Those who follow this Coffee thing know that silence and quiet are worth getting up for before everyone else arises. Even here, though I’ll be walking out to host breakfast in the next hour or so, I awaken early, with the dark outside, the spooky and soothing silence.

Oh, how I cherish my time at home, my family, my busy life, my insane business life, my columns, articles, marketing videos, magazines, and so much more … but they take their toll, and having this respite, before and after our days here, is special time too.

Hard to Leave, Great to Be Here

I have to admit, though I was looking forward to coming here, to being with old and new friends and painting every day, I had a hard time getting on that airplane and saying goodbye to my family after so much time away in my busy season. Last week it was Russia, and I’m probably just getting over the lag. Yet now that I’m here, I can say with enthusiasm that there is nothing like painting all day every day, seeing new and different scenery, painting alongside others, and developing new friendships. It doesn’t take long to bond.

Benefits are like a horn of plenty. After just two days, I’m tuned up and painting well, and by the end of the week, after two or three canvases a day, I’ll return with a fresh catch for my gallery, and I’ll be painting at my best. It’s the inspiration of the place, the people, the color. It’s also the break … time away, time to myself, time with friends, time singing at night and playing music.

Absolute Magic

As much as I write, I cannot capture in words the magic that happens here during this week. It’s one of those “you have to be there” moments. And it’s different each year, with new stories. Much like the movie Same Time Next Year, where a couple meets for dinner and catches up about their year … every year. I am blessed to hear about kids, families, adventures, and of course painting. I feel blessed, and I wish you could have been here to experience it.

Well, coffee awaits, I have to walk to the lodge to get mine. Everyone will be gathered for breakfast. I’ll make some announcements, some folks will have some ideas or painting tips to share, I’ll tell everyone where we’re painting today … and then there will be about 60 of us lined up painting together — aside from some who may go off to their own secret spots.

Treat Yourself

Time for yourself is critical. I’ve said it before … put on your own mask before helping those around you. You need oxygen. We all do. Find a way. Even a quiet corner and getting up an hour before everyone else can be a gift to yourself.

If you happen to be in the area today and you see a row of painters with big smiles on their faces … beep the horn and say hello!

SLAMMMMMM!!!!

As I opened the door, I was greeted by the nasty smell of black mold in the air, a smell so thick my eyes instantly started to water and I wanted to put my handkerchief over my nose.

I flicked on the light, and the single fluorescent bulb dangling from a cord began to buzz loudly — and my suspicions of mold were confirmed visually. The once-white walls were black with mold, the paint peeling, and the plaster crumbling from moisture.

An old Soviet-era refrigerator stood guard at the front of the huge room, doors wide open, and the smell of Freon and decades of food gone bad mixed with the smell of mold.

At the back of the room, there was a stained old iron sink, equal to the ones I’ve seen at the worst gas stations, with flies swarming around its leaking water supply.

A door by the sink leads to the restroom. As I step in, the rotting floor gives slightly under my weight and I see the 1970s yellow floral linoleum is water-damaged and peeling.

Formerly beautiful green ceramic tiles barely hang on to the walls of the shower. Many have already fallen and the rest are sticking out, making the walls uneven.

The throne room, well, let’s just say it was beyond disgusting.

The place I’ve just entered is an art studio, with 20-foot ceilings, 20-foot-long walls, a once-trendy 1970s-era vinyl floor, and a row of giant, 10-foot-tall north-facing windows.

The Home of Great Artists

This studio and 26 others like it have been the temporary homes of some of the world’s great master artists, and they are where some of Russia’s most important museum masterpieces have been painted.

“Welcome to your home,” says my host. “We have given you our best.” This is to be my home for the next three nights, but he says, “If not good enough, we can get room in local hotel for you.”

I’m feeling instantly conflicted.

I know these people have made an effort to get me into one of these coveted studio spaces.

I know this is a special place where great paintings have been done and great artists have lived.

I know my host put out his own hard-earned money to have me there.

I don’t want to be ungrateful, and though I love the idea and romance of staying in one of these old studios, I also know doing so will test my limits. But because mama taught me to be kind, no matter what, I say…

“This is wonderful. I’m honored to stay here. Thank you.”

Busted in a Lie?

Have you ever had one of those moments when you knew you were lying through your teeth because you didn’t want to offend someone?

Though I wanted the experience of being there, I could not fathom the idea of breathing that moldy air for three nights.

Keep in mind that I had just been on a luxury trip (our Fine Art Connoisseur Fine Art Trip to Russia), spending 10 days in the finest hotels in Moscow and St. Petersburg.

Stark Contrast

The contrast between the luxury hotels and this studio was massive … the hotels had heated marble floors, thick robes, and beds to sink into that surrounded you like a giant cuddle … versus having to have your shoes on at every moment so your feet don’t touch the floor, waiting 20 minutes for the hot water in the shower, and sleeping on a sagging Soviet era-military cot that wasn’t long enough to stretch out in, with a thin lumpy mattress and hard springs. Plus long nights shivering because of the thin blanket, and needing to tuck my water glass into a ziplock bag so the bugs don’t land on it, and putting my clothes in a plastic bag to keep them from the mold.

This was a mindset moment.

This was a time when I had to rapidly shift my thinking … was I going to be a spoiled American and allow this to ruin my experience?

During that first miserable night of tossing and turning and shivering and waking to the feeling of mold in my lungs and the smell of cigarette smoke and turpentine from the neighboring studio, I convinced myself that I needed to move to a local hotel.

But daylight has a way of changing our perspective.

Once I got through the somewhat difficult task of getting the shower to work, then got dressed and ready in the freezing, unheated room, I could see the light streaming through the giant windows, filling the studio with amazing light.

This Is Truly an Amazing Place

As I walked outside, my first view was of a painter in the distance using a Russian easel, set up next to a quaint old wooden cabin and painting the distant poplar trees, in full fall colors, by the lake.

I quickly forgot my troubles and realized I was in plein air heaven.

“Oh, you speak English?” said a man who was painting as I walked out the door into the warm morning sunlight. “Sergi is my name. I was ship’s captain in America. Now I’m painter.”

My New Friend Sergi

Sergi was from the East of Russia, so far away it took him and his friends longer to get to this place than it took me from America. He quickly introduced me to his friends, all painters. Then he took me into their studio to show me their paintings from the week. Dozens hung on the walls, and all were high-quality.

Moments later I united with my host, a great master painter and instructor from the Surikov institute, part of the Russian Academy of Art, and a friend since 2004. I was there to paint at the Academic Dacha and in the surrounding area as his guest.

What If We Had This in the United States?

Imagine for a moment if such a place had existed in America, where all the great masters would gather and spend summers together. You would have Wyeth, Redfield, Rockwell, Payne, Bierstadt, Cole, and Church. Imagine if they’d had summer cabins nearby, and they lived there much of the year.

In Russia, the Academic Dacha was created by the Artists Union. Because they knew that plein air painting was critical to an artist’s development, they sent their students here to spend summers painting outdoors. These students would be around great masters who were also there to paint all summer. The surrounding cabins were owned by the great masters of Russia past … Repin, Levitan, Surikov, Shiskin … and they all painted on the property where I was staying. This tradition has taken place for over 200 years, in this same place, with every generation of artists.

Did I mention this is plein air heaven?

Among Painting Legends

It’s humbling to know I am standing and painting exactly where these amazing Russian legends had painted summer after summer.

The property, probably about 50 acres, is a postcard view at every turn. It’s poised on a beautiful lake, with a wonderful old bridge going across a small river (Repin did a famous painting there) and a little red house where Repin stayed that later became a small museum featuring all these artists’ work. The trees are changing color and are amazing.

A Home for Royalty

Next to the red house is an octagonal yellow house, built to give royalty a place to stay when traveling between Moscow and St. Petersburg. Inside, there is stained glass so intensely rich in color that the walls were flooded with vibrating hues unlike any I’d ever seen. Catherine the Great came here often. She loved spending time around the artists, I’m told. So did the czars.

Though I dreaded the cold, mold-filled nights (I’m still wheezing), this place was magical. My days were spent either painting or talking with the artists.

Creating Giant Paintings

Inside one studio was a great Russian master by the name of Igor Zeitza, who was working on a canvas that had to be 30 feet long and 20 feet high. “I don’t have room to do this in my studio in Moscow, so I come here to paint,” he said. His last giant painting had dozens of figures and took 10 years to complete.

The one he was working on was of a great moment in Russian military history, with about 10 life-size figures, and he estimated it would take another two years of work. He showed me the dozens of studies he’d painted over the past decade in preparation. All were masterpieces and reminded me of the studies in the Russian Museum that Repin had created for his monumental painting there.

Next door to me was the great Russian master Cederoff, now in his 90s and, like his neighbor, working on a huge painting because his home studio wasn’t large enough. With my translator I learned of his life, his history, and his passion for painting. “All of my paintings are of my life,” he said. “Even the big ones in the museums are memories of my childhood.”

I asked him why he paints, and his answer was unexpected. “I paint to give people encouragement and hope. I try to make everything I paint uplifting to the human spirit.”

He then pulled down two coffee-table books, flipped through them page by page, and told me the story of each painting. The one he was working on in the studio was in the book, but, according to him, “A painting is never really done.” The painting was of a peasant laying out stems from a crop on the grass. Another woman was staring at an orange full moon. “That’s my mother. We were working in the fields and the moon rose, and my mother said it was evidence that God was with us and supported our work.” He went on to tell me the painting was especially important because the crop is used to make linseed oil and the canvas we paint on.

Cederoff had 20 very large canvases stretched. “I have a show in May that I’ve not yet started. I have to make a painting for each of these. After that I’ll start working on my next big show to celebrate my 100th birthday.”

I could have stayed and listened to his stories all day, but I didn’t want to lose my light, so I did a painting of the yellow octagonal house from the bottom of the hill, looking up.

Meeting Up with Old Friends

Later we walked down the lane where I had walked in 2004, during my first visit, and where I met the great Russian legend Yuri Kugach, who was 91 or 92 at the time. Though he is gone now, his grandson Ivan, another amazing artist, had us in for dinner by candlelight in his grandfather’s house, which is now Ivan’s studio. We talked about art and sampled the local herb-infused vodka for hours. The next day we visited the dacha (cabin) of Ivan’s father, Michael Kugach, which I had visited in 2004. I had a chance to see his studio and the pieces he was working on.

Did I mention I was in plein air heaven?

A Village Like a Movie Set

Later, we drove an hour through the bumpiest and muddiest road I’ve probably ever been on, thinking we would get stuck at any moment. The car was sliding around, the tires were spinning, and rocks were thumping on the undercarriage. At the end of the road was a quaint small village of about 10 dachas, most of which were decorated with bright colors and beautiful wooden carvings. The area was used in a movie, though I don’t know the title.

The village cow wandered around curiously and was followed by her best friend, a sheep. As I was painting the intense afternoon sun on the face of the dacha in front of me, the cow came up to my paint box, took a sniff, looked up in apparent approval, and walked off with the sheep behind her. I’m thankful she wasn’t tempted to snack on my paints.

These are the moments plein air painting is made for. You can’t make this stuff up.

Opportunity Almost Missed

Had I not stayed at the studio at the Academic Dacha, I would have missed the most special moments of sitting with friends, sampling vodkas, eating fish caught earlier in the day and fresh apples off the tree down the road. We talked about paintings, painters, and the life of an artist … which I realized at that moment I was living, if only for a brief couple of days.

Tears were shed by my Russian artist friends and I when I departed for America from the airport in Moscow the following day. We had a wonderful memory in our three days together, did some great paintings, and wondered if we would ever see each other again.

Two weeks in Russia is not enough, and my next trip, if I can ever make it happen, will be nothing but painting … and who knows, maybe I’ll take some friends with me.

My moment of decision to accept my circumstances and not be a spoiled American made my trip a very rich experience. Instead of insisting on a change (and risking insulting my host) to have a better place to stay, I tolerated some conditions that were pretty harsh compared to my cushy life. But I just told myself it’s like camping.

The Spoiled American

I learned a lot about myself on that day and realized how fortunate I am, how spoiled I had become, and how the only things that mattered at that moment were the rich human experiences that can never be repeated. After all, how often do you get to paint with a couple of Russian masters, visit the cabins of some of the greatest living artists in Russia, and just hang and chat with one of the most important artists in the world? It was a great couple of days.

Turns out all 27 dachas didn’t have mold, just the one shared by me and Cederoff, next door. He told me he thought the ceiling might cave in, so he moved his paintings to the other side of the room. It appears there had been a leak in the roof in this old building, and it needs care and money, neither of which is readily available.

In spite of harsh media coverage about Russia, the experience of visiting is rich, not only because of the cultural experiences and the amazing paintings, but because of the warm, welcoming people. Though their nation, like ours, has its problems, those problems affect the people but don’t define them. These are special people, and my friends there share my passion for painting.

A Dream for an American Artists’ Retreat

I can’t help but think a wealthy donor will step up and help me create a special place like this in America, almost a commune of sorts, where we all live nearby and spend our summers painting together and working with students. Hey, it’s a dream. If Russia can have this, why can’t we?

I’m sure I’ll have many stories to share from this amazing trip over the coming weeks. But for now, enough about Russia.

Next Stop, Maine

Next Friday we start the Fall Color Week Publisher’s Invitational in Maine. About 60 painters and I gather to paint the amazing scenery for a week. We might still have a bed or two available, and the accommodations and food are really excellent if you’re feeling spontaneous and crave a week of painting fall color, crashing waves, and lobster boats.

Now that I’m back in my home, I look around, take a deep breath of crisp clean air, and value what I have in my life. They say difficult moments make great memories, and I’ll never forget these amazing days in brotherhood with artists from a different land.

I often don’t stop to appreciate what I have, but my perspective has recently changed. Have a great week.

A blanket of fog has muffled the sound of a distant foghorn here on the edge of the Baltic Sea. Though it’s early here and the sun is just rising in St. Petersburg, Russia, I just heard the clang of an old streetcar, the kind with wires over the street. Right outside my window at the hundred-year-old hotel I’m staying in is a five-story red tower with cream trim around the edges. It looks hundreds of years old, and its bell is clanging rambunctiously as if to shout that everyone should be awake by now.

It’s been spitting drops from the sky since our arrival on Friday night. We rode the high-speed train from Moscow and arrived after dark. Though we should have hunkered down for the night, it was too exciting to be in this historic and amazing place, so we took a walk down streets of ornate buildings with golden domes and impressive Corinthian columns. We stopped for some traditional Russian food (the wild mushrooms are out and were amazing!) and got our first glimpse of the city, including the multi-colored onion-domed church we’ve all seen in the movies. I’m hoping to sneak away to paint it if I can find a hole in our busy agenda.

Moscow was beyond amazing. My first trip, 13 years ago, I was met with a gray, dirty city in much need of restoration and repair, yet this trip finds it a vibrant, high-fashion place, with skyscrapers everywhere and a skyline filled with cranes, an indication of more sky-reaching to come. We arrived in time to help all of Russia celebrate Moscow’s 870th birthday. Streets were filled with hundreds of thousands of visitors from across Russia for this special occasion. Many events took place around Red Square, which the locals call Revolution Square — a reminder that our perceptions of Russia may be a result of our own propaganda. These were joy-filled people having fun, no different from us. Our movies and media don’t tell the full story.

As you probably know, I’m here for our annual Fine Art Trip, and the first half, in Moscow, was filled with museum visits, and studio visits with some of Russia’s finest artists. Our guests are taking home lots of world-class paintings, and they all got to see some incredible art. For those who aren’t aware, Russia has a rich art history, and its artists produce things that had us all salivating. I’ll write more about the trip in Fine Art Connoisseur and put some photos out on Facebook. I’ve not done much because time has been consumed by a very full schedule, and exhaustion at the end of each busy day.

The trip is far from over. We have three more days of art visits, special events, special people we’re meeting, and lots of museums. Then, as everyone else heads home, I’ll be going out to the country to paint with several Russian masters for three days. I’ve only painted once since I’ve been here, from the window of my hotel overlooking the Kremlin. So I’m champing at the bit, but this isn’t a painting trip until the very end.

I’m also going to visit the studio of Ilya Repin on the last day, and I’ll do two sittings to have my portrait painted by Russian master Nikolai Blokhin. Not a bad way to spend the rest of the week.

I’m feeling very grateful.

I’m grateful for the fine people who came along with me to Russia and for our remarkable editor of Fine Art Connoisseur, Peter Trippi. We’ve all become great friends, and of course many guests have been with us on our trips several times before.

I’m grateful for the Russian art system, which has produced some of the finest artists and art the world has ever known. I had a couple of emotional moments viewing paintings by top Russian masters. And I choked up looking at a room filled with paintings by Isaac Levitan, quite possibly the greatest landscape painter who ever lived. I’m humbled by their quality.

I’m also grateful for friendships I’ve made in Russia. My reunion with some of these friends was sweet. And I can hardly believe I’ll get to paint with several top Russian artists. I’m almost giddy and can’t wait to see what I learn.

And I’m feeling grateful for this life I’m living, where I get to travel, paint, spend time with friends, and be immersed in art and the things I love. Though most weeks are pretty mundane, this experience is a wonderful exception. Plus, when I get home, I’ll turn right around and paint with more old and new friends at Fall Color Week, then it’s off to the Figurative Art Convention & Expo in Miami in November, and then one of my radio events in New York. It’s going to be a fun-filled fall.

I’m very grateful for my team members at my company, Streamline, who keep things running smoothly during my absence. And I’m grateful that our Florida team got through the hurricane safely. Even though the office is still without power, they are operating around the kitchen table of one of our people who does have power. As they say, the show must go on. Our thoughts and prayers go out to all those who did not fare as well with the hurricane.

A friend once told me that you should start each day looking for three things you’re grateful for, and end each day with three more things you’re grateful for from that day. When you look for things to be grateful for, it’s hard to have a bad day. Though I don’t do it every day, I try. It seems to make things better.

Another friend told me that we spend most of our time looking at our lives and all that we have not accomplished. He suggested we turn around and look backward to see where we are now compared to where we once were. He said that will help take off the pressure and stress, because looking at what we want to do but have not yet done can be stressful or discouraging, but turning around once in awhile and looking at what we’ve already accomplished is a helpful exercise, one rooted in being grateful.

I’m very grateful for you, and I hope you’ll take a look today at what you’re grateful for, think about what you’ve accomplished, and seek out new things for which to be grateful. Chances are you’ll find a lot.

I’ll try to check in next Sunday if the jet lag and return home haven’t completely messed up my body clock, and if I don’t get stuck in Russia.

You may find this amusing, but I really wanted to get this out to you this week. It’s Sunday morning in Moscow, Russia. I woke up fairly early this morning in my undisclosed* hotel room near Red Square. I didn’t want to wake my wife by sitting on the edge of the bed tapping away at my keyboard, so I’m coming to you from the throne room with the door shut.

There’s an Echo in Here

Normally I describe my view, but it’s one you’re used to seeing. You know. White tile, white porcelain, a drain on the floor, and a bathtub to my side. The water in the sink is running, to help drown out my Morse Code message-tapping on the keyboard. I’m wearing a thin white robe that came with the room. This morning is quiet, designed for catching up from jet lag.

Tonight we will meet our group, many of whom have been on each of the last seven art trips, and I’m also looking forward to meeting some new friends. We’ll have cocktails, get acquainted or start catching up, and then tomorrow our art-specific adventure begins.

Did I Mention I’m Tired?

Our flight on a Russian airliner from New York was nothing out of the ordinary. You know — crammed in a seat, trying to sleep, and some loud couple with their lights on who decided to talk the entire night in Russian. Thank goodness for earplugs and blankets to put over our heads.

Applause broke out when we landed. I’m not sure if it was the thrill of being in Moscow or the thrill of realizing we’re all still alive after that long, long flight.

A Picture Fest

In the ride from the airport I annoyed my friends by rolling down the window of the cab and snapping pictures like a madman. It’s a mixture of old and new — even casinos on the streets, which was totally unexpected.

Hello, Comrades, I’m Here

Once we arrived at the hotel, our room wasn’t ready, but everyone else wanted to stay there until they could catch up on sleep. So I set off with my sketch pad and my camera and got a great feel for the neighborhood nearby. Red Square, the Kremlin, St. Basil’s Cathedral — the onion-domed church that, according to legend, was so beautiful that the czar didn’t want another like it built anywhere, so he had the architect blinded. Ouch. And there is some very high-end shopping nearby, all the big fashion brands. I’ll save my money in hopes of bringing home a painting or two. It’s my obsession.

Not What You Expected

Three times now I’ve visited this amazing place. It gets a bum rap in the movies and television, but frankly, it can be a little intimidating, especially these days. I have to admit that I was totally intimidated on my first trip, expecting what I saw in the movies. But this city is vibrant, colorful, high-fashion, and architecturally stunning.

Instead of seeing little hunched-over old ladies in colorful headscarves and cossacks dancing in the streets, or men in green military uniforms and carrying machine guns, you see well-dressed young people staring at their smartphones, amazing new skyscrapers — and men in green uniforms, carrying machine guns.

A Shout-Out to John Wurdeman

I’m here because more than a decade ago I was invited to travel with John Wurdeman, the owner of Lazare Gallery. He introduced me to Russia, and I fell in love with the people, made some great artist friends I’m looking forward to seeing, and I fell in love with Russian art. We plan to see lots of it. I wanted to publicly acknowledge John, because I would not be here if it were not for his generosity.

Painting with a Master

We’re going to spend five days here in Moscow, then five in St. Petersburg, and then I get to spend three more days painting with some of my Russian artist friends in the countryside, including one who is a Russian Master and an instructor at Moscow’s great Surikov Institute at the Russian Academy of Art. I’m excited.

For now, it’s time to get dressed and begin my official adventure for the day. I hope this got through to you.

Hopefully I can post images on Facebook and Instagram, and even if you can’t friend me because I’ve reached my limit, you can still follow me so you can see some of the pictures. Of course we will do a story of our adventures in an upcoming issue of Fine Art Connoisseur.

My Thoughts Almost Prevented My Trip

I’d like to end with something that changed my life: my willingness to go outside of my comfort zone. As I mentioned, I was intimidated about Russia, and I almost didn’t go that first time because I gave myself excuses about why it was a bad idea, why it wasn’t safe, why I couldn’t afford to go. My head was playing games with me. But I told myself I was going to go for it anyway, and I pushed the negative stuff away and jumped in.

As a result I had one of the richest, most memorable times of my life, including a chance to visit the home of Russia’s greatest living artist at the time, who has since passed on. Had I listened to my internal voices and excuses, I would have missed something truly important in my life. This week I’m taking 50 people who jumped in and took a chance, and I’m excited about sharing my experiences with them.

Where is your head messing with you? What cool adventures are you avoiding because of the excuses in your head, because of your fears about the adventure itself, of the cost, or concern for the people in your life who need you around? Maybe those fears are real, or maybe they are only excuses to make you feel comfortable.

Being uncomfortable can be life-changing. Taking risks can be invigorating. Challenging yourself to try new things will give you confidence and a great feeling because you know you went for it.

I hope you’ll look at your bucket list and start taking action. There is always a way if you want it badly enough.

Have a great Sunday — if you get this — and I’ll hopefully have a moment next Sunday to touch base.

Unless your home is one of those underground bunkers with no Internet or TV, you probably heard about our new soggy climate in Texas this past week. I feel so fortunate this morning to go out to the long, narrow porch on the back of the house to look out over my rough, unmowed backyard, which is out of control after massive amounts of rain and no dry moments to mow. The gnarled oaks and cedars, and the distant view of a purple hill, make up my view, and I am happy not to see a lake where the yard is supposed to be.

High Winds at Home

Our mildly high winds and water issues were nothing in comparison to others in our town who saw severe flooding, and especially our neighbors in Houston, who saw that hovering storm continue to wreak havoc with unprecedented flooding and devastation. I was having an e-mail dialogue with one friend who gave play-by-play water levels as it got closer and closer to their front door. It was frightening, as was the entire storm experience, which was a little too close for comfort.

Back to the Porch

Humidity is high, since the ground and air were soaked for much of our week, but my cozy little writing corner on the back deck is back to normal. It’s just me, the red wicker couch, and a little glass greenhouse that sits on the table in front of me as home to several small cacti. My black-haired squirrel is back to gathering nuts and running under my studio porch when she spots me, and one of the neighbor’s four brown-and-white Longhorn cows is scratching its back on the wire fence between our properties — and it appears to be in my yard. I think it’s better to look at cattle than to have to take care of them, at least for me, though I’ve got friends who do, and live to do it. Get along, little dogies…

Summer is Over for Me

Once the storm passed, I bit the bullet, officially gave up my summer of no travel away from the family, and began my grueling fourth-quarter travel schedule. Somehow I managed to visit two cities on the opposite sides of the country, and three in another country, in four days, which meant being gone on the day my kids normally help me celebrate my birthday.

But it’s better this way, because weekends are more fun for celebrations than school nights, when homework is involved. It could have been “Happy birthday, Dad, gotta get back to my homework,” but instead they honored me with an entire dinner and a cake. These are the best moments in life.

Let There Be Light

Before I left, I managed to install track lights up on the 16-foot ceiling of my art studio. When Laurie found this house, she called me, saying, “You’re gonna love this place, because you can have your own art studio and your own office.” She was right! I’d never had a dedicated studio before. My first studio was in a tiny 10 x 10-foot loft at the top of our tall, skinny house in Florida. Then in two California houses, the studio was in a back bedroom in one and a garage in the other, which wasn’t fun on cold winter days.

When we moved to our first house in Austin, I was in a tiny apartment over a garage, but now I’m in a real studio. It’s a little Texas cabin, brown clapboard, tin roof, string lights hanging around the edge of the roof, and a wonderful porch with a stone fireplace. I think I died and went to art heaven. And it’s big enough for my Wednesday-night figure painting group, the Bee Cave Painters. We’ve had as many as nine plus a model, which was pretty crowded, but it’s pretty comfortable with five of us.

Anyway, I’m experimenting with new lights in my studio, taking an approach I discovered when I visited the new studio of artist Steven Horne in the Adirondacks. He has managed to reproduce the temperature and intensity of north light using some new daylight LEDs and a bank of track lights way up high. I had been using a Home Depot fluorescent fixture over my easel, which was uglier than the Longhorn cattle in the backyard, and was so bright that I kept making my paintings too dark.

A Balancing Act

Berkeley and I tried to reach the 16-foot ceiling to install the lights, but alas, our 8-foot ladder wasn’t enough, and standing on the top two steps made me feel like I was a member of Cirque du Soleil on the high wire. So, since an uncracked head is important for continuing the status quo, the two of us took a quick drive to Lowe’s in the middle of blowing rains and wind gusts up to about 50.

Shopping at Lowe’s was like Christmas Day — we were one of about five customers they had seen all day. I guess people don’t shop during hurricanes. Soaked as we were, we fit most of the ladder into my little hatchback SUV, and we drove down the road with a new 12-footer hanging out of the back of the car while the rain flooded in.

Oops

Rushing to get the job done on Sunday before my flight took off, I got the entire track mounted and the lights up. But when I was all done and I turned the power back on, I realized I couldn’t get to the light switch because my bookshelf was covering it up. Guess I should stick to publishing and hire a professional next time. I think I overheard someone in the house say, “Told you so.”

Feeling Guilty

I don’t know about you, but I felt awfully guilty watching the TV in the comfort of my dry home as others were trying to survive the floods. I felt like I should do something, so after communicating with a few galleries and artists, I decided that I had to do what I could.

Free Advertising For Storm-Impacted Art People

This past week, we sent out an e-mail offering some free advertising to help artists and art businesses that have been impacted by the storm. Our goal is to encourage our readers who buy art to consider buying from these artists and galleries to help them recover. People in Houston are not likely to be thinking about buying art while they are repairing their flood-damaged homes. So if you see this special ad spread we do for them, please buy something if you’re in a position to.

Hurricane Lessons

There are lessons to be learned from the hurricane, most of which have been played to death in the media. But probably the most important one is that just because someone says you’ll be safe doesn’t mean that you will be. Maybe next time a storm is coming, it might be a time to go visit friends in another state for a few days.

It’s also a reminder that we are only in control of part of our lives, and that we are at the mercy of circumstances.

There are many more lessons, and I’d like to hear what this storm helped you learn.

Soften Your Heart

Our neighbors in Houston are going to be dealing with the impact of this storm for years. Keep them in your thoughts and prayers. It’s so easy to see these things in the media and get a little callous about them. In this case, it could have been in my town, so it’s making me take notice a little more than usual, which is a good thing.

Enjoy your Sunday. Next week, I’m not sure if I can manage to get Sunday Coffee out from Russia. Fingers crossed. I’ll be leading the Fine Art Connoisseur Russian Art Trip along with Peter Trippi. We’re taking people behind the scenes, to top museums, artists’ studios, and all kinds of cool things. Hopefully I can get this to you for Sunday.

Back in the 1980s, I thought a lot about my dream house. I had a vision of a Key West-style white clapboard house with a giant porch that wraps all the way around. Because I love the sound of rain and thunder, I dreamed of sitting on that porch during massive rainstorms. The idea of a porch on each side of the house was to get out of the blowing rain so I could sit outside during a storm and stay dry.

“Soggy” might best describe today. But it’s beyond that. Imagine giant industrial-size fans like the ones they use on movie sets. Now imagine a firehose of water gushing out in front of those fans, which are grinding as fast as they possibly can and pointing toward the windows. Today, the rain is blowing sideways and the noise on the metal roof is almost deafening from inside the house.

I never built that dream house, but I do have that big long wraparound porch. I’m sitting here on my little red wicker couch in the corner of the porch. How that couch has not blown away is a mystery. All the other lawn furniture is in the garage because forecasters told us to store any objects that can fly away.

I’m wearing my bright red raincoat, which is making lots of noise in the strong wind, and though I’m dry in this little corner, I’m feeling a light mist from the blowing rain.

During the peak of the storm, which started on Thursday night, the house was shaking like a martini. We wondered if at any moment our metal roof would fly off and we would have rain on the inside.

We left Florida to escape hurricanes. Though Austin is inland and Hurricane Harvey was downgraded, it was a whopper of a storm.

One thing most people don’t know is that the barometric pressure of hurricanes puts many nearly-due pregnant moms into labor. In fact, some friends came up to our house during a storm and ended up going into labor; their daughter was born in a hospital that was using a generator to keep the lights on — and at the same time, in the delivery room next door, Marla Maples was giving birth to Tiffany, the daughter of our President. (Please no e-mails because I used the “p-word.”)

Unrelated to the storm, we’re celebrating three new babies.

Dean Pickering, who edits our art instruction videos, has just informed us of the birth of his new grandson, Ryan.

Allison Affourtit, who puts together the e-mails and e-mail graphics for our marketing lab, has just come back to work after the birth of her daughter, Sloane.

Turner Vinson, who works on our videos and photography and audio at our Plein Air Convention & Expo and Figurative Art Convention & Expo, is due to have his second child at any minute. He is out of the storm zone, but so far I’ve heard nothing. I’ve managed to get this e-mail out, despite power outages — somehow the cell towers are still operational nearby.

It’s fun to see more babies added to the family.

Over the years I’ve watched young people I’ve hired grow up, blossom into fine adults, get married, have kids, raise their kids, put their kids into college, and watch their kids get married and continue the amazing cycle of life.

Though I cannot claim to be the world’s best boss, I do try to keep up on the families, the pictures, and the things family members are experiencing. It’s one of the joys of my business life.

I’m reminded of this quote…

“From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked” — Luke 12:48

When I was younger, I didn’t think much about the responsibility to care for what I’ve been blessed with. Yet today, as the family of co-workers grows, I realize I have accountability to these people. If I mess up, these kids don’t eat.

I think the same thing is true for those of us who are artists…

We have a responsibility to our “art family”… the people who buy our artwork and the people who help us sell it. We are a unified family.

When someone is paying me for my artwork, I feel an obligation to be the very best I can be. Not so that I look good, though that’s nice, but so my galleries are offering the very best of me.

For me that means…

• Don’t be in a hurry.
• Don’t cut corners.
• Don’t settle for just getting it done. Only settle when it’s done well.
• Provide the absolute finest work you can produce.
• Be mindful of the long term, so your painting lives on for generations.
• Be in a constant state of growth by learning from others.
• Be responsible about quality preparation and materials to prevent cracking and to make sure the painting lasts for many, many years.
• Picture the painting in a home as a portal, taking viewers to another place.

I was horrified when an artist friend told me he prepares his canvas with house paint in order to save money. When I told him that house paint peels over time and that his paintings won’t last, he said, “Who cares? I’ll be dead by then.”

Sadly, that’s not providing accountability to your buyer, who has trusted you to give them the very best.

No matter what you do … accountability and trust come with the territory.

I think most of us strive to live up to the expectations of others and understand that there is satisfaction in living up to the responsibilities we’ve been given.

I’d love to hear from you, and hear about the ways that you provide accountability in your daily life, whether it’s family, employees, students, work, or artwork. I’ve come to look forward to spending part of my morning listening to your stories. I hope you’ll take time to share yours with me.

Have a great week, and join me in celebrating new babies in the Streamline family. Oh, and I love seeing your families on Facebook and Instagram. Though I’m told I’ve reached my limit on “friends” on Facebook, you can still follow. That would be cool so I can see what you’re up to.

I never thought of myself as a Texan after we moved from the San Francisco Bay Area to Austin, Texas.

Austin, after all, isn’t completely “Texas.” It’s San Francisco inside of Texas, it’s Silicon Valley inside Texas, and even a little slice of Manhattan. Not a lot of cowboy hats and horses visible in this booming metro area.

Yet this morning on the deck feels very Texas.

Life in Texas

The buzzing sound of cicadas in the sage-colored live oak trees around me is almost deafening this morning as I sit on my long wooden back deck, which runs the entire length of the house. It’s almost as if these singing cicadas are trying to harmonize with the whining of the air conditioner unit, which is barely able to keep up with the heat.

The early morning sun is beating hard on the deck, and I’ve moved to a chair in the one small corner of shade that is allowing me to stay outside and bear the heat. I’m wearing my PleinAir baseball cap, and shades to cope with the glare of the sun blasting down at me.

I just got shivers sitting here in the oppressive heat.

A Frightening Sight

The shivers are not from wishful thinking about cool breezes, but from the sudden shock of looking up from my chair and seeing two mangy coyotes running along the fence in my yard, just a few feet away. I’m just happy they didn’t spot me, and that I didn’t come face-to-face with them by accident. Now I understand why some Texans wear six-shooters on their hip.

Somewhat like the eerie cries of the loons on the lake in the summer, we hear coyotes cry out in song and harmony on nights when the moon is full. A choir of yips is often their celebration of a newfound meal, and a good indicator not to put the dog out.

Disappearing Pigs

Small dogs and guinea pigs tend to disappear around these parts; we know that from personal experience. Though we romanticized that maybe our fuzzball pig just decided to escape her little outdoor pen for a better life elsewhere, or perhaps a college education, she probably was a tasty meal for a raptor or a coyote.

We’ve been home a full week now, but our return was met with a somewhat sad moment when we learned from the pig sitter that our remaining guinea pig, Susan, had graduated to that great pigpen in the sky. She’d lived to about double the predicted age because of good food and a pampered existence. No guinea pig ever had a better life.

Puppy Pressure

Pressure is now upon us for a dog, but with college for triplets looming in just three years, a new puppy isn’t terribly practical. We’ve resisted so far, but my guess is the tug of some big brown eyes will one day soon win our hearts.

Last time around, a box of puppies in a two-minute encounter resulted in almost two decades of puppy love, along with some hard times.

Like puppies … all decisions are emotional.

Emotions drive everything. It’s something I talk about from time to time on my marketing blog. People may rationalize the purchase of a painting with practicalities about how it’s a perfect match to the couch, or explain why that shiny red sports car is more practical because it gets better gas mileage. But the reality is that emotion is running our lives and decisions.

We Owe It All to Emotions

If rational decisions ruled our lives, there would be no art, no paintings, no galleries, no giant overbuilt houses, and no sports cars. Instead we would all live in small brick bunkers with no decorations. Thankfully, most of us prefer something that scratches our emotional itch.

Art may be one of the most emotional of all decisions. Yet its power to trigger emotions is also healing.

Ever look at a painting and take a deep sigh, as if you’d just entered paradise? I have, many times.

The emotion of art transforms us to other places in our minds. Hospitals have discovered this, which is why many have giant art budgets and hundreds of paintings.

Who Needs Star Trek?

The pain of being ill or visiting a loved one in a hospital can be relieved for a brief moment because a painting teleports us to a different place. Who needs Star Trek? Just go to a museum.

Speaking of museums…

If you stop and think about the institutions in our lives, most are based on the healing power of art or the arts.

Big Giant Museums

Some of the world’s biggest, most impressive public buildings are dedicated to the arts … painting, music, dance. The biggest ones house paintings and sculpture: The Louvre. The Hermitage. The Prado. The Met.

If that doesn’t convince you of the lasting power of art, nothing will.

An Artist’s Big Dream

Those of us who make art dream that one day our art will end up on the walls of a museum, which hopefully will secure us a place in history forever.

Artists have a special gift. They see the world differently. And people look at artists and their gift as something they wish they could have. My hope is that you and I can help many of those people find it for themselves, that we can convince them that they too can have that gift.

And imagine how healing it would be if everyone everywhere would stop, study nature or the human figure, and slow down enough to paint it.

Artists are a small part of the overall population, yet their influence is commanding and deeply felt.

The Artist Inside Each of Us

I believe there is an artist inside each of us waiting to be pulled out and put to good use. Some of you are already artists, others discovering it. Still others may need a nudge, or just a little encouragement.

The more of us there are, the more giant museums we’ll need. And that can’t be a bad thing.

Take some time and make some art today. It will make today that much better.

Fog is covering the lake this early Sunday morning. The rays of the sun are working hard to burn it off. The effects of the warm rays against cool light purple and bluish-white colors of fog are illuminating the air with a golden glow that creates a heavenly effect.

The peak of the distant mountain reaches out above the fog, as if signaling “All is well, I’m still here.”

The loons on the lake quietly drift by with their babies on their backs as they call out their looney-tunes, which reflect off the lake’s edges and echo from one side to the other.

As I sit in my bright red Adirondack chair on the dock, my Dunkin Donuts coffee is rapidly losing its warmth in my old green cup because the air is a chilly 58 degrees. But the cup still warms my hands, and as I sip it, the coffee slides like lava through my body.

A scratchy old hunter green-and-red-checked blanket is wrapped around my goosebump-covered legs, tucked underneath so no cold sneaks in. Warmth comes from my old green oversized sweater, which I keep in a drawer at the cabin year round because moths too need food and entertainment. Plus, the best day to wear a “holey” sweater is on Sunday.

In an hour or so I’ll leave the dock, walk over to the cabin, and pick up my father, my wife, and the kids to make the short four-minute drive through the woods, passing beaver dams and fallen trees, over to the the quaint little stone church nestled in the wilderness among giant pines. It was built by the families on our lake 140 years ago this summer.

The Old Chapel in the Wilderness

In the old days before the church was built, the lake residents would put on their finest clothes and row their wooden guideboats out to the halfway point of our lake. The local preacher would speak from Pulpit Rock, which still stands there today. Today, since almost all the old cabins are accessible only by water, the first part of those residents’ journey to church is still by boat.

At this summer wilderness chapel, open only in July and August, we continue the tradition of 140 years in the same uncomfortable old wooden pews built for the chapel’s founders. The stunningly beautiful stained glass windows create a dancing light show of color across the sanctuary as the old pipe organ rattles the wooden rafters with deep bass vibrations that give me chills.

Generations of children have looked forward to dangling from the hard-to-pull rope on the old bell above the church as the bell rings out to toll the start of worship. Lighting the candles is the only time their parents approve of their playing with fire. The choir is made up of a small group whose ancestors sang back in 1877, when the church was dedicated. I love tradition.

Following the service, we share stories of our week on the lake, eating overcooked brownies with crusty edges and gooey centers, like communion wafers (with oversweetened Kool-Aid for the wine). After community time, we often walk through the old cemetery on the church grounds, where markers of previous lives reinforce family traditions.

140-Year Tradition

Somehow, in an odd sort of way, I love being a part of something that I know has been going on for 140 years, knowing I’ve been there for 30 of those, and knowing that it’s my generation’s responsibility to see that returning each year remains interesting and relevant, to carry it forward. It’s not easy to get my kids interested, and it was difficult for my parents to get me interested. It’s probably always been the same, over generations.

I feel the same way about painting. I love being linked to the past through artists who passed their craft from one generation to the next. That’s why I love being a part of the Salmagundi Club and the National Arts Club in New York; their traditions are important to link past generations to the present and pass along the wisdom of ages of painters.

In our fast-paced, screen-saturated lives, there is deep value in being a part of something bigger than ourselves and carrying a vision forward for future generations. It’s what I hope to do with plein air painting and classical realism painting so that future generations of collectors and artists will know them and consider them part of their world.

An Important Realization

One of the most important realizations of my life has been that the long game matters more than the short game, and that short-term gains rarely matter when you’re thinking beyond your own lifetime. It’s why our decades of wisdom should be put to work for something bigger than ourselves.

As I made my way through the grave markers this week, I wondered who all of these people were and what they did with the gift of life. Hopefully their families remember and continue to honor them so many years later.

A few graves stood out, some with descriptions of the lives of the individuals. One was a local trapper who built an empire that made the Adirondacks known, and resulted in the preservation of 100 square miles of beautiful wilderness. Another came up with a treatment for tuberculosis, another wrote a book whose stories inspired conservation in the region, and another was the father of reforestation. I’m sure dozens of others did equally amazing things.

It’s Inside You and Me

I don’t believe these were necessarily special people with special gifts; they were like you and me. Most of these people did not start out to change the world, they just focused on something they thought was important and their passion spread. It was their efforts that make us look back on them as special.

What passion do you possess that will make a difference in the world?

What are you a part of that will live on for generations? What can you create now that will live on?

What role can you play to pass on your wisdom and create value that goes beyond your lifetime?

For me, it’s a lofty goal of teaching 1 million people to paint, because painting changed my life and I think painting will make their lives better.

What about you?