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?

As sunlight kissed my eyelids, my eyes sluggishly fluttered open, only for me to be jolted into a state of awareness. For the past three months I have awakened to a wall of rich green Adirondack pines and woods filled with crafty little creatures. This morning my pines have been replaced by sage-colored cedars, live oaks, and dry grass.

My red Adirondack rocker on the dock by the lake has been hijacked by my brown wicker couch on the long, covered back porch of our Austin home.

The cool mountain breezes have been substituted with heat so intense it blasts you in the face like opening the door of an oven.

Last week I was wrapped in a fuzzy old blanket, today an old T-shirt and shorts are too oppressive and my coffee is begging for ice.

My fellow weary travelers are sleeping in after last night’s long trip home. Monday, the “s-word” (“school”) is about to begin again. This is the final day awakening naturally can occur.

For now, the house is so quiet that the only sound is the flutter of cool air fluffing out of vents, overcoming the warmth.

Birds are chirping morning songs that beg for cooler weather, and the little long-tailed squirrel that lives under my studio deck keeps peeking his head out because no human has intruded on his space for most of the summer.

I’m reminded that the mountains were to get away from the summer heat, which we’ll be putting up with through October. Though our summer cabin time has ended, it’s always good to be home.

While most live their year from January to January, I look at my year as the start of the school year till its end.

For 15 cycles of the seasons, since the triplets were hatched into our care, this heavy traveler takes no trips in the summer months, which are sacred family times to reconnect with one another and family members we see too little of otherwise.

My Grand Experiment

Each summer, the last week at the lake is my vacation time, but this year the need to disconnect drove me to two full weeks off, with a different goal … to relax fully.

You see, vacations for everyone used to be a week or two away from work, until some sage and sadistic person invented e-mail and social media. Now, for most, vacations simply mean working from a different place in between moments of joy. I needed a vacation with no connectivity.

I went off the grid. No screen time whatsoever. No phone, no computer, no iPad, no television, not even a car radio because I wanted to avoid the news.

I disconnected completely: no e-mail, texts, Facebook, or Instagram. Not so much as a weather check on a screen.

The first few days I would reach for my smartphone about every two minutes for a fix, to find out who was e-mailing, texting, or messaging me. But then I’d catch myself and put it back in my pocket, where it stayed unless a Kodak moment arose and I had to take a picture.

Frustratingly, before the urge to look at screens began to go away, the little notifications that intrude on to the screen would pop up with a news story, an e-mail, or a Facebook post. I had to train myself not to even look at them because they instantly caused stress.

In fact, I finally locked my phone because it kept vibrating away while I tried to ignore it. My office knew not to phone me, but someone kept calling, again and again and again. Did someone die? Was it an emergency? I picked up my phone and glanced at it and found it was a very important person who was trying to reach me. Though I stressed about what they wanted for about three hours, I decided that the rule of “no screen time, no work, no texting” applied to everyone, no exceptions. So I never called that person back, never checked for a text or e-mail. It could wait.

It felt great.

But learning to live without screen time was almost impossible. Next time I’ll use a real camera and just lock my phone in a drawer.

In fact, one day I wanted to call to make an appointment at the local chiropractor, and my first impulse was to go find the smartphone, look up the number, and call for an appointment. Instead, I went to the phone book, looked him up, and called on the landline. It was very old school and something I had not done in many years.

A Serious Addiction

My realization was that I have a serious addiction, as do all of my family and probably most of the people reading this.

Though I was off my phone and forced to try to actually talk to people over dinner, I was pretty much ignored by everyone else, who were feeding their addictions on their smartphones. During dinner out, every table in every restaurant was the same. No more talking to one another.

I had never noticed before because every brief moment of boredom was met with an app to play with or an e-mail to check.

My addiction is the need for constant stimulation. No moment of boredom.

Did you know that every time you get a text or e-mail or Facebook message, some dopamine is released in your system?

Being disconnected was almost impossible. When I got bored, I took walks, I did some painting, I went out on my kayak, I spent time with the kids boating and waterskiing, and at night I avoided all screens. I actually found myself reading some antique books and reconnected with paper and ink, and my eyes were not burning from a bright screen in a dark room.

If you were at Disneyland and a character took off his or her mask (or head), the fantasy would be instantly blown. The same holds true for escape time. I found that, during the first couple of days, just about the time I would get relaxed, if I slipped and fed my addiction for even just a minute, my relaxation was over, my mind started racing, and my stress and anxiety levels went up.

Frankly, if you were to ask me a month ago if I had stress in my life, I’d have said no. Yet once I conducted this little experiment, I realized how much stress I carry and how much something as simple as a Facebook post can bring it all back.

My new rule? “Screenfast” whenever possible. I intend to screenfast on my upcoming fine art trip to Russia for two weeks, screenfast during my Fall Color Week painters’ retreat in Maine, and screenfast at every possible holiday and break. I have also decided to screenfast after dinner. No more screen time from dinner till morning.

The world is faster than ever and we can get more done in a day than we used to get done in a week, all because of screen time. But our brains need rest, and screen addiction feeds stress.

To every younger reader, I’m sure I sound like a neanderthal. But I can now appreciate that I have control; my screen does not control me. I think eight or 10 hours a day is enough. So, if you e-mail me at night, you’ll get a response the next day … unless, of course, I’m on screenfast.

I’ll be recommending screenfasting to my team members. Stay off screens at night, on weekends, and completely off 24 hours a day on vacations. Don’t even go to screens for personal use. Avoiding them completely will make your stress melt away and allow you to fully relax.

Avoiding screen time for two weeks resulted in better dreams, stress-free days, more creativity, and more pure relaxation. I’m enjoying reading actual books again and finding things to fill my moments of boredom.

Now, instead of being totally addicted to my screens, I’m addicted to screenfasting and I feel more refreshed than I’ve felt in years.

Will you do a screenfast?

Here’s to a great Sunday and a wonderful week. Thanks for reading this on your screen. Now shut it off and take a day of relaxation for yourself … and more if you can get it.

I got up very early this morning to spend some extra time in solitude on the dock at this Adirondack paradise. It’s my last Sunday here for this summer. It’s a little cloudy this morning, and there is a dimness to the light and a coolness to the air. The distant sound of loons crying out their eerie tune maybe be a reflection of the melancholy feeling I get each year when I leave here.

Though I hate leaving, I love looking forward to coming back. That feeling buys me hope through a school year filled with activities, work responsibilities, and business trips. Knowing I won’t leave the lake during the summer makes everything somehow more worthwhile the rest of the year.

Yesterday in the car, Laurie and I were having a discussion about what the contents should be of a book I want to write. I’ve decided to write another book because I’ve not yet written an art-related book (though I’ve produced many art marketing videos) and because I’ll soon be on a television show about art that will be distributed worldwide. I see all of it as a chance to spread my mission.

“You should write about inspiration,” she said. “People always tell me you’ve inspired them to do something. And your book should be a little something for everyone, since you are not only helping people discover painting, you’re working with experienced painters and beginners, and with art collectors.”

She got me thinking. Since my goal is to teach a million people to paint, and since my life was changed by painting, I wondered what I could do to inspire more people to paint. After all, a show with millions of viewers might help me quickly ramp up my goal of helping a million people to discover painting.

Often when I’m outside painting I’ll encounter people who say things like, “I wish I could do that, but I don’t have any talent. I can’t even draw stick figures.” Of course, I always try to convince them that painting is a process they can learn. And that gets me remembering my own story.

Though I had some exposure to acrylic and watercolor as a child thanks to my artistic mother, it was not till Laurie bought me an art lesson for my 40th that I got interested again.

I had learned of a teacher in my area who studied in the tradition of Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904), a French painter and sculptor. Gérôme had taught Filadelfo Simi (1849-1923), who taught his daughter Nerina (Nera) Simi (1890-1987), who taught my teacher (and many other greats) in Florence. This teacher had also studied with Robert Hale Ives Gammell (1893-1981) and Frank J. Reilly (1906-1967), names I was unaware of at the time. But I was impressed that this guy had good training.

I remember the Saturday morning I visited the Armory Arts Center in West Palm Beach. After parking in the back lot, I walked in the door of this room, looked around at all the work the students were doing, told myself I could never get to that level of painting, and turned around and walked out.

“Yoo-hoo, can I help you?” were the words I heard as I was walking out the door.

“Oh, hi,” I said. “I heard this would be a good class to take, but after seeing what these people are painting, I could never do that, so I decided to leave.”

The man introduced himself as Jack Jackson, the teacher, and told me that if I gave him 18 months, he could have me producing work as good as the work I was seeing. He said, “Come over here,” and without even asking me if I wanted to stay, told me, “Sit here. Take this photo and make a grid like this on top of it.” Then he proceeded to show me how to transfer a drawing from a grid to a canvas.

After we did that, he showed me how to paint a grayscale tonal painting of the black-and-white photo I had just transferred onto the canvas. He was smart. He didn’t let me go, and he instantly got me engaged. I stayed in his classes for five years, until I moved away. He died shortly after and he never saw the fruits of his influence.

Think about this for just a moment. If I had slipped out of that classroom unnoticed and had told myself that I could never do that quality of work, I would have missed the last 22 years of great joy.

Not only did I take up painting, my eyes were opened to a whole new world. Suddenly I had an appreciation for art like never before. In fact, a seminal moment in my life was when I was on vacation and visited the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco and saw The Broken Pitcher by Bouguereau, and I wept. I wept because, after studying and copying the artist’s work, seeing it in person was overwhelming. I now had a small taste of what it took to accomplish such mastery, a mastery I had not begun to touch. I was amazed at the figure’s feet, which were at eye level, and the fine veins on her forearms. No piece of art had ever touched me this way.

I never would have gone to see or appreciated this piece of art with the eyes of an artist had my eyes not been opened for me by Jack Acetus Jackson (1935-2001).

We rarely know the fruits of our influence over others. In my case, Jack exposed me to painting, academic painting, and gave me an appreciation for the academic realism movement that was just beginning at that time.

Because I make my living as a publisher, Jack’s influence led me into the art publishing world, resulting in Fine Art Connoisseur, PleinAir, Artists on Art, Fine Art Today, PleinAir Today, the Plein Air Convention & Expo, the Figurative Art Convention & Expo (which I’m dedicating to Jack), plus all of our training videos.

My life was enriched by this man’s being alert, not letting me out the door, and encouraging me and giving me confidence that I could learn to paint when I felt I had zero talent.

Once in awhile I’ll hear from someone who tells me I had an impact on their life and I didn’t even know it. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes not. One person recently called me on the carpet because I had unknowingly discouraged her a few years ago with something I said. I felt awful. Others have told me of things I didn’t even remember saying that set them off on a new path.

Our words and actions matter. By being alert, by having a spirit of generosity and a desire to help all people, we will, hopefully, find a natural instinct to encourage others.

I had not thought about this story of Jack Jackson pulling me into the class for a long time, but it was that one action that changed my entire life and led me into an art career. I owe him so much. My only regret is his not knowing what happened, and never knowing it was because of him.

This is the very reason I’m driven to teach a million people to paint. My eyes and heart were opened as an artist and I blossomed in new ways because Jack said, “Yoo-hoo, can I help you?” — and because he realized I did not believe in myself and that he could help me.

One of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received from a human was the gift I received from Jack Jackson. He did not do it for personal gain, he did it because he loved art and wanted others to discover it.

What about you this Sunday morning?

What are you doing to encourage and support others?

What gifts do you have that you can share?

There is no greater gift than encouragement and helping people see something in themselves that they could not see before.

Here’s to a week of encouragement for others … starting today.

This morning as I opened my eyes and looked out the window, my sleepy gaze was filled with the abstract shapes and 50 shades of green pine branches and needles.

Our bedroom here in the cabin in the woods, near the lake, is a converted screened porch, all glass, and nestled among the trees. It’s like being in a see-through tent outdoors.

Light is kissing the edges of the branches as the sun streams down upon them, and the red pine needles who have left home fill the floor of the woods, making a soft, squishy, silent carpet for bears, red foxes, and chubby little woodchucks.

Standing guard over the woods is the mammoth trunk of a 60-foot pine, well over 600 years old, riddled with history, its branches reaching out so far they cover the house like the arms of a loving great-grandmother protecting her family.

I’m hearing the high-pitched tweets of hatchlings in their nests in sunrise alarm, training.

A comforting sip of my coffee soothes my soul; its warmth fills my inner self.

My cup, a sap green, somewhat 1960s-modern style, is my favorite, and has been used on every summer morning here in this house since 1987. As odd as it sounds, it’s one of the things that brings me comfort in this Adirondack home in the words. We get attached to objects that bring us comfort, like this cup, like this house, like these woods and this lake, rich with history, like no others on earth.

Each year about this time, when we see signs that our time here will soon be winding down, I begin to experience a tinge of sadness, because this is the only place we consider our generational family home.

It’s the place the kids have played every summer of their lives. It’s filled with memories of grandpa’s prayers at family dinners, the kids taking their first boat rides, rope swings over the lake, the laughter around the table of family members who are no longer with us, the christening of a new family-heirloom boat by my 92-year-old grandmother, first times fishing and catching frogs for my now-grown niece and nephew, building forts in the woods, playing Monopoly on rainy days, and canoe trips across the lake. The kids are 15 now, but it seems just yesterday we were bathing all three in the giant wrought-iron footed bathtub that has served families in this house for well over 100 years.

This place has been the inspiration for countless paintings and photographs, with its color-filled sunsets, historic sailboat races, the grumbling old engines of the wooden boats, lapping water sounds on canoe trips, and the crunch of twigs under our feet on walks through the woods.

I know I talk about this place a lot, and it may be tiring for you, but this place has been my muse for three decades. Hemingway had Havana; for me, it’s the Adirondacks. Dreams of coming here get me through stressful years, knowing that when June comes, we can return to this place that not only grounds us, it slows us down, pulling us together in ways that don’t occur the rest of the year. It gives the kids deep memories of months of time with their grandfather and other family members, and it even draws them, and us, closer together. As I look back on when my father discovered this special place, almost 30 years ago, I realize it slowed us all down, brought all closer, and in some ways saved our family.

I’ll admit a bit of envy of the families on this lake who have somehow managed to hold on to their family homes for 120 years or more in spite of out-of-control taxes and the massive expenses that can come with the brutal winters.There is comfort walking into those drafty old cabins and seeing portraits on the walls, knowing that these are the faces of women and men who spent their vibrant youth, and their entire lives, in this tradition-filled place, from birth to death, like several generations before them.

Their parlors are filled with fading photos of happy moments at these lake places, where families who sometimes don’t see one another all year gather, just like Thanksgiving but for whole summers together. There is something soothing to the soul knowing that relatives from the past, many of whom you never met, experienced the summers of their lives here, and it could go on for another hundred years or more. These are truly homes shared by the generations; those who built them gave their families a great gift and are honored for it — 120, 140 years later, or more. It is a rare gift indeed.

But homes don’t always remain in a family forever. I was sad when my dad moved us out of the little brown ranch house of our childhood on Indiana Avenue in Fort Wayne to his dream house, and sad when I grew up and left that house. I was sad when my grandparents sold the homes where we’d played on their stairs and explored secret treasures in their basements. And I’ll be sad when this place is no longer in our family.

Though change is good, so is tradition. Tradition somehow sews us together with our ancestors and provides us with comfort. It cements family memories. You see, there is value in that 30-year-old coffee cup, and there is comfort in the creaky old stairs and the garage door that sticks, and the sound of the creaky screen door that was slamming shut for a hundred years before us.

When I walk into this time-honored cabin at the start of every summer, it’s like Christmas Day, rediscovering things I hadn’t thought about all year. I look around at the things we’ve collected over the decades … the paint-by-numbers hanging on the wall of our living room, the old lamp we picked up when antiquing, the cluttered bookcase filled with books — including coloring books the kids used as toddlers — the sagging red-and-black-checked couches my wife re-covered when the kids were little because we were stuck here for nap time, the fireplace we installed to warm us during the winter when the world was going to come to an end in Y2K, the old “out of commission” leaky wooden canoe I traded a painting for, then refinished and hung from the ceiling of our living room, the old violin hanging on the wall, dozens of early paintings done by me and other family members. The kids still find their old toys in the closet and play with them like they once did, even though they are teenagers now.

It’s good to have a place to come home to.

Though life isn’t about stuff, it’s about memories, sometimes stuff is the reminder of a memory and special times together, which is why traditions are so important. It’s why I keep all the paintings I’ve painted on location, and why I hang them here to remind me of special moments painting alongside my kids and friends, and the special memories surrounding this place I call home.

I feel blessed that I was born into a family that saw the need to create traditions, and I consider it my responsibility to find ways to bring traditions to my kids and maybe, someday, generations in the future.

Some are fortunate enough to be beneficiaries of the vision of their great-great-great-grandparents, and they are taught to keep these traditions alive for their own great-great-great-grandchildren. Even though they may struggle to do so, they see how important it is. And I consider that one of the most admirable things anyone can do for their family.

Traditions can always be created. Memory-making can be happenstance, but most memories are created, and cherished, because someone worked to make them happen.

I encourage you this beautiful Sunday morning to seek out memories and traditions, and look for ways to cement them. It’s one of the great gifts you can give your family.

There is an odd orb in the sky, shining down on me this warm Sunday morning. We’ve not seen it for most of the summer, other than the week of my Adirondack Publisher’s Invitational. The “summer of rain” has hopefully come to an end, and today, once the kids awaken, I’m looking forward to a lake day with the family, with no agenda.

Yet as I sit here on the dock in a bright red wooden Adirondack chair, the lake is so quiet I can hear the whoosh of the wings when a bald eagle flies overhead in search of fish. The sky today is cloud-free, the blue rich with a slight cast of pink, and the sun is warming me and my coffee.

Last week I took my sons to the Congress of Future Scientists and Technology Leaders. The event is for smart kids who are interested in careers in science and tech, and I highly recommend it.

I sat in on most of the four days of sessions from some of the most amazing science and technology minds in the world, but sneaked out a couple of times for some experiences with my son Brady. We went to Fenway Park for a Red Sox game thanks to some friends who had great seats they could not use, and we returned a day later for the Fenway Park tour.

Visiting a Living Legend

One of the other highlights of my week was a visit with artist John Stobart, who lives south of Boston in the town of Westport, Massachusetts. John is in his mid-80s and known as one of the most brilliant marine painters of our time. He was born and studied in England and came to America as a young man.

This was a time for old friends to reconnect, to talk about the state of the art world, and for me to thumb through stacks of paintings and studies he has done over the years and see some of his classic paintings in person. John even drove me around the area and took me to the places he had done many of his famous paintings. It was a red-letter day. He is such a gracious and giving person.

Advice for Young People

At the Congress, one speaker, a young man of about 25, was telling the kids that discomfort should be embraced. I had never thought in terms of discomfort being a good thing, but as I examined my past, he was right.

My Humiliating Experience

I remember my palms were sweating as I stood behind the stage of the auditorium of Harrison Hill Elementary in my hometown of Fort Wayne, Indiana, waiting to go onstage. Then, when my name was called, I wanted to turn and run and had a sick feeling in my stomach. It was the annual spelling bee competition in front of the rest of the school and most of the parents, and when it came to my moment in the spotlight, I froze.

I don’t recall the word I was given, but I recall standing there, looking out at all those people, and my mind going blank. I also recall the laughter of all the kids when I was unable to spell a simple word I knew. I was quickly out of the competition, and I was humiliated. But in spite of the failure and discomfort, I was able to grow from the experience.

A Bad Moment on the Radio

Years later, when I was 14, it was my moment in the spotlight again. I was at radio station WITB (Indiana Tech’s college radio station), where I had talked my way into a DJ position, though I had zero experience. I was given a first show on a Saturday morning. Once the other DJ put on his final record, I opened the mic, started the next record, and was ready to talk over the intro.

I had rehearsed it time and time again, but when I turned on the record, it did not play. There was dead air. Then the program director of the radio station was banging on the glass and I’m responding to him: “What is it? What’s wrong?” not realizing all of this was going out over the air. Finally, he ran into the studio, flicked a switch for the record to play, and turned my mic off. That was my first moment on the air. Fortunately, he didn’t fire me, and I eventually made everything work. It’s where I cut my teeth, and it resulted in a career in radio that started in 1969 and continues with my radio magazine, Radio Ink, to this day.

I remember being uncomfortable going into the radio station for the first time, and being uncomfortable pitching the program director for the job, and being uncomfortable doing my first show. Yet had I allowed those moments of discomfort to prevent me from doing those things, I probably would never have had a career of 48 years.

Where Would We Be Without Discomfort?

Discomfort, it turns out, has been a theme in my life. And if you stop and think about the great women and men in history, discomfort is often a theme in their lives as well. We may think of Steve Jobs as a great success, but imagine how uncomfortable it was putting his name on the line and starting a company. Imagine how difficult it was for Neil Armstrong to be crammed into a tin can, sitting on top of a controlled explosion, and being shot into space while risking his life, yet he became the first man on the moon. Think about how uncomfortable it was for Ralph Albert Blakelock or Alfred Bierstadt, who documented the West with paintings but endured great hardships to travel there, to live there among the Native Americans.

A Spectacular Painting Subject

A couple of weeks ago, during my Publisher’s Invitational, I learned of an amazing waterfall I hadn’t seen before. So me and some friends hiked a nine-mile round trip with heavy backpacks, hitchhiking part of the way. But the reward for the discomfort was one of the most stunning waterfalls I’ve seen and painted in my life.

When you think about it, whenever you “put yourself out there” where there is a possibility of being judged, being criticized, possibly bombing and feeling like a fool, you’re uncomfortable.

In fact, as I look backward, things that seem easy now started out with severe discomfort. I’ll not bore you with the hundreds of times I stepped out and felt uncomfortable, but I will say that I’ve noticed it’s a trend.

Listen for Ridicule

In the process I’ve discovered something about myself and about others, and that is when I come up with an idea, decide to do something bold, it’s that discomfort that signals me that it must be worth doing. The more uncomfortable I am, the better the idea is. If I’m telling myself all the reasons I should not do something because it’s a risk, it’s unknown territory, and because it’s a giant inconvenience and possibly subject to ridicule, I find it challenges me more.

I’ve also discovered that the most uncomfortable time is when I share an idea with others and they tell me all the reasons it will fail and it will damage my reputation. Almost every time someone tells me all the reasons I should not do something, it challenges me to prove it can be done, especially if I believe it is an idea whose time has come.

Oh, I’ve bombed more times than I’ve succeeded. It’s never easy, it’s always a little embarrassing, and sometimes it can even be humiliating and financially devastating, yet I’d not feel right about myself if I did not try something because I was uncomfortable or it was a risk.

Advice for Youth

Young people need to know that not everything works out and that you need to be willing to take risks, to be uncomfortable, but you also need to be prepared for the reality that you might fail. I personally like to burn bridges behind me so failure is less of an option when things get tough.

We all need to understand that we each create our own world. We are agents of our own thoughts, actions, and feelings. No one can take that away from us. We each shape the world around us, and we’re each making a conscious decision to suffer or not.

Belief Trumps Discomfort

We must not allow fear of ridicule or failure or pain to get in the way of doing what we believe in. We need to step away from our past and not allow past failures to prevent future successes by making us avoid discomfort.

Live in the here and the now. Nothing outside the present moment matters, because the next breath could be our last. I was reminded of this just yesterday, when the life of a young and vibrant friend of a friend was snuffed out instantly in a traffic accident.

We tend to get attached to the things in our pasts, and those records play themselves over and over again. Our brains are trained to protect us, so our automatic negative thoughts kick in to protect us from pain and discomfort.

Life is a miracle, but avoiding discomfort can prevent that miracle from being everything it could be. One bold move could be the big moment of your life that will change the world and maybe become the one thing you’re remembered for. Not doing it because of fear should not be an option.

An Icon Shares Insecurities

Yesterday I spoke with a man I have placed on a pedestal for the past 20 years. He is the most well connected man I know; he can pick up the phone and contact Bill Gates or Elon Musk, yet he shared with me yesterday that he has suffered a life of insecurity and negative thoughts and that he has always had to push them out and not listen to them. I was shocked to hear it, but in a way pleased, because I experience the same battle.

What World-Changers Do

I’ve decided that the people who change the world, the people who build giant organizations, the people who invent amazing products, the people who do works the world will always remember, are people exactly like you and me. The only difference is that they push aside the negative thoughts and push ahead, knowing it’s going to be difficult, uncomfortable, and risky.

Though we may look at them as people with a gift or something special, I’ve seen too many examples of everyday folks who get mad enough or inspired enough to make change happen. The difference between them and us is their willingness to accept pain.

I see these images of six-pack abs and perfect bodies on men my age and realize the only difference between them and me is their willingness to put in the time and the pain.

This morning as you set out on your day, ask yourself three things…

What am I avoiding because I’m uncomfortable?

What ideas do I have that I know I need to do that I’ve not done for fear of pain or discomfort?

What’s the worst that can happen if I do them?

The worst that can happen for any of us is loss of life. Embarrassment, loss of income, loss of friendships don’t compare to loss of life.

Yet which is worse? Spending your life looking back and wishing you had tried, or spending your life knowing you have gone for it? Maybe you succeed, maybe you don’t, but at least you know you did not allow pain or discomfort to get in your way.

You possess something in your heart that no one on this earth has. There is something inside of you that you’re sitting on to avoid pain. If you can stop focusing on discomfort and start focusing on what could be, you too will change the world.

I’m tired. It’s early, and I awoke this morning in spite of wishing for more sleep. It’s rare that I wake up tired; today I’m still fatigued after driving about seven hours yesterday. But I was returning to the lake, my muse, the most cherished place in my life, after a few days of stark contrast in the Boston area to provide my son with the educational opportunity of a lifetime: the Congress of Future Scientists and Technology Leaders. It’s an annual event, by invitation only to 7,000 kids from across our land, to get access to and opinions from the great minds of our world. I was pleased to be a fly on the wall and a VIP guest, and pleased to give my son a chance to hang with the luminaries of science.

Objecting to the Move

Though this lake has become my inspiration as an artist, a place where we can spend our summers to reconnect as a family, and a place to reconnect with nature, it didn’t start out that way. In fact, I didn’t want to be here.

Thirty years ago, my father told my brothers and I that he was selling his summer home on Lake Wawasee in Indiana and moving to a lake like the one in the movie On Golden Pond, but lacking JetSkis and rumbling racing boats. I was not thrilled. We were the third generation on that lake, which had memories of ice fishing with my grandfather, summers with friends, learning to drive a boat, and feeling freedom for the first time.

Seeking Quiet

I also didn’t like his reason for leaving, which was that our lake had become noisy, busy, and crazy. It struck me as a retirement mentality, and at the time I was in my 30s and loved the buzz of the lake. Quiet was not on my radar.

I was resistant to visiting the new place in this park they call the Adirondacks, which turned out to be miles and miles of preserved beauty, larger than Yellowstone, Everglades, Glacier, and Grand Canyon National Parks combined, and equally stunning.

Where’s My Noise?

Upon arrival, I thought it was too quiet. In fact, it was so quiet that it made me uncomfortable. Nothing but beauty, chirping birds, loons crying out their eerie calls, and no boat noise to speak of. The 100-year-old house had no television, was remote enough to have no radio signals (a tough thing because I was in the radio industry), and no noise-making gadgets other than the cassette player in the car. Oh, and there was a piano.

I was put off about being stuck in the middle of the woods, inhaling the fresh air laced with pine scent. Leaving early was on my mind because being stuck here for a week, as planned, did not fit my idea of a good time. I missed the lake of my home. This one didn’t seem like it was going to be much fun. It was too far away for my friends to visit. It was not the bustling activity I was used to.

I was an activity junkie and I needed a fix, but there was no fix to be had. If only I could return to the city, to the noise.

Waking Up to Dead Silence

I recall waking on day two in a deafening silence. Though it was mid-August, as I popped out of bed and looked out the window of the bedroom in the old boathouse overlooking the lake, the water was still. The island and the mountain in the distance had been blanketed with a sheet of snow that clung to the needles of the pines, weighting their branches.

Snow was a foreign substance to me — something I’d not been around since I left Indiana at age 17 to spend my winters in Florida. My first reaction was to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and try to sulk myself back to sleep about this unfortunate event. But something got into me that day. I put on my warmest clothes — I had very few warm clothes for my summertime visit — grabbed my camera, hopped in the Jeep, and drove around the area taking pictures of the snow. Mine were the only tracks that morning, mine the lone car on the surrounding country roads. Then I jumped in the boat and photographed the snow from the lake.

I never knew such silence. Snow covering the world, absorbing all noise, creating the most quiet I had ever known. It was magical.

Several years of Christmas card photos came out of that day, but that wasn’t the best part. It was the day I transformed from needing constant stimulation and the noise of life to craving silence. Suddenly and unintentionally, I gained an appreciation for the silence of this lake.

My New Muse

As an artist, the Adirondacks became my muse. I became enthralled by the distant blue mountains, the depth of the forests, the 200 shades of green, the brooks babbling through rocks inside the forest, the massive waterfalls from high peaks.

Decades of photography consumed me in this place before I graduated to painting, and the mountain view from our place has become the challenge I’ve never completely conquered, painting it many times each year and never getting it to a point of perfection. Each year I think, “This will be the year I capture its true essence and the sense of quiet in this place.” No two days are alike; in fact, no one day is the same minute to minute.

Capturing Hearts

Over almost 30 years in this place, I’ve watched this region capture the heart of every visitor who comes here. Busy, insanely uptight business people, like I was, come here, and soon they melt into the peace of these woods. I’ve never been in a place where one can relax so easily, almost instantly.

I’d spend my busy business-filled year looking forward to a week at the lake, which is all I got most summers, and some summers I couldn’t get here at all. Yet I knew that week would ground me, soothe my soul, reconnect me with nature, and wash away a year’s worth of stress.

Healing Summers

My summers here are my healing. Walks through the woods, painting in front of misty waterfalls, absorbing deep forest greens with my eyes, filling my ears with the sounds of loons crying in the night or even, oddly enough, the patter of tiny mouse feet inside the walls of our 100-year-old cabin. It is all very comforting, and the experience I crave all year when we’re not here.

I spent many years getting my business in a position so that I could be here all summer, something that was also impossible before Internet by satellite came here to the woods. When the kids were pre-school, we would stay from June through November, through the first couple of snows. One day, once the kids hit college, our time here will increase so I can experience as much time here as possible without putting up with the 30-below temps of the deep winter. After all, our house has no heat, no insulation.

Saying Goodbye

Tears fill my eyes when I leave this place as each summer ends, knowing that one day we may be unable to return, and knowing that I’ll long for it all year. Summers here are getting shorter because our high school-aged triplets have to return a month early for marching band practice. I want to be selfish and stay, but that’s not what good fathers do.

The woods are medicine to my soul.

Perhaps it was youth that fostered my addiction to activity, but it was the woods that coaxed me out of it. Solitude with nature has become my temple, my place to communicate with my thoughts and my maker.

Walking a Woodsy Trail

My morning ritual, my commute from our small cabin among the towering trees, is a five-minute walk down a tree-lined dirt road to the lakeside boathouse where I do my daily work, and where I longingly look out over the lake, hoping to knock off early for a visit to the other shores.

No man could ever have convinced me that the woods would become part of my DNA, or that I’d thrive away from my busy addiction. But I could not fight it. I tried, but it won me over.

I recently heard a quote: “Build pockets of stillness into your life. Presence is far more rewarding than productivity.”

Summers beside the lake surrounded by deep woods do my soul good, but it is the solitude and the presence, the quiet, that stimulates thought, that matters. My quiet mornings to myself help me find that presence, and they help me reconnect with my true self, getting away from my busy self.

I feel especially blessed to have experienced this place and been able to call it home for many summers. My kids have never known summer anywhere else. We are very fortunate.

Small Screens Create Stress

Though we are easily seduced by small screens, tweets, and Instagram posts so we junkies don’t have to let a minute pass without glancing at the screen in our hands, waiting to see who tweeted what, we need to understand that it’s an addiction, and it creates dopamine, just like opiates do. Like heroin addicts, we cannot let go, yet we need to.

We all need solitude, whether it’s a place to escape, woods to walk through, or just mornings free of activity so we can quietly hear the ticking of the clock and the chirp of the morning birds. Seek it, and embrace it, because it feeds the soul.

During the school year, getting the kids off to school and having each morning be an insane one, my strategy is to awaken, and sit peacefully with my coffee, with the quiet, with the peace, with my thoughts and prayers.

Delaying Addiction

Though my addictive side wants to glance at that small screen to see who is paying attention to me with their tweets and posts and e-mails, and though it’s become our way of finding out what’s going on in our world, I try to resist and preserve my quiet time. The moment I glance at a screen, my mind begins to race for the day and the peace and quiet is lost.

The Sounds of Silence

This Sunday morning I encourage you to seek silence and peace. It’s a gift, and it’s therapy in preparation for a busy day. If you have a place nearby you can go to get back to nature, it’s a blessing for sure, but all you really need is a quiet spot in a corner of your home to ponder life each morning before your busy day kicks in.

Seek out your special time, and protect it with your life. Use that time to journal, to read, to think, to pray. You can achieve it in the middle of a busy city or in the solitude of the woods.

Seek silence, seek quiet. Pull away from the noise, the activity, the screen, and feed your soul.

This morning the rain is pounding the house like Niagara Falls. The noise is deafening, yet somehow makes the house feel more quiet, more secure. It’s almost like a giant hug from nature, and it’s saying, “Stay inside, don’t be in a hurry to go outside to get to your day. Take a day for yourself inside to relax, to read, to think.”

I cherish early mornings like this because of the quiet and solitude, and the chance to put my thoughts down on paper. It’s therapeutic. It’s also the calm before the storm, when the whirlwind we call family awakens noisily and in a hurry to get to their day — though the rain may keep them snugly nestled in their bunks since the sun won’t be tickling their eyelids on this soaked morning.

Last week I wrote about the melancholy of friendships when we have to part, following my Publisher’s Invitational paint camp in the Adirondacks. Over the course of the last week, I’ve received some e-mails and calls from people who were in attendance, and one such note got me thinking. You see, this one person sent me a note that said, in part, “You’ve changed my life. I don’t know what I would have done if I had not found you.”

Um, ahh, I’m a little uncomfortable telling you that, because I don’t want to appear for a split second to be full of myself or to make you think I’m arrogant or self-centered.

The full note said this…

“I don’t know how you do all that you do, and I don’t know why you chose to do what you do, but you’ve changed my life. I don’t know what I would have done if I had not found you. My life was a mess, and because of you, I discovered painting, which has given me purpose and peace. This event [the Publisher’s Invitational in the Adirondacks] helped me find my tribe, helped me make new friends, and helped me see how other painters approach painting, which not only made me a better painter, but helped me feel like I’m a part of something bigger.”

I get shivers when I hear things like this because it’s nice to know that I’m making a difference.

But I also have to tell you that my mind plays tricks on me and says things like, “Why me? Why was I chosen to be the one to help others find their path? Why do I do what I do? “

A Valuable Mission

I’m on a mission to help 1 million people discover painting, because painting changes lives. It changed my life, opened my eyes, and gave me purpose, a creative outlet, a whole new set of friends, and a whole new life and career.

I realized that something as powerful as the process of learning to paint will change others. I want to share that with the world. This got me thinking back to the times we created PleinAir magazine, Fine Art Connoisseur magazine, and the Plein Air Convention & Expo (PACE). Each was started out of passion. Each was based on seeing a need, and realizing that someone had to fill that need.

A Logical Step

At the time I began plein air painting, I was already making my living as a publisher, and I saw what I thought might be a growing movement. And I felt that since plein air painting was changing my life, perhaps others would get some benefit from it. By starting a magazine, I could amplify the movement. At that moment, I didn’t ask “Why me?” I asked, “Why not me?”

The same was true for the Plein Air Convention. It became clear that as the movement grew, there would be a need to see the quality of painting rise, so that all the people coming into plein air painting could grow as painters as quickly as possible. It was also clear that there needed to be a central gathering place to form a community where we could learn, grow together, and work toward ensuring a strong future for outdoor painting. Again, I thought, “Why not me?”

Rooted in Passion

When I started Fine Art Connoisseur, it was rooted in my passion for the new realism movement, based on the heritage painters of the past. Few artists were working that way, but I could sense it would catch on and that it was worth someone’s time to push and develop it. So at great financial risk, I followed my beliefs and launched the magazine. For many years I was shut out by skeptical advertisers, but I decided to be patient and do all I could do to keep it going. Someone needed to do it. Why not me?

Something New That Needs to Be Done

Now that community of realists is in need of a central event to bring them together for growth, training, for a strategy to build the industry, and for a sense of belonging. And I’ve had to ask myself once more, “Why not me?” The result is a new conference this coming November, called the Figurative Art Convention and Expo (FACE), for people who create museum-quality figurative and portrait artwork, and those who want to, to come and learn from top masters.

Doors Slammed in My Face

As I look back on a career filled with pain, failed businesses, having doors slammed in my face, almost losing everything I owned at least two or three times, and, yes, an occasional success, I’ve realized that the best things that come to us are not planned. They come accidentally and are fueled by passion.

Though I set out on a clear mission to be an on-air radio entertainer, starting at age 14, pretty much everything good in my career happened because I had a passion, saw an opportunity for a future, and jumped on it without a plan or any idea how I would make it work. Because I saw a need, believed that maybe I could fill that need, and said, “Why not me?”

In every instance my brain first told me, “Why me? I’m not capable. I’m not worthy. I’m not sure I can pull it off. I don’t have the money. I don’t have the time. I don’t have the expertise.”

When Self-Doubt Strikes

Self-doubt slips in every time, and sometimes it wins. So many times my mind played games and I told myself that I was not the right person, that someone else should take on this responsibility. But then I think…

“What if no one else sees what I see?”
“What if no one else does what needs to be done?”
“What if it never happens?”

That seems to convince me. So I either act on it, or in some cases, if I feel it’s not right for me, I’ll share the idea and suggest it to someone else.

So what about you?

Why not you?

I read a lot of biographies. Most great women and men had little confidence in themselves when they had their best ideas. Most did not feel deserving. Most did not have any special status or expertise. But they believed in their ideas, and in the changes their ideas would make in the world. So instead they asked, “Why not me? If not me, then who?” They believed that if they pursued their ideas, they would find a way.

Don’t Assume People Have Advantages

It’s easy to look at the people who have accomplished great things and assume they had special gifts, special contacts, special knowledge. Most did not. They had the same thing you and I have: passion and an idea that needed to happen. So they asked, “Why not me?”

You have special gifts. You can see things others cannot see. You have passions others don’t have. Why not you?

I’d like to encourage you this week to think about something that should happen, but won’t if you don’t take it on.

Don’t let that negative inner voice get in the way. Kick him or her out of your head and go for it.

When an idea or a cause is bigger than the negative voices in your head, that is the time to pursue it. Instead of asking, “Why me?” ask, “Why not me?”

Have a great week!

You’re looking especially fine this morning. If you’re a dad, happy dad’s day. If you’re missing your dad, please know my heart is with you. I always look forward to what the kids come up for me to do with them on this day.

I’m up early … the sun has been coming up about 4:30 these days, and these early mornings are so peaceful. The lake remains still. The light has not yet hit the “golden” moments, but it won’t be long. Meanwhile, the mountain is reflecting a deep bluish-green-purple color in the water, and we’ve got some puffy clouds. Hope it’s not rain. I’m sitting in a bright red Adirondack chair, which is entirely appropriate, considering I’m at a lake in the Adirondack Park.

Mixed Emotions

Today, I’m happy and I’m sad. Happy because it’s Father’s Day and I’m blessed to still have my dad around and in excellent health. Happy because it’s my day and the kids pay a little more attention than normal.

But I’m also sad. Not “someone died” sad, but “friends are leaving” sad. You see, this morning as I awoke, the reality set in that today we all go home, and some of us may never be together again.

The Last Day

This morning is the last day of my Publisher’s Invitational in the Adirondack Mountains. We have been together since last Sunday, when everyone checked in and we had our orientation and opening dinner. Then we got up each morning and had breakfast together, went out and painted in the most amazing scenery all day every day, then gathered for dinner together each evening. We sat up at night telling stories, viewing one another’s paintings from the day, having drinks together, painting portraits, and playing some music. It’s a pretty festive week.

The best part of the week, other than painting all day with no pressure to be anywhere, and no pressure of competing in a show, is that we all become very close. We develop some fabulous friendships during the week, and for those who return year after year, we get even closer and look forward to the following year.

Summer Camp

I can remember having this same sad, sinking feeling after summer camp as a child. I was nervous going to camp not knowing anyone, but by the end of a couple of weeks I did not want to leave my friends, who all went to different schools in different cities. I also remember looking forward to returning year after year. This week is a lot like that because, after all, I call it “paint camp.”

The concept of this event started out simple: friends getting together to paint and play for a week, because the painters’ circuit is busy and competitive and we simply never get to do that. We started with seven painters, and they began bringing their friends, and this week we had 77 painters.

Hanging with Friends

Though my intent with the Invitational was to spend time with old friends, the unexpected benefit has been the new friends. When friends bring their friends, suddenly your circle of friends grows. I’ve always got room for new ones, and just when you think you have enough really close friends, something deep develops unexpectedly.

My Grandmother Luella, at age 92, told me, “You have to work at friendships to keep them alive.” She taught me well. She was always calling friends around the country and updating them on the family. She had hundreds of friends accumulated over 90-plus years. My dad is the same way. Learning this was a gift that has enriched my own life. I hope I can pass it on to my kids. This little Sunday missive is one of the ways I keep in touch.

We make discoveries by accident, but what my grandmother said was really true … you have to work at friendships. I create a lot of things to nurture friendships. I invest in finding time with special people.

Cycles of Life

I tend to believe that our lives have friendship cycles. There were times in my life when I spent a lot of time with certain people, had lots of good times, and then those people naturally faded from my life. They were little gifts. In some cases we served a purpose for one another for a time, and then we grew apart, intentionally or unintentionally. My radar is always open to new people for a new cycle in my life. Not all friends need to stay forever.

What I’ve found is that friends grow apart when the circumstances bringing them together change. I can remember friends I met in the radio business, people I spent a lot of time with because we were at the same meetings and same events and we grew closer, but then a few years passed and they moved on to other jobs or industries, and we simply don’t run into one another anymore. Sometimes too much time passes and you discover you can’t even find people anymore.

Difficult Friendships

Another hard lesson I’ve learned is that sometimes you have to shed friends. Though I’m never calling anyone and saying, “We’re not friends anymore,” there are times you just have to lay low because someone has become toxic. It was a hard lesson, because I never want to let anyone go, but when people become abusive to themselves or others, when they are doing things that are not healthy for themselves or the relationship, I have to keep my distance. Fortunately, it hasn’t happened often.

Of course, there are also the pretend friends. They tell you one thing and tell others another, and it gets back to you. It’s pure evil. I still hurt thinking about how I believed in some people and I was betrayed, yet they still pretend all is well.

Deadly Gossip

I recently lost a good friend because I told another mutual friend, out of concern, about something I’d heard — and that friend told my friend, who called me on it. I’ll think twice before I do that again because the loss of friendship leaves a gaping hole. It’s best just to keep my trap shut. Gossip is deadly even if you didn’t intend it as gossip.

The best friends are the lifers, of course. Sometimes you’re not in touch for years, even decades, but you still consider one another friends, and when you’re back together you don’t skip a beat. Facebook has been great for staying informed on the lives of friends I don’t often see in person.

My best lifers are the ones who nurture their friendships. It’s forced collision — I try to force it annually.

Together All Year

One of my closest lifer friends and I are like the two characters in the movie Same Time Next Year. I do an annual event at the Harvard Club in New York for my radio magazine, Radio Ink, and he likes to attend, so he always comes in and we room together at the National Arts Club, go to dinner and breakfast together, and get caught up on families and feelings. It’s something we both cherish because we talk for hours.

Though we talk randomly throughout the year, this is a way we carve out time for one another. It’s a big sacrifice for him to make the trip, and it’s one of the most meaningful times of the year for me. I look forward to it all year. We’ve done it for probably 10 years, and last year he missed it for the first time because he had a chance to go to Asia. It was truly lonely without him, and a time when I realized that one day that friend could be gone. As they say, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I’m not sure why I feel so strongly about friendships. Maybe it was not getting picked for either team as the fat kid in elementary school, or being so weird that me and the kids I hung out with were the school losers (according to others, not us).

Driven by Friendships

As I look back on my year and my events, I’ve realized that friendships drive the whole thing. We really do get close at painting events like this week’s Adirondack Publisher’s invitational, next October’s Fall Color Week in Acadia National Park in Maine, and trips like the one I’ve taken painters on to Cuba and New Zealand in the last 18 months, or even our annual art cruise (this year, for the first time, it’s not a cruise — we’re going to Russia). I’m sure I’ll make friends on next year’s African Art Safari. Of course, the Plein Air Convention (PACE) and the Figurative Art Convention & Expo (FACE) will be filled with new and old friendships.

Though I started kinda melancholy this morning, I’ve just realized how fortunate I am to be in a position to make so many friends. I can always be a better friend, I can nurture more, call more, and stay in better touch. Some friends I rarely see, others I see frequently, and it’s still not enough.

My grandmother had a rich life with deep and meaningful friendships, and I think her advice to stay in touch and nurture those relationships has paid off. It makes life so much richer when you can share it with others.

I feel like the luckiest man alive…

Today may be Father’s Day, which comes with its responsibilities, but why not seek out and nurture some friends today and this week?

I’m in a relaxed state of mind as the fog lifts off the lake this Sunday morning. There is a loon about 30 feet off the dock and she just took a dive, startled by the noise of my fingers on my iPad’s keyboard. The lake is quiet and peaceful, no boat noise. I did see an early morning canoe in the distance, in the shadow of the mountain. There are layers of trees, each a little lighter and grayer as they recede into the distance, and the water is still as a statue. The lake is like a giant amplifier, and I can actually hear the conversation of the couple in the canoe though they are a half mile away. Nothing interesting, just small talk.

Last weekend I was invited to be a part of something I consider pretty special: the Putney Painters, a painting group in Putney, Vermont, headed by legendary artist Richard Schmid and his wife, Nancy Guzik. As my Grandmother Luella used to say, “a red letter day.” I’ve been once before, when Richard painted my portrait. But this time I was invited to paint with the group.

This was the second-to-last official Putney Painters gathering involving Richard Schmid. He has decided to end it officially because of other things he wants to accomplish drawing his time and attention. The group has been meeting weekly, certain times of the year, in a lovely old red barn called Village Arts of Putney for the past 10 or so years.

Sometimes I get invited to places because people want press or coverage, but that wasn’t the case this time; no one was over-promoting or asking for coverage. It was just a calm, easygoing day, where we all painted. And because I set up directly behind Richard, where I could see every brushstroke, I learned while I observed and painted.

I’ve had the privilege of seeing Richard paint before, and one day I set up in the garden next to him and did a painting of him painting. Of course, I’ve watched all his DVDs, and I’ve read his books, including the new version of Alla Prima, the must-read bible on painting. He also told me how excited he is because before Christmas, he is re-releasing his book The Landscapes with more content, and even more brilliant scans and printing, making the few remaining copies of his current Landscapes book a rare collectible.

What I learned in painting with Richard this time was that he is not in a hurry, as I tend to be. Everything is slow and deliberate, even though his paintings look like they were done rapidly and are filled with energy. He takes time in observation, then takes time mixing, then more time observing, then he lays down a perfect stroke. He once told me he used to spend his time correcting mistakes, so by being more deliberate and careful, he eliminates mistakes up front.

I also noticed how softly he paints. He spends a lot of time laying down soft brushstrokes, and in some cases he softens them still further, with a sable brush or even his hands or a rag. It was an important lesson for me … slowing down and being soft.

He talked about how likeness is achieved by squinting down and painting the big shapes, saying that one does not need to know anatomy, but just to paint the shapes one sees. He talked about the importance of squinting for shape — but not making things as dark as they appear when squinting.

But I’m not here to provide an art lesson today.

Richard finished his painting early and walked through the room to talk with and help most of the painters, people who had all been painting with him — in some cases, over decades. It was amazing, the quality of the paintings by the people in the room … people like Kathy Anderson, Stephanie Birdsall, Charlie Hunter, and many others I’d met only once or twice before. Stephanie was like a giddy little girl after Richard spent 10 minutes showing her how to get perfect soft edges on her painting. “I’ve been here on and off for years, and this one day was one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned,” she told me.

I shuddered inside when the master sauntered up to my painting, studied it, then said, “I think your drawing is off on the back of the head.” (We were painting Symi Jackson from Rosemary & Co Brushes.) Then he took his brush and measured and said, “Nope, I was wrong. It’s perfect.”

He looked at me and said, “I had no idea you were such a good painter.” Then he walked away.

Though I’ve always found Richard to be encouraging to others, I also know he does not throw out compliments unless there is good reason. He always looks for something encouraging to say to someone, for sure — “nice colors” kinds of things. But to hear this sent me to the moon. Of course, what I did not tell him is that I was watching and trying to emulate what he did. So the compliment may not be fully deserved … but I’ll take it.

That then brings me to my point for today.

The secret no one ever told me about, for decades, is that the biggest, most successful people are generous and focus constantly on generosity.

Though the media makes out big business leaders as ruthless, hard-nosed jerks, I’ve learned that for the most part, the opposite is true. Most of the business owners I know, some of whom have even become billionaires, are not ruthless at all. Instead, they are generous. They have learned, as I did, that if you set out to actually change people’s lives, set out to help them while expecting nothing in return, you magically end up more successful. It could almost be considered one of the laws of the universe.

I spent many decades in business without fully understanding this principle. Though I’ve always been a giving person, I kind of separated that out to my personal life. It was radio talk host Dave Ramsey who urged me to incorporate a spirit of generosity into my business.

It was like flipping a switch. When I told my team to approach everything this way, it was an eye-opener for us all, and suddenly it gave us more purpose. Suddenly things were not just about business or profits, they were about using the business as a tool to change lives, to make change in the lives of others. Showing up for work had a new meaning, and my entire demeanor changed.

No one likes to show up for work unless there is a bigger mission, and my mission on the art side of my business is to teach 1 million people to paint. Painting changed something inside of me, and I want others to experience the joy, the satisfaction, the continual stimulation, and the ability to use their creativity.

If I had to define my purpose in everything I do, it’s to educate, inspire, and engage people. If something pops up and it does not fit within those three words, I don’t do it. It’s got to fit the mission.

One thing I hear continually about Richard Schmid is that he is generous. I could see it when I watched him truly interested in helping the Putney Painters. I’ve heard it from dozens of people who say his true interest in helping them resulted in their entire careers blossoming.

I was raised by generous parents and grandparents who instilled those values into me at a young age. But my mentors in business never taught me this important lesson, and I ultimately had to find it on my own. I spent a lot of years wandering around without a mission. Though I had goals, I did not have a bigger purpose.

Since changing that attitude a few years ago, everything has changed in our world, and we’re able to affect a lot more lives in so many ways I never thought would be possible. We even managed to pay for and build a home in a homeless village because we take a significant part of our earnings and try to put them to good use for charities. It sure feels better coming to work every day knowing that our work has deeper meaning.

Once generosity found my heart, I kept running into others who operate on this principle, and I’m seeing lives and attitudes change because of so many others taking this approach.

It’s important to note that this doesn’t work if you do it for the purpose of growing your business. But it will help your business grow, as a side benefit. And even if it doesn’t, it makes showing up for work much more pleasurable.

As you know, I teach marketing for artists, and I spend a lot of time studying the biggest successes. And I’ve since discovered that though all are savvy marketers, the majority are very generous. I think that’s why Richard Schmid became so famous. He’s a brilliant painter, but there are other brilliant painters who have never been discovered or become so successful. I think it’s that spirit of generosity that propels people beyond anything they could do on their own.

I asked Richard where he learned this spirit of giving. “My mother,” he said. “We were always raised to put others first.”
So our thought for this week is: What can you do to be more generous to others, expecting absolutely nothing in return? In what ways can you go above and beyond to be generous?

Though this weekly note is fairly new, readership is already soaring. Imagine how much impact you and I can have if we each implement more generosity for a solid week. I think it could be huge.

Recently I discovered a hot young artist by the name of Sean Escott, who I think is the next budding superstar plein air painter. He sent me an e-mail asking for some advice, and though time is tight, I gave him more time than I had to help him launch his career. Frankly, once he is discovered, his life is going to change.

Anyway, at the end of our talk, he said, “How can I repay you?” And though it was tempting to say, “Send me a painting” or something, my heart told me that would send the wrong message. My reply was simple: “One day you’ll have a chance to help someone learn the important lessons you’ve already learned. The best thing you can do to pay me back is to do this for someone else in the future. Pay it forward.”

That, my friends, is what we all need to do. Play the long game. Pay it forward. And even if business rewards don’t come, it doesn’t matter, because seeing someone’s eyes light up when you’ve been unexpectedly generous — that’s the best possible reward you can ever get.

This week, be generous. It truly is the secret to success.

PS: I took some photos at the Putney Painters that day. You can view them below.