God clearly has a sense of humor.

While much of America spent this week battling hurricane-force snow, record lows, and the kind of ice that makes your driveway look like an Olympic luge track, I’m watching the sun rise over the Atlantic. Pink clouds. Mild waves. A forecast promising near 70 by afternoon.

I’m in Hilton Head, SC, and hosting my Winter Art Escape artist retreat, reconnecting and painting with old friends and new, each of whom had stories of missed flights, white-knuckle drives, and the kind of slipping and sliding that makes you question all your life choices.

Meanwhile, I’m sipping coffee in paradise, wondering how I got so lucky.

Except I know exactly how I got here, and “lucky” had little to do with it. Blessed would be a better term.

The Pinball Theory of Life

When I was a kid, there were these magnificent contraptions called pinball machines. You’d stand there gripping two paddles, fire a silver ball upward into a maze of lights and bumpers, and pray it didn’t ricochet straight into oblivion. The goal was simple: Land that ball in the high-value hole. The reality was chaos. No matter how skilled you were, random bumpers would send your ball careening in directions you never intended, landing you in circumstances you never predicted.

Which, as it turns out, is a perfect metaphor for life.

I run my schedule with surgical precision. Every calendar slot filled. Meetings stacked like Jenga blocks. Recording sessions, broadcasts, online events, conference calls, employee and customer meetings, in-person conferences … barely a breath between them. I’m the guy who plans his bathroom breaks. And yet, all it takes is one unexpected bumper — a flight delay, a last-minute emergency, someone running 20 minutes late — and suddenly the entire day ricochets in a new direction.

The thing is, I’ve made peace with other people’s chaos. When someone’s late to my meeting, I don’t stress. But that pinball still fires off sideways, creating a cascade of rescheduling, apologies, and dominoes falling in slow motion.

Our New Post-College Rhythm

The last few years, my bride and I developed a rhythm: Christmas at home with the family, then we’d load the dogs in the back seat and make the two-day drive south to escape the frozen tundra we’d tolerated most of our lives. We don’t fly because we need a car, and our dogs — well, let’s just say they don’t have the credentials for air travel. 

But this year, the rhythm broke. One of the triplets moved home between college graduation and his first real job, starting mid-January. Another came home job-hunting and landed something around the same time. So we stayed put to be with our kids. I hosted Watercolor Live from home, attended a two-day board meeting, and had exactly one week — one glorious week — to escape to sunshine before my next trip.

Packed and ready to go, a week ago Friday, we were minutes from loading the car.

Then Chewy, our oldest dog, a tiny maltipoo with more personality and confidence than any dog we’ve ever owned, started crying out in pain as his body slowly deteriorated at 17 years. The meds that had been working stopped working. And a week ago yesterday, his suffering stopped and we said goodbye.

The Grief Nobody Warns You About

Only pet owners truly understand the weird, gut-punch grief of losing a fur-baby you’ve held and played with for years. It’s surreal. They’ve always been there — background music to your life — and suddenly the soundtrack goes silent. You trip over little landmines: blankets, leashes, bowls. Each one detonates a fresh sting.

My friend Steven Burke lost his beloved cat, Charcoal, the same week. We commiserated. There’s something oddly comforting about shared grief, even when it’s about creatures who can’t talk back but somehow communicate more clearly than most humans.

Here’s the strange part: Losing Chewy that week actually worked out. If we’d been halfway to Florida when it happened, we’d have been dealing with it in a hotel parking lot somewhere in Georgia, debating whether to turn around or keep going. Instead, we were home. Together. Present. And Chewy was with us and part of the family as he faded away.

Now we can’t leave for two more weeks anyway — I had to fly here for Winter Art Escape, then fly back to host another online event, Gouache Boot Camp, and shoot a new pilot for PBS, before we can finally slip away for a brief stay.

The pinball landed exactly where it needed to land.

Which brings me to the question everyone asks when they lose someone — furry or otherwise: Will I see them again?

The Heaven Question Nobody Wants to Answer Honestly

Our pets supposedly don’t have souls. At least that’s what most theologians tell us. I hate that answer, because anyone who’s looked into a dog’s eyes knows there’s something there. Personality. Loyalty. Love that puts most humans to shame.

Some people say pets go to heaven to be with us. Others say they reincarnate — dogs become humans, humans become dogs, and we all keep cycling through until we get it right. I’d like to believe my dogs will meet me in heaven one day, tails wagging, ready to spend eternity playing fetch.

But heaven is a tricky subject.

Do Bad People Go to Heaven?

Have you ever been to a funeral where everyone talks about some questionable character like he’s Mother Teresa? “He’s in a better place now,” they say, while you’re sitting there thinking, Really? That guy? The one who stole from his business partner and cheated on his wife? THAT guy gets heaven?

Yet pretty much every funeral treats the afterlife like a participation trophy. Everybody gets in. Just show up to life, then collect your golden ticket on the way out.

Except that’s not how it works.

“I’ll be there because I’m a good person,” some say. Sounds reasonable. Except the Bible doesn’t grade on a curve. No matter how good you are, good doesn’t buy your ticket.

“I’ll earn my way in by doing good works,” others insist. Volunteering. Charity. Helping little old ladies cross the street. Noble? Absolutely. Enough? Not even close.

Here’s where I lose some of you, and I know it. I’ll get emails saying, “I loved your Sunday notes until you got religious.”

But here’s the thing: I’m not religious.

Being religious means belonging to a religion — following rules, checking boxes, attending the right building on the right day, saying the right words in the right order. That’s not me. Rick Warren nailed it: “You were made by God and for God, and until you understand that, life will never make sense.” Many religions tell you the only way to God is through them — their rules, their rituals, their secret handshake. Some claim all religions are just different paths up the same mountain, that it doesn’t matter what you believe because we all end up in the same place.

I think that’s naive. Especially if you’ve actually read the texts. They contradict each other on pretty fundamental stuff — like whether God is one being or many, whether salvation is earned or given, whether Jesus was divine or just a really good teacher.

Nothing to Earn, Which is Refreshing

The bottom line: You cannot earn your way into heaven. It’s not Jesus plus church attendance. Not Jesus plus helping orphans. Not Jesus plus saying the right prayers. Not Jesus plus anything.

The “plus” comes after. A changed heart creates the desire to be better, to love more, to help others. The good works flow from grace, not toward it.

Billy Graham put it perfectly:
God proved His love on the Cross. When Christ hung, and bled, and died, it was God saying to the world, ‘I love you.’”

Which is why — painful as it is — we’re probably not going to see our dogs in heaven. Or good people who never accepted the invitation. It’s not complicated: Be a Jesus follower, not a religious person.

There are hundreds of documented witnesses who say Jesus wasn’t just a prophet. He died on a cross — horrifically, publicly — and was resurrected, and was seen by over 400 people afterward. This isn’t just religious propaganda; it’s documented in ancient texts written by people who had no reason to lie and every reason to recant when some were being executed for their testimony.

One of my favorite books is The Case for Christ by Lee Strobel — an atheist investigative reporter who set out to debunk Christianity once and for all. His conclusion? The evidence was so overwhelming that his only rational option was to accept Christ, who said, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”

Grace for Leaky Cups

Now the critics are sharpening their pitchforks, so let me be clear: I’m not saying this to earn brownie points or secure my reservation upstairs. Despite all the terrible things I’ve done — and trust me, there’s a list — I’ll be there. Because we’re forgiven. All of it. Every mess, every failure, every regret, when we accept Christ. Therefore even bad people can be forgiven.

Here’s my favorite analogy:

Imagine a paper cup filled with water, and the water represents God’s Spirit; His presence, His glory living in us. We were created in the image of God, designed to hold His Spirit, for fellowship with heaven itself. But when sin entered the world through Adam and Eve, it shattered that image. It pierced the cup. Suddenly we couldn’t hold water anymore.

Every sin we commit pokes another hole. No matter how hard we try to be good, to fill ourselves with God’s presence, it leaks out. We can’t contain Him on our own. Our brokenness destroys our intimacy with God.

But when we accept Christ, He covers our sin — like slipping another perfect cup around our broken one. Now the water doesn’t leak out. The essence of Christ, the Holy Spirit, can fill us and stay because Christ has covered every hole, every flaw, every sin. There are no leaks anymore.

That’s called being justified by faith. That’s what it means to abide in Christ. And with the perfection of Christ covering us, we can enter Heaven. Otherwise scoundrels like me would never have a chance.

The struggle is that we keep trying to do it on our own, forgetting that we need that outer cup covering us constantly.

Or picture this: You’re being robbed. A man points a gun at you. Just before he fires, someone else steps in front and takes the bullet because he loves you that much. That’s what Christ does when we accept Him.

But here’s the part nobody tells you in the brochure: Life doesn’t get easier. Things don’t magically improve. Problems still pile up. Bills still come due. Dogs still die. The pinball still hits bumpers you didn’t see.

But you don’t go through it alone. And sometimes — often, actually — He wants you to have problems so you’ll learn to depend on Him instead of yourself. Part of accepting Christ is losing ourselves, our pride.

Prayer doesn’t always work the way we want, either. I’m thankful for most of the things I prayed for that didn’t happen, because in hindsight I can see that something better came along.  I just had to be patient and trust the plan — even when the plan looked like chaos.

When I read my Bible daily, things go better. I’m more focused. More grounded. When I don’t, I slip up, say things I regret, make decisions I have to undo later. It’s a lot like painting. If I don’t paint every day, I slip up. If I don’t stay in the Word, and in prayer, I slip up.

I’m far from perfect. I battle my ego constantly. I fight for humility, trying to remember that the good things that happen aren’t because I’m special — they’re grace. It’s a constant struggle, because human nature wants to beat its own drum, to claim credit, to believe we’ve earned what we have.

But I believe all good things come from Christ.

Why I’m Telling You This

If you’re still reading — and bless you if you are — I’m not sharing this to convert you. I don’t have that power. But once you find this kind of joy, you kinda want others to experience it. The Bible says we’re invited, and if our heart is stirring, we need to accept the invitation. I’m not here to push anything on you. I’m just sharing my thoughts on heaven so you can understand a little more about who I am, what I stand for. I don’t want to be the church lady or act in the ugly way the media portrays Christians.

It’s hard to understand why bad things happen to good people. A young star quarterback with a huge future was killed in our state a couple of weeks ago. It’s heartbreaking to see TV ads with kids in cancer clinics, fighting battles they didn’t choose.

Why?

All I can say is: Trust the plan. There’s a reason we may never know. The pinball hits bumpers we can’t see, ricochets in directions we don’t understand, and lands in holes we didn’t know existed.

But someone’s running the machine.

Chewy’s Last Lesson

I miss that little guy. His blanket is still in the corner. His bowl is still by the door. Every time I see them, I feel the sting.

But here’s what I’m learning: The unexpected redirections aren’t accidents. They’re part of a game I can’t follow from where I’m standing. Maybe Chewy’s timing wasn’t random. Maybe staying home that week mattered for reasons I’ll never understand.

The silver ball is still in play. The flippers are still in my hands. And even when the ball drains and the game seems over, someone keeps feeding in quarters to let me play again.

That’s grace.

And I’m grateful — even through the tears, even seeing the empty dog bowls, even through the pinball surprises I never saw coming.

See you next week,

Eric Rhoads

How can something so beautiful be so dangerous?

One of my favorite things to photograph is a thick coat of ice drawing down from a tree branch — nature’s chandelier, delicate and crystalline. But of course, when branches sag and break and fall on power lines, everything gets complicated. 

Finding Beauty Everywhere

As many as 40 states are dealing with this weekend’s massive storm. The ability to find beauty in tragedy is a gift. We can’t always control our circumstances, but we can at least control our response to them. 

Pay Attention Now

The grocery store shelves are bare. It’s alarming to see people who weren’t paying attention to the storm warnings scramble at the last minute to find almost nothing left. It pays to pay attention.

Perspective Changes Everything

It makes me appreciate the life I have — the simplicity of life when groceries are there when we need them, when the heat in the house works and the electricity works. It reminds me that compared to people in war zones or famine zones, this little three-day outage doesn’t give us much to whine about. Others deal with this every day.

Change Is Possible

Not everyone in the world has the ability to lift themselves out of their circumstances, which is why I find it so puzzling that those of us who live in a place where anything is possible don’t make changes when we have the ability. Don’t like your life, your job? Simply change it.

It Starts Inside

“Well, Eric, it’s not that easy,” you say, and it’s true — I’m not walking in your shoes. I don’t know the intricacies of your circumstances. But I do know that it’s possible to change those circumstances with some thinking and some planning. Maybe it’s not instant, maybe it takes years, but change starts in your head. If you can change how you process information and how you think about things, you’ve taken the first step.

Different, Not Harder

“You don’t understand, Dad,” said one of my kids who was whining about something related to their circumstances. “Things are different now than when you were my age.”

And they’re right. In some ways things were better, and in some ways things were worse. I struggled to get into my dream radio job because I was competing with thousands of people. I didn’t have the benefit of the internet or email — I had to find ways to stand out when applying for jobs. What could I do to make myself different? What could I do to get a slight advantage over others? The answers come from the questions, and when you keep asking questions like that, answers always come when you least expect them.

Do What’s Required

The hard part, of course, is having things fall into place the way we hope they will. They rarely do.

Once I got tired of never having enough money, I had to do things I didn’t want to do to pull myself out of my circumstances. I had to work two other jobs, seven days a week — literally from 8 a.m. to 2 a.m. every day, all weekend, every weekend, morning into late night, for a few years. 

Rather than telling myself how awful it was, I told myself how fortunate I was to have a brain good enough to come up with ways to pull myself out of my mess, get the income I needed, and eventually morph into a better career. While others would tell me they could never do it, my motivation to get out of my current circumstances was powerful. Almost anything painful and inconvenient was worth it.

Reframe the Struggle

And though I would not want to do it now, I would if I had to. I look back and tell myself the struggle was fun. I met lots of great people, I learned a lot, and I felt good about myself, doing what it takes.

Rich Versus Engaged

Success is sweet, no doubt. My late friend Norm Pattiz used to say, “I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.” Yes, he had a giant house in Hollywood, six or eight garages with every imaginable car, and an art collection most would envy. In his later years, he continually reinvented himself, he sold businesses, but he never retired. I believe he lived a rich life till the day he passed. He was intentional about not becoming a couch potato.

Yet others I know have also achieved great wealth. They have lots of stuff, but they’re bored, feel useless, and would probably give it all up if they could feel as engaged and invigorated as in earlier parts of their career.

Retirement’s Hidden Trap

Lots of friends who have retired want things both ways. They want something to do, they want to be relevant and engaged, but they don’t want to give up all that golf and sleeping in.

Reinvention Keeps Alive

Here’s what I’ve noticed: The people who stay alive — truly alive — are the ones who have mastered the art of reinvention.

Age Is Nothing

My mother-in-law is 92 and still gets up at 5 a.m. every day to paint. She didn’t start painting seriously until her 60s. Sixty. Think about that. Most people at 60 are calculating their retirement date. She was calculating which brushes to buy.

Starting Over Works

I didn’t discover painting until I was 38, after building a career in radio. Everyone thought I was insane to start over. “You’re going to do what? Learn to paint? Start a magazine about painting? You don’t even know how to paint!”

Exactly.

No Permission Required

The beautiful thing about reinvention is that you don’t need permission. You don’t need perfect circumstances. You don’t even need to know how it’s going to turn out. You just need to be willing to be terrible at something new.

Beginners See Differently

Because here’s the secret nobody tells you: Being a beginner is a superpower.

When you’re a beginner, you ask different questions. You see things the experts miss because they’ve stopped looking. You bring fresh energy to tired fields. You connect dots that nobody else thought to connect because you don’t know you’re not supposed to.

Multiple Lives Possible

I’ve reinvented myself at least four times now. Radio to publishing. Publishing to painting. Painting to teaching. Teaching to … well, we’ll see what’s next. Each time felt terrifying. Each time felt impossible. Each time people said, “But you’ve already succeeded at X, why would you risk it for Y?”

Stagnation Slowly Kills 

Because the opposite of reinvention isn’t stability. It’s stagnation.

And stagnation, my friends, is just a slow death with a paycheck.

Don’t Wait Forever

The storm outside reminds me that sometimes circumstances force reinvention on us. The ice breaks the branches whether we’re ready or not. The power goes out. The grocery shelves empty. Life doesn’t wait for us to feel prepared.

Break Your Branches

But what if we didn’t wait for the storm? What if we broke our own branches before the ice did?

Age Isn’t Real

What if 60 isn’t too old to start painting? What if 40 isn’t too late to change careers? What if 70 isn’t too advanced to learn something completely new?

Stories Stop Us

The only thing stopping most people from reinventing themselves isn’t age or circumstances or money or time. It’s the story they keep telling themselves about why they can’t.

Do It Scared

Here’s a better story: You’re not too old. You’re not too late. You’re not too stuck.

You’re just scared.

And that’s OK. Do it scared.

Beautiful and Dangerous

The ice is beautiful and dangerous at the same time. So is starting over. So is trying something new. So is admitting you’re not satisfied with the life you’re living and deciding to build a different one.

You Still Choose

The power might go out. The shelves might be empty. The branches might break.

But you? You get to choose what grows back in the spring.

Eric Rhoads

P.S. The ice storm will pass in a few days. But how many years will you let pass before you reinvent yourself? The branches that break in the storm will grow back stronger. The ones that never break just get heavier with ice until they snap under their own weight. Which would you rather be?
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P.P. S. I’m not a bragger, so when I say this, I say it to make a point — I’m not looking for attention. At my various events, retreats,​ conventions, and online programs, I’ve met hundreds of people who told me they reinvented themselves because I gave them the courage, challenged them, and provided the instruction to set them on their new course. Though we’ve exposed over 20 million people to painting, what if just 10 percent tried something new, took up painting, even though their heads told them they were not talented or capable? People tell me their lives are more rewarding since they took up painting. I’ve taught everyone from students to housewives to high-powered attorneys and heart surgeons. They all tell me it has changed their life.
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In almost every case I’ve heard of, they lacked belief that they had it in them, and they went for it anyway.
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If painting isn’t for you, I’m not gonna push it on you.
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Howard Stern, the radio host, took up painting. I sent him a bunch of our training videos. I saw some of his artwork, which was magnificent, but he gave up painting for guitar — I’m told because he felt he would never get that good at painting. I do both. Guitar is harder. No matter what your frustration, stick with it. You will overcome it. Success never comes until deep frustration sets in. It’s a signal.
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I know how to have fun. I get a bunch of my friends together, and we go painting, we attend classes to learn together, we hang out, we go to dinner, then we do more classes. We do that every day for five days. Wanna do it with us? It’s called the Plein Air Convention, this year in the centrally located Ozarks near Branson, Missouri. It’s an easy drive for most of America. But the price jumps up significantly on Valentine’s Day. Book your seat now at PleinAirConvention.com.
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This past week at Watercolor Live, the world’s largest online art training event, we had people from 18 countries, and we had a blast for four days. Eighty percent signed up for next year already — it was that good!

Something is amiss. Summer weather filled our holiday season, and we’re still getting amazing sunny days when we should be shivering. The birds are singing like spring. The dead trees are about to sprout spring greens. Nature is confused here in Austin, Texas, this year.

The house has a different sound now.

I noticed it first this morning when I meandered into the kitchen in my bare feet — the floorboards creak louder when there’s one less person moving around upstairs. The coffeemaker’s gurgle echoes off the kitchen walls. Even the dogs’ collars jingle differently, as if the sound waves have more room to travel before finding a surface to absorb them.

The Last Sunday Dinner

A week ago today, we gathered for what would be our last Sunday dinner as a complete family for the foreseeable future. Yesterday, Berkeley, our youngest triplet, drove away with a U-Haul to start his dream job at a space company five hours away. As I said grace over our meal, my voice cracked. The words caught in my throat like breadcrumbs. The reality of our last Sunday dinner, after 23 years of them, was, well, pretty hard to take.

You see, I know how this story goes. I left home at 17 and never moved back. Not because I didn’t love my parents, but because that’s what you do — you launch. You fly. You build your own nest. And now, watching my son’s taillights disappear down our street, I recognize that same fierce independence in him. The same need to forge his own path, filled with joy and possibilities, yet tearing up to say goodbye.

Ambushed by Memories

Memories ambush you at moments like these. His surgery at eight months old — repairing something we discovered by pure chance that could have caused serious problems in adulthood. Teaching him to tie knots for Scouts, shooting BB guns, driving him on his first date, and countless band concerts at school. That first blacksmithing lesson when he was 9, his eyes wide behind safety goggles as the hammer met hot metal. Now he’s making more money than I paid for my first house, having sailed through 11 interviews when most people don’t survive the first.

Here’s what nobody tells you about success: Sometimes the things you’re most proud of are the things that hurt the most.

Flipping the Switch

When I was in my 40s, I was still allergic to the idea of children. I watched my cousin’s baby vomit on him once, and I nearly gagged myself. How could he just … not care? He wiped it off like it was nothing, kept cooing at her, completely unfazed, no drama. I swore that would never be me. I had plans. Big plans. Plans that involved me, myself, and I.

But life has a way of flipping switches you didn’t know existed.

When I met my wife, something fundamental shifted. Suddenly, the thought of creating humans who would call me Dad became not just acceptable but essential. We had them later in life — triplets, if you can believe it. The doctors sat us down, tried to convince us to “reduce” the pregnancy. Better odds, they said. Lower risk of complications. What they really meant was better statistics for their university hospital’s funding reports.

We didn’t even consider it. “We’ll take whatever we’re given, thank you.”

And we did. Three babies. Fifty thousand diapers. Three college tuitions. Fifteen trikes and bikes. Three broken hearts as each one drives away to start their own story. Fortunately for us, one is working and living at home to save money before moving out.

Joy Versus Happiness

The Apostle Paul wrote his letters to the Philippians from prison. Ten years behind bars for preaching what he believed. You’d expect complaints, bitterness, maybe a little “woe is me.” Instead, he writes about joy. Not happiness — that’s conditional, tied to circumstances. Joy is different. Joy exists in the midst of pain, in the center of loss, in the heart of change.

My friend Gary Bertrum taught me this. He’s been coming to my painting retreats for years, filling our evenings with his guitar and his laughter. Two years ago, he went home feeling unwell. What followed was two years of unbearable pain — an incurable disease that stripped him down to a skeleton, hundreds of hospital visits, and treatments that would break most spirits. Yet every time I hear from him, he radiates something I can only call joy. He doesn’t talk about himself, or his pain, or the treatments. He continues to be encouraging and loving, asking about others. He is selfless. He’s teaching me how to live by showing me how to die. And he’s not questioning or blaming God, he is praising Him.

Music in Silence

This is what I’ve learned from empty chairs and quiet houses: Joy isn’t found in keeping things the same. It’s not in the accumulation of stuff or the achievement of milestones. It lives in the terrible, beautiful reality of loving people so much that letting them go feels like tearing off a piece of your soul — and knowing you’d do it again in a heartbeat.

The house may sound different now, but I’m learning to hear music in the silence. Each empty chair is a trophy, proof that we did our job. We raised humans who can fly.

And that sound you hear? That’s not emptiness.

That’s joy.

Eric Rhoads

P.S. If you missed my free online event last Thursday about goal-setting for artists (though the principles apply to anyone), you can still catch the replay [here].

Watercolor Live is coming! We’ve made exciting changes this year that will transform how you see and create watercolor art. Whether you’re a beginner or looking to refine your techniques, this is your chance to learn from masters who will share secrets it took them decades to discover. The energy of creating alongside hundreds of other artists is absolutely electric. [Join us here.]

Valentine’s Day Deadline: The early bird deadline for the Plein Air Convention is February 14 — save $300 if you register before Valentine’s Day. This is where the entire plein air world gathers to paint, learn, and push boundaries together. After last year’s record attendance, spaces are filling fast. [Secure your spot here.]

The crackle of burning embers fills the living room — that primal sound that’s comforted humans since we first tamed fire. Wood smoke mingles with the lingering scent of pine needles from the Christmas tree and leftover scented Christmas candles. Outside and across the backyard at my art studio, the porch by the outdoor fireplace has become our gathering place for holiday moments, including that magical night when old painting friends reunited — brushes in one hand, Christmas cookies in the other, a model to pose,15 years of weekly painting nights warming us as much as the flames.

The Box in the Garage

This weekend we’ll be boxing decorations, each ornament wrapped and boxes labeled, stored on sagging garage shelves until next year’s resurrection. Time to remove the wreaths, the four-foot toy soldier, and the Christmas lights. It’s the ritual of transition — the careful packing away of one season to make room for whatever comes next. And we are entering a new season.

But there’s another project that’s been haunting me that finally got attention this week. Thousands of photos finally made it from old hard drives to my phone/cloud. Still waiting: more years, more boxes, slides from the pre-digital era when every shot cost money and seemed to matter more.

My father spent his last decade scanning every photo he’d ever taken in his life. Organized them. Uploaded them. What a gift — his entire visual history, our childhood, his childhood, all searchable, all saved. Now that torch passes to me. First Christmas decorations come down, then the garage that’s been ignored for a decade, and then, if there’s time, attack the photos.

When Pixels Become Portals

Here’s what they don’t tell you about old photos: They’re time machines with faulty steering.

One minute you’re organizing files, the next you’re reminiscing over a friend who’s gone, or tearing up seeing your kids as babies, their faces round with possibility. Old photos are reminders of good times and tough times, yet those tough times don’t seem as bad now. Looking at photos is bittersweet, especially as two of the kids won’t be here after Christmas. 

My son Berkeley is moving five hours away for his dream job next week. Brady is already on his own and supporting himself. Grace will stick around as she’s starting a new job next week. Bittersweet because I remember when I became independent and never again lived at home, and I know those kids may not be here for any length of time again. The house grows quieter. We celebrate their launches while mourning the noise.

The Fat Kid Still Lives Here

Then came the photos I wasn’t ready for. Elementary school. That overweight kid with greasy hair and thick glasses who didn’t have the strength to climb the rope. The gym teacher who used my struggles for cheap laughs. The locker room towel snaps. The whispers, the snickers, the pointing, the bullying. I had not seen those photos for several decades, and the moment I did, the pain returned. I quickly realized that the very same pain is stuck in my subconscious mind, which speaks up to prevent more pain when making decisions.

It was an “aha moment” for me, an epiphany of sorts. Years of being mocked as the weak fat kid explains why I have to fight myself daily to work out, and why I tend to overeat. The mocking undermines my confidence in certain situations, quietly in the dark corners of my brain.

Decades later, when strangers laugh in a restaurant, my first instinct? They’re laughing at me. My adult brain knows better. My child brain doesn’t care about logic, which explains why some goals never get achieved — because my self-esteem in some areas is rotten from my first 10 or 12 years.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Author and hypnotist Jim Curtis explained it perfectly on Lewis Howes’ podcast last week: Our self-talk programs our subconscious mind, which drives 85% of our decisions. Those childhood experiences become our “I am” statements:

“I am fat.”
“I am not athletic.”
“I am the one they mock.”

Curious, I looked it up, and research from Stanford’s Carol Dweck backs this up — our mindset literally shapes our reality. Neuroscientist Dr. Joe Dispenza’s brain scan research shows how repeated thoughts create neural highways that become our default patterns. Negative thoughts and negative talk actually impact your outcomes.

My buddy Chris used to mock my positive mindset. “Be careful what you say,” I’d warn him when he’d complain about work killing him. “Your subconscious is listening.”

Turns out, it really is.

The “But” That Breaks Dreams

This week — this quiet week between Christmas and New Year’s — might be your most important of 2025. Because right now, you’re considering setting some goals or making New Year’s resolutions.

But here’s the trap: State any goal out loud. Listen quietly to what your brain says immediately after.

“I want to double my income … but I’m not smart enough.”
“I want to get in shape … but I’ve never been athletic.”
“I want to write that book … but who would read it?”
“I want to meet Elon Musk … but why would he care to hear anything I have to say?”
“I want to be successful enough to own my own jet … but I’ll never be rich enough.”

Those “buts” are assassins. They murder dreams before they draw their first breath.

The research states that you need to place yourself in your “I am” statements even if you don’t believe them. “I am a world-class artist.” “I am the president of my company.” “I am the owner of a Gulfstream jet.”

Rewriting the Operating System

We’ve all heard all the stuff about goal-setting, but the goal is only part of the story. There’s more that’s required. We need a strong reason why we want it. We need a deadline. We need to understand what we face so we know how to overcome those things, and we must absolutely reprogram those “but” comments that float into our consciousness when we set a goal.

It looks like this:

Goal: What you want
Purpose: Why it matters to you (make this huge)
Deadline: Exactly when it needs to be done (not “someday”)
Roadblocks: External obstacles to overcome
Beliefs: The internal saboteurs

That last one — that’s where the real work lives.

Because that overweight kid who couldn’t climb the rope? He was traumatized at 12. But why is a grown man still letting a 12-year-old’s pain run his life? He doesn’t have to, yet most of us are carrying far too much PERCEIVED trauma from our past.

The Paradox of Comfort in Pain

Here’s the sick psychology of it: Sometimes we stay broken because broken feels safe. I just learned that psychologists call it “repetition compulsion” — we recreate our wounds because familiar pain feels safer than unfamiliar healing. A misbehaving child gets more attention by misbehaving, and somehow, it feels comforting, even though he or she hates it.

But awareness is the first step toward rewiring.

What Matters Now

What are you still carrying from your childhood self that your adult self needs to release?

If, like me, you spent years with unrealized goals, it’s important to listen carefully to those voices in your head when you write down your goals and dreams. Take note, then work to reprogram and overcome those thoughts by trying to figure out what drove them in the first place. Then work to retrain your subconscious with rational adult thoughts instead of irrational childhood thoughts.

Unexamined beliefs are prison bars we build ourselves, and most of us don’t even realize we’re holding the key and have the ability to reprogram our past.

You probably have a little more time this week. What if you used it for self-examination? What are the old wounds that never healed? How are those wounds getting in the way of living your fullest life?

Here’s to burning what needs burning, keeping what needs keeping, reprogramming what needs to be changed, and knowing the difference.

Happy New Year.

Eric Rhoads

P.S. These three things would be a great start if you’re feeling undeserving or unqualified:
​
December 31 deadline is approaching for Winter Art Escape — a week in Hilton Head and Savannah, painting beside others, making friends who understand why we chase light and shadow. Details at winterartescape.com. 
​
January brings Watercolor Live — three days online with masters like Thomas Schaller, Shelley Prior, and Antonio Masi — 24 in total, teaching their secrets online. Whether you’re starting fresh or refining skills, this is your chance. Register at watercolorlive.com. 

​​May’s Plein Air Convention in the Ozarks — 1,200 artists, 80+ instructors, the world’s largest gathering of outdoor painters. Where else can you learn from and paint with dozens of top masters in one week? Lock in the lowest rates at pleinairconvention.com.

I’m watching the sunrise paint the limestone cliffs behind our home in shades of rose gold and amber — colors that would make any plein air painter reach for their brushes. Steam rises from my coffee cup, creating little ghost dancers in the morning light, and somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove is singing what sounds suspiciously like the first notes of “Silent Night.”

Eighty-one degrees on Christmas Day. That’s what the weatherman promises us here in Austin. While half the country dreams of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas, of frost etching the panes of cathedral windows, of that particular blue-silver light that only comes with fresh snow, we Texans will be hiking in shorts, maybe taking the kayaks out on the lake, listening to cardinals and mockingbirds provide the soundtrack to our holiday.

Memory’s Muffled Music

I close my eyes and I can still hear it, though — that specific muffled quiet that falls when snow begins to stick. Growing up in that smallish Midwestern town, Christmas morning had a sound all its own. The scrape of a neighbor’s shovel on concrete at dawn. The whoosh and thud of snow sliding off the roof. The delighted shriek of a child discovering footprints in the snow leading from the chimney to the front door. My mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. The smell of cinnamon rolls wrestling with the sharp scent of pine from our tree.

Funny how memory works. I can transport myself instantly to those snow-globe Christmases of childhood, yet here I sit, barefoot on my porch, listening to wind chimes play their random carols, watching a roadrunner investigate bird feeders. Both versions of Christmas are true. Both are perfect in their own way.

Gold Schwinn Dreams

Only at this time of year do I find myself excavating these Christmas memories like an archaeologist of joy. Some shine bright as new pennies — like that gold Schwinn bike that materialized on Christmas morning, the one I’d been manifesting for months, the one my parents swore we could never afford. I can still feel the cold metal of those handlebars under my mittened hands, still hear the tick-tick-tick of the playing cards we’d clothespin to the spokes as I rode across the crunchy snow on Christmas morning.

And there was that artist’s easel. Somewhere in a shoebox of fading photographs lies the evidence of that Christmas morning when God winked at a boy who didn’t yet know he’d spend his life chasing light across canvas. I’ve been hunting for that photo for decades now, like it holds some secret message from my younger self.

Thunder on Stairs

But you want to know the memory that makes my heart squeeze tight as a fist? Picture this: 3-year-old triplets, finally old enough to understand the magic of Christmas morning. We’d made them wait upstairs — cruel parents that we were — until we gave the signal. Then came the thunder of six little feet on stairs, the screaming joy that could’ve woken the neighbors three doors down, and those faces — oh, those faces when they rounded the corner and saw the tree lit up like heaven’s own chandelier, presents spilling out like a treasure chest had exploded in our living room.

That image burns behind my eyelids. Pure, distilled wonder. The kind that makes you understand why we do this whole elaborate dance every December.

Midnight Parent Magic

I’m sitting here now, watching the Texas sun climb higher, thinking about my parents staying up until 3 am assembling bicycles with instructions that might as well have been written in ancient Aramaic. About my mother’s hands, raw from wrapping-paper cuts, carefully arranging each gift just so. About my father eating those cookies we left for Santa, making sure to leave dramatic crumb trails. They were set designers, choreographers, magicians — and I never knew it until I found myself up at 3 am, Allen wrench in hand, muttering prayers that the wheels would actually stay on those bikes come morning.

Most days of childhood blur together like watercolors in the rain. But those orchestrated moments? Those deliberate acts of magic-making? They stand like lighthouses on memory’s shores.

What Actually Sticks

My kids surprise me sometimes with what stuck. Not always the expensive gifts or elaborate plans. Sometimes it’s the year the heat went out and we all snuggled to stay warm. Or the Christmas Eve we played silly games, laughing so hard we could barely breathe. 

Grandpa’s Sacred Calendar

My dad taught me something profound about grandparent love. He’d put everything on hold — everything — to be there for first haircuts, lost teeth, school plays, birthdays. His calendar revolved around those kids like planets around the sun. Watching him, I learned that being remembered isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about showing up. Again and again and again, even though he had to fly across the country to do it.

Mema’s Holy Stairs

My grandmother Mema had her own ritual. Christmas Eve on her stairs, all the cousins lined up like organ pipes, taking turns reading Luke’s gospel before anyone could touch a single present. We’d roll our eyes, shift from foot to foot, practically vibrating with anticipation. “And it came to pass in those days…” someone would begin, and we’d all groan internally, calculating how many verses until freedom.

But here’s the thing — that memory grafted itself onto my family’s DNA. Not a Christmas has passed without us gathered in our own living room, reading those same words about a baby in a manger, about shepherds and angels and a star that led wise men across deserts. My kids probably rolled their eyes too. And someday, God willing, they’ll make their own children stand still for just a moment, just long enough to remember what all this sparkle and sugar is really about.

Creating Tomorrow’s Memories

So here’s my challenge to you, with Christmas just around the corner: What memory are you creating this year? Forget the perfect Instagram moment. Forget the Pinterest-worthy table settings. What will your people remember in 30 years?

Maybe it’s a walk after dinner when the stars are so bright they seem fake, everyone’s breath making little prayers in the cold air. Maybe it’s teaching your grandson to paint his first sunset, or your child to hear the music in ordinary wind chimes.

The Loving Conspiracy

The gift isn’t the bike or the easel, though those can create lots of excitement. The gift is the elaborate lengths we go to make magic real, if only for a morning. The gift is showing up, year after year, until the showing up itself becomes the tradition.

I’m grateful to you for reading, for forwarding, and for responding or commenting. May your Christmas be filled with the kind of memories that last — the ones that sneak up on you years later and make you stop in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday, smiling at nothing anyone else can see.

Merry Christmas, friends. Every single blessed one of you. I’ll see you on YouTube at noon today, because part of what I try to do is also show up for my friends.

Eric Rhoads

PS: Last Minute Gifts, No Shipping Required

Watercolor Live – 4 Day Online Workshop with the World’s Leading Watercolor Artists

Give the gift of artistic growth this season. www.watercolorlive.com 

Winter Art Escape Artists Retreat – Last chance to register is New Year’s Eve

www.winterartescape.com 

The Plein Air Convention – Where the family of plein air painters gather each year to learn, grow, break bread and find joy
www.pleinairconvention.com

The fireplace in the living room crackles like small bones breaking, and the smell of burning cedar mingles with the steam rising from my mug of hot tea. Outside, the frigid cold arrived this past week to remind us winter is here — sudden, decisive, unapologetic. I’m bundled in blankets and fuzzy sweat pants.

My tea tastes particularly bitter this morning. Or maybe that’s just the aftertaste of an email I received last week. I know I shouldn’t let people get to me, but some things sting like winter wind through a cracked window.

The Surgical Strike

Sometimes life delivers pain when you least expect it. Earlier this week, between meetings and YouTube shows, an email struck with surgical precision: “Eric, your ego is out of control.”

I could have deleted it. Should have, maybe. Instead, I took the bait: “Thanks for the feedback, it usually is, but is there something specific you want to point out?”

To his credit, he didn’t retreat.

“You talk about yourself too much. You talk about how many houses you have too much, about all the portraits you have of yourself. You need to let the artists on your show shine and stop interrupting them.”

My response: “Thank you for pointing it out.”

And I meant it.

Mirrors and Angles

As hard as it is to see, sometimes we need someone to hold up a mirror at an unflattering angle. Because that is the funny thing about mirrors — different angles show different perspectives. Some might say my enthusiasm to know more is why I interrupt my daily YouTube show guests, acting as a representative of viewers who may not understand everything at the same level. If I can get the artist to explain something or go deeper, I’m going to step in and ask. Is that ego, or is that service? Is my interruption an act of narcissism or navigation?

Take those portraits he mentioned — thirty-plus paintings by the world’s greatest artists, many since deceased. Sure, commissioning that many portraits of yourself looks narcissistic from one angle. But tilt the mirror: I commissioned them to help keep portraiture alive, to give these masters meaningful exposure, to feature them in Fine Art Connoisseur and show the world that portrait painting from life still matters. It resulted in each of them selling dozens more portraits. Was it ego that drove me to sit for hours while these artists worked? Or was it patronage disguised as vanity?

The houses? I broadcast from different locations because that’s where life and business take me — it’s logistics, not showmanship. But I understand how it lands. Everything can be viewed through the lens of ego or the lens of purpose, and sometimes even I can’t tell which lens I’m looking through. But I’ll be more careful.

I don’t think I’m a narcissist, but I’ve battled my oversized ego my entire life. What I can’t decide is whether that’s a curse or a gift.

My Two Egos

There’s the ego that drives me forward — call it my engine — and the ego that needs applause — call it my needy child. The first confidently declares, “I can build something amazing.” The second insists, “Look how incredible MY contribution is.” One builds, one performs. Yet both spring from the same source, the same psyche, the same childhood insecurities transformed into adult ambitions.

Is it possible this flaw we call ego is also our superpower?

Domes and Blindness

I returned from Europe just a few weeks ago, and I can’t stop thinking about Brunelleschi’s massive dome atop the cathedral in Florence. He built it without scaffolding — a feat so remarkable that no one can figure out how he did it. And here’s the kicker: He refused to share his method, ensuring no one could build something as magnificent.

Was that selfish? Absolutely. Was it human? Undeniably. Was it necessary for greatness? That’s where things get interesting.

When Saint Basil’s Cathedral was completed in Moscow, legend says Ivan the Terrible had the architect Postnik Yakovlev blinded so he could never build anything more beautiful. That’s carrying ego way too far — when your need for supremacy literally destroys the eyes that created beauty.

The Builders’ Burden

I’ve never talked to a professional about this, but I wonder: If egos didn’t exist, would anything remarkable ever be built? Is it possible the world is shaped by egomaniacs who need to prove themselves, to show what they can do, to change the world in ways that outlive them?

I suspect the experts would say that the drive that ego creates is a positive thing, but that if you carry it too far, in a need for constant recognition, then maybe that’s a bad thing. Yet look upon the greats who have built great things over and over again, topping their prior achievements each time. If they are doing it for repeated recognition, isn’t that OK, because they are making massive contributions? Perhaps drive eventually transcends pure ego, motivation shifting from the need to prove oneself to having something valuable to contribute, with the ego providing fuel. It’s all beyond my pay grade.

Last summer in China — which was more amazing than I expected — I walked through cities so modern they made Manhattan look like an antique shop. Is this driven by collective Chinese ego, by the need to surpass other nations? Or is it simply the drive to be the best, regardless of recognition? And isn’t wanting to be the best just ego wearing a different mask?

Names We Remember

Would Apple exist without Steve Jobs’ legendary drive for revolutionary ideas? Would we have Facebook-Meta without Zuckerberg’s need to connect and control others? Would SpaceX launch without Elon Musk’s desire to be remembered as the man who made us multi-planetary? Would Dubai’s skyline pierce the clouds without someone’s desire to build the biggest and best? What about Gates, Firestone, Ford, Edison — people whose names we know precisely because their egos demanded we remember them?

Is there anything wrong with wanting to be the biggest and the best?

The Holy Paradox

Here’s what haunts me: I try to live biblically, to be humble, to give credit to my maker. Yet the same voice that calls me to humility also whispers: “Do bigger things, touch more lives, help more people.” But isn’t there some ego in believing you’re the one who should be doing the helping? Isn’t there pride in thinking your influence matters? What if we answered the whisper with, “No, let someone else do it”? Are we ignoring the will of our maker?

I’ll be the first to admit I’m proud of most of my career accomplishments. I’ve often coached people to write their obituary — not morbidly, but purposefully — listing what they want to have accomplished before they die, so they can make sure their list is complete before they stop. But if we can’t be proud of our accomplishments, why pursue them? Where do pride and humility meet? Can they coexist, or are they locked in eternal combat?

Harnessing the Monster

Maybe the answer isn’t to kill the ego but to harness it. Maybe it’s about recognizing that the same force that makes us insufferable at dinner parties also makes us unstoppable in our missions. The same voice that says, “Look at me!” also says, “I won’t quit, and I won’t be satisfied with anything less than greatness.”

Gift-Wrapped Criticism

As I sit here, I think about that email dive bomber. He gave me a gift wrapped in criticism. He forced me to ask: Would I rather be liked or leave a legacy? Would I rather be humble or helpful? Would I rather shrink myself to make others comfortable or expand to my full capacity and risk their discomfort? What if the great women and men of history had listened to their critics, taken the feedback to heart, and changed course for the worse?

The truth is, every person feels this tension. Every action contains both humility and audacity. Every creation is an act of ego — declaring that your vision matters enough to manifest it — and an act of service — offering benefit to the world.

Understanding True Greatness

I’m obsessed with understanding greatness. I believe God placed us on earth to be the best version of ourselves we can be. Sometimes it’s hard to reconcile that when someone is bombastic and full of themselves, they’ve earned it through the amazing things they’ve built against all odds.

Humility is a gift — the quiet reflection of knowing what you’ve done without having to broadcast it. But ego is a gift too. They coexist, two sides of the same coin. Humility can even get in the way of bold assertions, of standing in front of potential investors who need to see your vision burn bright enough to open their checkbooks. Selling people on vision takes guts and self-belief.

Bulls and China

People with vision are often misunderstood, often disliked by those who would rather their world remain undisturbed. Sometimes it’s the bull in the china shop that sees a clear vision of wrecking the status quo for a new future. It’s why some write emails or critical and nasty social media posts. But thank God — he gave us ego, and vision, and the ability to see if we can top our last effort.

What They’d Say

Here’s what the Bible says about this: “Let someone else praise you, and not your own mouth; an outsider, and not your own lips” (Proverbs 27:2). But it also says we’re made in God’s image — and didn’t He create the universe and then declare it “very good”?

And here’s what my therapist would probably say: “Eric, your ego isn’t the enemy — it’s the part of you that protected you when you were told at 40 you had no talent. It’s the part that refused to accept that limitation. The question isn’t whether to have an ego, but whether you’re driving it or it’s driving you.”

The Next Email

Somewhere, someone is deciding whether to send an email telling me this newsletter was too long, too personal, too much about me. They will find flaws in good intentions.

Thank you in advance for pointing it out. I’m ready. Bring it on.

Because maybe that’s the ultimate paradox: The same ego that makes me vulnerable to criticism is the one that lets me publish these words anyway.

Yes, Mr. Email, my ego is large. My intent isn’t to brag, I need to remain humble about my accomplishments, but I don’t want to be stopped from doing what I think needs to be done just to please those who feel I’ve gone too far. The key to remember is: It’s not about me, it’s about vision to help others and big ideas to make that happen. Sometimes I’ll screw up, and for those moments, I deserve correction.

Eric Rhoads

PS: Keep reading all the way to the bottom and you’ll discover three announcements of something spectacular and new.

Humbly, this year has been a magnificent whirlwind. Going to China, taking a group to Switzerland and Italy, a week of painting and meetings in Italy, a couple of new portrait sittings, countless events and speeches, and 18 million YouTube views later, I’m both exhausted and exhilarated. The next few weeks offer something precious: thinking time. No airports. No hotels. Just the quiet space to dream about what’s next. 

But before I disappear into my planning cave, let’s talk about the elephant in every artist’s studio…

The Gift They Actually Want (But Won’t Tell You)

Look, I love my family, but if I get one more Bob Ross bobblehead or apron “because you paint,” I might scream. Here’s what artists REALLY want but are too polite to ask for: They want to get better. They want to learn from masters. They want to be with and paint with their tribe.

That’s why I’m sharing my insider’s list of gifts that will make any artist in your life light up like a Sorolla painting at golden hour:

The Game-Changers (Under $200)

PaintTube.TV — Imagine Netflix, but instead of binge-watching shows, you’re learning from 100+ other masters. The world’s largest library of art instruction (100,000+ hours) — any medium, any subject, instantly streaming. A gift card is what I recommend for every artist friend so they can pick one of the 700+ training videos from top masters.

The Stocking Stuffers (Under $40)

PleinAir Magazine or Fine Art Connoisseur Magazine — Give them a year of inspiration delivered to their door. Every issue is like a masterclass in art or collecting they can hold in their hands.

Easel Brush Clip — The tool every painter needs but doesn’t know exists. Keeps brushes handy without the juggling act.

Value Specs — These magical glasses help artists see values correctly. Game-changer for anyone struggling with light and shadow.

The Life-Changing Experiences

Watercolor Live (January, Online) — Four days with the world’s top watercolorists, streaming from 20+ countries. An artist can attend in pajamas and replay forever.

Winter Escape Artists’ Retreat (February, Hilton Head) — While everyone else is shoveling snow, they’ll be painting on the beach in 75-degree weather. Limited to 100 artists who become instant friends.

NEW: Gouache Boot Camp (February 19, Online) — Gouache is having a moment. Perfect for the artist ready to try something new. An event focused on the fundamentals of working with gouache. 

Acrylic Live (March, Online) — Four days of acrylic mastery from artists who’ve redefined the medium.

Art Business Mastery Day (April 16, Online) — A day of coaching from the experts to make your art sell better.

The Plein Air Convention & Expo  (May, Ozarks) —The world’s largest plein air gathering. The main hotel is already sold out — we’re filling four more. This is their tribe, their people, their week of pure artistic joy.

Paint the Adirondacks (June) — My personal favorite. A week painting my beloved mountains with a small, passionate group.
Gouache Live (August 20, Online) — Since gouache is having a moment, we’re having two. This event will be focused on landscape painting with gouache.  

Plein Air Live (September, Online) — Three days of plein air and landscape instruction right in your studio!

Fall Color Week (October, Acadia National Park, Maine) — My other personal favorite. (Like my kids, I love them all.) A week painting in Acadia National Park and fall color.

Realism Live (November, Online) — Three days of demos from the top masters in realism art.

The fireplace in the living room crackles like small bones breaking, and the smell of burning cedar mingles with the steam rising from my mug of hot tea. Outside, the frigid cold arrived this past week to remind us winter is here — sudden, decisive, unapologetic. I’m bundled in blankets and fuzzy sweat pants.

My tea tastes particularly bitter this morning. Or maybe that’s just the aftertaste of an email I received last week. I know I shouldn’t let people get to me, but some things sting like winter wind through a cracked window.

The Surgical Strike

Sometimes life delivers pain when you least expect it. Earlier this week, between meetings and YouTube shows, an email struck with surgical precision: “Eric, your ego is out of control.”

I could have deleted it. Should have, maybe. Instead, I took the bait: “Thanks for the feedback, it usually is, but is there something specific you want to point out?”

To his credit, he didn’t retreat.

“You talk about yourself too much. You talk about how many houses you have too much, about all the portraits you have of yourself. You need to let the artists on your show shine and stop interrupting them.”

My response: “Thank you for pointing it out.”

And I meant it.

Mirrors and Angles

As hard as it is to see, sometimes we need someone to hold up a mirror at an unflattering angle. Because that is the funny thing about mirrors — different angles show different perspectives. Some might say my enthusiasm to know more is why I interrupt my daily YouTube show guests, acting as a representative of viewers who may not understand everything at the same level. If I can get the artist to explain something or go deeper, I’m going to step in and ask. Is that ego, or is that service? Is my interruption an act of narcissism or navigation?

Take those portraits he mentioned — thirty-plus paintings by the world’s greatest artists, many since deceased. Sure, commissioning that many portraits of yourself looks narcissistic from one angle. But tilt the mirror: I commissioned them to help keep portraiture alive, to give these masters meaningful exposure, to feature them in Fine Art Connoisseur and show the world that portrait painting from life still matters. It resulted in each of them selling dozens more portraits. Was it ego that drove me to sit for hours while these artists worked? Or was it patronage disguised as vanity?

The houses? I broadcast from different locations because that’s where life and business take me — it’s logistics, not showmanship. But I understand how it lands. Everything can be viewed through the lens of ego or the lens of purpose, and sometimes even I can’t tell which lens I’m looking through. But I’ll be more careful.

I don’t think I’m a narcissist, but I’ve battled my oversized ego my entire life. What I can’t decide is whether that’s a curse or a gift.

My Two Egos

There’s the ego that drives me forward — call it my engine — and the ego that needs applause — call it my needy child. The first confidently declares, “I can build something amazing.” The second insists, “Look how incredible MY contribution is.” One builds, one performs. Yet both spring from the same source, the same psyche, the same childhood insecurities transformed into adult ambitions.

Is it possible this flaw we call ego is also our superpower?

Domes and Blindness

I returned from Europe just a few weeks ago, and I can’t stop thinking about Brunelleschi’s massive dome atop the cathedral in Florence. He built it without scaffolding — a feat so remarkable that no one can figure out how he did it. And here’s the kicker: He refused to share his method, ensuring no one could build something as magnificent.

Was that selfish? Absolutely. Was it human? Undeniably. Was it necessary for greatness? That’s where things get interesting.

When Saint Basil’s Cathedral was completed in Moscow, legend says Ivan the Terrible had the architect Postnik Yakovlev blinded so he could never build anything more beautiful. That’s carrying ego way too far — when your need for supremacy literally destroys the eyes that created beauty.

The Builders’ Burden

I’ve never talked to a professional about this, but I wonder: If egos didn’t exist, would anything remarkable ever be built? Is it possible the world is shaped by egomaniacs who need to prove themselves, to show what they can do, to change the world in ways that outlive them?

I suspect the experts would say that the drive that ego creates is a positive thing, but that if you carry it too far, in a need for constant recognition, then maybe that’s a bad thing. Yet look upon the greats who have built great things over and over again, topping their prior achievements each time. If they are doing it for repeated recognition, isn’t that OK, because they are making massive contributions? Perhaps drive eventually transcends pure ego, motivation shifting from the need to prove oneself to having something valuable to contribute, with the ego providing fuel. It’s all beyond my pay grade.

Last summer in China — which was more amazing than I expected — I walked through cities so modern they made Manhattan look like an antique shop. Is this driven by collective Chinese ego, by the need to surpass other nations? Or is it simply the drive to be the best, regardless of recognition? And isn’t wanting to be the best just ego wearing a different mask?

Names We Remember

Would Apple exist without Steve Jobs’ legendary drive for revolutionary ideas? Would we have Facebook-Meta without Zuckerberg’s need to connect and control others? Would SpaceX launch without Elon Musk’s desire to be remembered as the man who made us multi-planetary? Would Dubai’s skyline pierce the clouds without someone’s desire to build the biggest and best? What about Gates, Firestone, Ford, Edison — people whose names we know precisely because their egos demanded we remember them?

Is there anything wrong with wanting to be the biggest and the best?

The Holy Paradox

Here’s what haunts me: I try to live biblically, to be humble, to give credit to my maker. Yet the same voice that calls me to humility also whispers: “Do bigger things, touch more lives, help more people.” But isn’t there some ego in believing you’re the one who should be doing the helping? Isn’t there pride in thinking your influence matters? What if we answered the whisper with, “No, let someone else do it”? Are we ignoring the will of our maker?

I’ll be the first to admit I’m proud of most of my career accomplishments. I’ve often coached people to write their obituary — not morbidly, but purposefully — listing what they want to have accomplished before they die, so they can make sure their list is complete before they stop. But if we can’t be proud of our accomplishments, why pursue them? Where do pride and humility meet? Can they coexist, or are they locked in eternal combat?

Harnessing the Monster

Maybe the answer isn’t to kill the ego but to harness it. Maybe it’s about recognizing that the same force that makes us insufferable at dinner parties also makes us unstoppable in our missions. The same voice that says, “Look at me!” also says, “I won’t quit, and I won’t be satisfied with anything less than greatness.”

Gift-Wrapped Criticism

As I sit here, I think about that email dive bomber. He gave me a gift wrapped in criticism. He forced me to ask: Would I rather be liked or leave a legacy? Would I rather be humble or helpful? Would I rather shrink myself to make others comfortable or expand to my full capacity and risk their discomfort? What if the great women and men of history had listened to their critics, taken the feedback to heart, and changed course for the worse?

The truth is, every person feels this tension. Every action contains both humility and audacity. Every creation is an act of ego — declaring that your vision matters enough to manifest it — and an act of service — offering benefit to the world.

Understanding True Greatness

I’m obsessed with understanding greatness. I believe God placed us on earth to be the best version of ourselves we can be. Sometimes it’s hard to reconcile that when someone is bombastic and full of themselves, they’ve earned it through the amazing things they’ve built against all odds.

Humility is a gift — the quiet reflection of knowing what you’ve done without having to broadcast it. But ego is a gift too. They coexist, two sides of the same coin. Humility can even get in the way of bold assertions, of standing in front of potential investors who need to see your vision burn bright enough to open their checkbooks. Selling people on vision takes guts and self-belief.

Bulls and China

People with vision are often misunderstood, often disliked by those who would rather their world remain undisturbed. Sometimes it’s the bull in the china shop that sees a clear vision of wrecking the status quo for a new future. It’s why some write emails or critical and nasty social media posts. But thank God — he gave us ego, and vision, and the ability to see if we can top our last effort.

What They’d Say

Here’s what the Bible says about this: “Let someone else praise you, and not your own mouth; an outsider, and not your own lips” (Proverbs 27:2). But it also says we’re made in God’s image — and didn’t He create the universe and then declare it “very good”?

And here’s what my therapist would probably say: “Eric, your ego isn’t the enemy — it’s the part of you that protected you when you were told at 40 you had no talent. It’s the part that refused to accept that limitation. The question isn’t whether to have an ego, but whether you’re driving it or it’s driving you.”

The Next Email

Somewhere, someone is deciding whether to send an email telling me this newsletter was too long, too personal, too much about me. They will find flaws in good intentions.

Thank you in advance for pointing it out. I’m ready. Bring it on.

Because maybe that’s the ultimate paradox: The same ego that makes me vulnerable to criticism is the one that lets me publish these words anyway.

Yes, Mr. Email, my ego is large. My intent isn’t to brag, I need to remain humble about my accomplishments, but I don’t want to be stopped from doing what I think needs to be done just to please those who feel I’ve gone too far. The key to remember is: It’s not about me, it’s about vision to help others and big ideas to make that happen. Sometimes I’ll screw up, and for those moments, I deserve correction.

Eric Rhoads

PS: Keep reading all the way to the bottom and you’ll discover three announcements of something spectacular and new.

Humbly, this year has been a magnificent whirlwind. Going to China, taking a group to Switzerland and Italy, a week of painting and meetings in Italy, a couple of new portrait sittings, countless events and speeches, and 18 million YouTube views later, I’m both exhausted and exhilarated. The next few weeks offer something precious: thinking time. No airports. No hotels. Just the quiet space to dream about what’s next. 

But before I disappear into my planning cave, let’s talk about the elephant in every artist’s studio…

The Gift They Actually Want (But Won’t Tell You)

Look, I love my family, but if I get one more Bob Ross bobblehead or apron “because you paint,” I might scream. Here’s what artists REALLY want but are too polite to ask for: They want to get better. They want to learn from masters. They want to be with and paint with their tribe.

That’s why I’m sharing my insider’s list of gifts that will make any artist in your life light up like a Sorolla painting at golden hour:

The Game-Changers (Under $200)

PaintTube.TV — Imagine Netflix, but instead of binge-watching shows, you’re learning from 100+ other masters. The world’s largest library of art instruction (100,000+ hours) — any medium, any subject, instantly streaming. A gift card is what I recommend for every artist friend so they can pick one of the 700+ training videos from top masters.

The Stocking Stuffers (Under $40)

PleinAir Magazine or Fine Art Connoisseur Magazine — Give them a year of inspiration delivered to their door. Every issue is like a masterclass in art or collecting they can hold in their hands.

Easel Brush Clip — The tool every painter needs but doesn’t know exists. Keeps brushes handy without the juggling act.

Value Specs — These magical glasses help artists see values correctly. Game-changer for anyone struggling with light and shadow.

The Life-Changing Experiences

Watercolor Live (January, Online) — Four days with the world’s top watercolorists, streaming from 20+ countries. An artist can attend in pajamas and replay forever.

Winter Escape Artists’ Retreat (February, Hilton Head) — While everyone else is shoveling snow, they’ll be painting on the beach in 75-degree weather. Limited to 100 artists who become instant friends.

NEW: Gouache Boot Camp (February 19, Online) — Gouache is having a moment. Perfect for the artist ready to try something new. An event focused on the fundamentals of working with gouache. 

Acrylic Live (March, Online) — Four days of acrylic mastery from artists who’ve redefined the medium.

Art Business Mastery Day (April 16, Online) — A day of coaching from the experts to make your art sell better.

The Plein Air Convention & Expo  (May, Ozarks) —The world’s largest plein air gathering. The main hotel is already sold out — we’re filling four more. This is their tribe, their people, their week of pure artistic joy.

Paint the Adirondacks (June) — My personal favorite. A week painting my beloved mountains with a small, passionate group.
Gouache Live (August 20, Online) — Since gouache is having a moment, we’re having two. This event will be focused on landscape painting with gouache.  

Plein Air Live (September, Online) — Three days of plein air and landscape instruction right in your studio!

Fall Color Week (October, Acadia National Park, Maine) — My other personal favorite. (Like my kids, I love them all.) A week painting in Acadia National Park and fall color.

Realism Live (November, Online) — Three days of demos from the top masters in realism art.

The angry sound of a trillion BBs is hitting the old metal roof of this Texas ranch house as a thunderburst opens up overhead, dumping a tsunami of water so vast it will flood all the nearby rivers in minutes. Here, the Texas Hill Country stretches in gentle waves of limestone and cedar, vineyards catching early light like strings of jewels draped across the landscape. A hawk circles overhead, its cry echoing off the hills as it navigates thunderheads the size of skyscrapers. Last weekend’s drive through these rolling hills still lingers — the old farmhouses weathered by decades of sun, the way light plays across the land at golden hour. It’s not Tuscany, but maybe that’s exactly the point.

Italy’s Siren Song

Three weeks since returning, and Italy still inhabits my bloodstream like a fever I can’t break. Florence calls with the voice of every Renaissance master who ever mixed pigment on a worn wooden palette — and I can’t get it out of my head.

My right brain — the creative me, the dreamer, the one who loses hours drowning in a single Caravaggio — refuses to let go. I can still smell the turpentine of ancient studios, hear the scratch of charcoal on paper from my lesson at Studio Ten, see afternoon light pouring through magnificent windows onto marble floors worn smooth by centuries of artistic pilgrims.

The Florence Academy of Art represents everything my creative soul is starving for: three years of intensive training, daily immersion in techniques refined over generations, the simple luxury of showing up each morning with nothing on my mind but becoming better. Not managing. Not building. Just becoming.

The Texas Chains

Texas holds me with different chains entirely — golden ones, perhaps, but chains nonetheless. My left brain — practical, responsible, annoyingly logical — keeps running the numbers. The empire I’ve built over decades sits here, rooted in this soil like those ancient live oaks that refuse to be moved. Employees depend on me. Millions trust and rely on me showing up.

More than that, my work transforms lives. I don’t just teach painting techniques; I help people discover who they might become. I help them live their dreams and find their tribe. It’s not merely a living — it’s a legacy. How do you abandon something that gives others the very transformation you’re desperately seeking for yourself?

The Ghost of What Might Have Been

Memory is a particular kind of torturer. Fifteen years ago, after selling our San Francisco-area house, I floated the idea to my wife: What if we raised the kids in Italy? What if I spent three or four years at the Academy while they grew up speaking Italian, eating real gelato, and understanding that the world extends beyond the American suburbs? She seemed on board. The kids would have thrived. I was ready. She was warming to the idea.

Then Pooter the dog got cancer, and everything derailed. Life got complicated. We moved to Austin on a whim, the kids got established in schools and friendships, and leaving would have been disruptive. Then somehow 15 years evaporated like morning mist burning off the hills, and that window slammed shut while I wasn’t watching.

Now I kick myself with the particular venom reserved for roads not taken. Fifteen years. Gone. If I wait another 15…

When Dreams Collide

Two dreams collide in my chest like continental plates grinding against each other, creating earthquakes in my soul. Can both exist? The romantic in me wants to believe in miracles of time management: Wake at 4 a.m. to work for a couple of hours and do meetings, head to school at 8, study art in Florence all day until 7, work the business and homework until midnight, sleep five hours, repeat. The realist knows that sounds less like ambition and more like a scheduled breakdown. Would I last a semester? A year? Would exhaustion destroy both dreams instead of fulfilling either?

The Mathematics of Impact

Multiplication matters more than any single painting I might ever create. That’s what the practical voice whispers when I’m brutally honest. If I stay here, keep building — I can touch exponentially more lives. Train millions more artists. One person studying in Florence is addition. Training others to teach and transform? That’s multiplication. But does that math mean my own dreams have to die on the altar of service?

I recall Richard Schmid telling me of his dilemma. “I could be a brilliant artist or a brilliant concert pianist. I wanted to be both, but I knew I could only do one well.”

The Retirement Lie

Some cheerfully suggest retirement as the solution, as if I’m suddenly going to transform into someone who retires, quits working, and heads to Florence with my RV. That’s not happening. I’ve seen what happens to driven people who stop driving — they park permanently. It’s like putting regular gas in a body that runs on jet fuel. 

The Betrayal of Romance

What if Florence is a fantasy I’ve polished so bright it bears no resemblance to reality? What if I get there and discover three years of intensive training doesn’t deliver the transformation I’ve imagined? Or worse — what if it does, and then I face an entirely new conflict: abandon my carefully built business to pursue this newfound artistic mastery, or try to merge them, creating yet another impossible balancing act?

The Distance Between Dreams

An Italian family visiting Texas might feel exactly what I feel walking through Florence. The romance isn’t in the place — it’s in the distance from our daily lives and the difference from what our day-to-day surroundings look like. They might stand in my Hill Country at sunset and think, “This is what I’ve been missing. This simplicity. This space. These wide-open skies.” Meanwhile, I’m longing for their narrow cobblestone streets and Renaissance light.

We always want what we don’t have. But sometimes, just sometimes, that wanting is telling us something true.

The False Binary

Experts would say I’m manufacturing a false choice. That I’m creating binary thinking as a defense mechanism — it’s easier to say “this OR that” than to do the harder work of finding “this AND that.” But what if some choices really are binary? What if some dreams require all of you, not just the leftover pieces?

The Artist’s Answer

The artists I most admire would tell me something different: Stop talking and start doing. Pick one. Any one. Because the only guaranteed failure is spending another 15 years debating which dreams deserve to live while all of them slowly die.

The Space Between

But here’s what the voice of hard-won experience whispers: Conflicting priorities aren’t problems to solve. They’re tensions to manage. The pull between creation and multiplication, between personal mastery and collective impact, between the romance of Florence and the reality of Texas — maybe that tension is where the real art happens.

Not in choosing one over the other, but in living creatively within the space between them. Or maybe that’s just another excuse.

Testing the Waters

What if I started drawing every single morning, right here, before the day’s demands arrive? What if I tested the brutal schedule now, at home — eight hours of art study daily, life drawing locally, getting up at 4 and working until midnight? What if I scheduled one month next year — just one — to study somewhere, anywhere, with no guilt attached?

What if instead of treating this as an all-or-nothing proposition, I treated it as an experiment in living?

The Deathbed Test

Here’s what I know with absolute certainty: On my deathbed, I won’t regret the business I built or the lives I changed. But I will regret the art I never attempted, the skills I never developed, the version of myself I never met because I was too busy being practical. That regret will burn hotter than any success will shine.

The Window Opens

I’m thankful to be fully alive, healthy, and with choices. The kids are grown and launched. College is paid for. The business runs smoother than it ever has when I disappear for weeks. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe it’s exactly the right time. Maybe this is the window I’ve been waiting for, and I’m just too scared to climb through it.

Maybe the romance isn’t in Florence or Texas at all. It’s in finally having the courage to stop choosing and start doing. If it’s important enough to be, it will become a priority. Or I’ll find another excuse.

Your Turn to Choose

If you’re reading this and nodding because you too have a dream gathering dust while you do the responsible thing — stop nodding and start planning. Not someday. Not after you retire. Not when the timing is perfect. The timing will never be perfect. Life will always get in the way.

What’s one small step toward that dream you could take this week? Not the whole dream — just a step. Call it research. Call it exploration. Call it foolishness if you must. But take it. Because 15 years from now, you want to be someone who tried, not someone who almost did.

I’ve already started life drawing, and I’m exploring art programs. It’s not Florence yet, but it’s movement toward my dream. Movement is everything.

The Courage Question

My friend Cesar Santos, one of the most accomplished classical artists alive, burned every bridge behind him, sold his house, moved to Florence, and changed his painting style entirely, putting his entire income at risk to follow new dreams. This took tremendous courage and doubled my respect for him.

Two women I met at the Academy, after raising kids and being caregivers for everyone else, decided it was their turn. They moved to Florence to study art. It took tremendous courage and unbridled passion. I admire this kind of courage and wonder if I have it in me.

What dreams do you have that require you to muster that same courage?

Letting go of comfort requires tremendous bravery. Moving out of our comfort zones to take risks with unknown consequences. Are you ready to let go and get uncomfortable?

Or will you be like me, writing about it 15 years from now, still wondering?

Your Dreams Can’t Wait — Neither Should You.

Eric Rhoads

Church bells are ringing from every corner of this ancient city as the sun comes up over the distant purple mountains. Glancing out the window of my apartment, other than modern appliances and plumbing (thank goodness for the plumbing — have you read about Renaissance sanitation?), it’s easy to feel like I could be living at a time when these same bells inspired people to create some of the finest artwork ever known to man.

The funny thing? Back then, they didn’t call it the Renaissance. That term was invented 200 years later by a French historian who looked back and said, “Wow, something amazing happened there.” Which makes you wonder: What are we calling our current moment? The Age of Anxiety? The Era of Endless Scrolling? The Age of AI?

 Medici Money

Here’s what actually sparked the Renaissance, and it’s not what your high school art teacher told you. Sure, there was a “rebirth” of classical learning after monks spent centuries copying Greek and Roman texts by candlelight. But you know what really made it happen?

Money. Lots of it.

The Medici family — basically the venture capitalists of the 1400s — decided that commissioning art was better than buying another villa. They turned patronage into a competitive sport. Cosimo de’ Medici would commission Donatello, then his rival would have to one-up him with Brunelleschi. It was like an arms race, except with marble and frescoes instead of missiles. And here’s the kicker: These artists weren’t creating in some romantic, peaceful, inspired bubble. They were stressed, underpaid (usually), and constantly competing for the next commission. Michelangelo once said he saw the angel in the marble and carved until he set it free. What he didn’t mention was that Pope Julius II was breathing down his neck about deadlines the entire time.

Did They Know?

So did the people of Florence know they were changing the world? Almost certainly not. Vasari — who wrote Lives of the Artists in 1550 and basically invented art history as we know it — had to explain to people that something extraordinary had happened. Imagine that. The greatest artistic movement in Western civilization needed a publicist to tell people it had occurred.

This is the part that keeps me up at night: 

We only know about the Renaissance because someone bothered to write it down. Vasari chronicled who painted what, who slept with whom, and which artist insulted which patron. Without him, half of what we “know” about this era would be lost. Today, we’re documenting our every breakfast burrito on Instagram — but are we actually capturing anything worth remembering?

Renaissance in Hindsight

I think about this because there have been some recent Renaissance activities in the art world — for instance the plein air movement, which over the last 20 years has exploded from nothing to hundreds of events and thousands of painters creating landscape work that rivals anything in history. But here’s the question that haunts me: Will there be a Vasari for this movement? Will someone in 2245 look back and say, “That’s when landscape painting was reborn”? Or will it all get lost in the digital noise?

The Renaissance happened because of constraints, not despite them. No photographs or AI-generated images meant you had to paint reality. No power tools meant moving marble required ingenious engineering. No internet meant if you wanted to see a master’s work, you walked to their studio or to view a collection. Today, we have infinite access and zero constraints. We can see every painting ever made on our phones. We can learn any technique from YouTube or PaintTube. We can connect with artists worldwide instantly and view their latest paintings on Instagram.

So why aren’t we all creating masterpieces?

The Paradox 

Maybe because the Renaissance taught us the wrong lesson. We think it was about genius — Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, Donatello (yes, the Ninja Turtles are named after them, which tells you something about our cultural priorities). But it wasn’t about individual genius. It was about a city-state that created conditions where genius could emerge: competition, patronage, masters teaching apprentices, and most importantly, people showing up.

Leonardo da Vinci said, “The noblest pleasure is the joy of understanding.” Not the joy of scrolling. Not the joy of having an opinion about something you read in a headline. Understanding. Which requires time, curiosity, and actually leaving your house.

I can’t claim to know how to start a movement or a Renaissance, even though I’ve been involved in a couple of them in my own small way. But what I do know is that we can stimulate our own personal Renaissance through exposure to new things, to new ideas.

Through First-Time Eyes

Having spent the last couple of weeks in Europe, seeing and painting parts of Switzerland and Italy, I’ve been able to see it through the eyes of a few of my guests who were experiencing it for the first time. Their eyes were wide, their imaginations were stimulated, and their curiosity was piqued. “How could they possibly have done all of this? How could they possibly have built these cathedrals before heavy equipment?”

And that question — that genuine bewilderment — is where Renaissance begins. Because here’s what most people don’t realize: Medieval builders didn’t know they lacked heavy equipment. They just solved problems with what they had. They used counterweights, pulleys, and thousands of workers who spent their entire lives on a single cathedral they’d never see completed. Imagine dedicating your life to something you’ll never see finished. Now imagine telling that to someone who gets anxious when their Amazon delivery takes three days instead of two.

The Duomo in Florence took 140 years to complete. Brunelleschi’s dome — that impossible feat of engineering — was built without scaffolding, using techniques he invented on the spot and refused to share with anyone because he was paranoid about competition. The whole thing could have collapsed and killed hundreds. It didn’t, and now it’s been standing for 600 years.

Meanwhile, we abandon projects after three weeks because our Instagram engagement isn’t what we hoped.

A Deliberate Journey

I’m reminded of a trip my wife and I created very deliberately to take our then-12-year-old children to Europe, starting in England and then moving to France on a spring break. Our goal was to help them see a world they had not seen before, to help them realize that the world they live in is small and narrow, and that the world out there is broad and different and interesting and worth exploring. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as seeing a first-timer hit Europe, particularly when it’s a child staring at the domes and the castles and the cathedrals, and seeing how life is different for people in these places — watching as people walk everywhere or take trains, things we don’t do in the suburbs we live in.

Curiosity Drives Growth

Personal Renaissance comes through stimulation driven by curiosity, and if we wait for it to happen, it rarely will. We have to step out. We have to take action. We have to get away from the ways we’re used to doing things and try new things. 

Here’s what I’ve learned from studying the Renaissance and trying to create my own: The Renaissance wasn’t about having unlimited resources or perfect conditions. It was about working within impossible constraints and finding creative solutions. Those artists mixed their own paints, built their own scaffolding, and solved problems that had never been solved before — not because they were superhuman, but because they had no other choice. It was all about relentless passion, believing in something so deeply that you do whatever it takes for however long it takes, and never give up.

You want your own Renaissance? Stop waiting for perfect conditions. Stop waiting until you have more time, more money, more security. The Renaissance happened during political turmoil, economic uncertainty, and literal plague. Your excuses are looking pretty thin.

Breaking the Filter

So many of us are seeing the world through the filter of the news media, hearing stories that may not be entirely balanced — something that’s only realized by getting out there yourself. I’m reminded of my trip to China, when probably 30 people told me not to go, that it was dangerous, that my organs would be harvested, that it was a Third World country, that I’d be walking through human excrement, that the food is inedible.

I’ve noticed something fascinating: the people most certain about how dangerous or terrible a place is are usually the people who’ve never been there. They’re experts in a geography of fear, a cartography drawn entirely by cable news and social media algorithms designed to keep them scared and watching.

Those things people warned me about may have been true at one time, probably were, but I didn’t see that. Yet if I had listened to the media, I would’ve continued to believe it. I had to find out for myself.

The Renaissance happened partly because the Black Death killed 30 to 50 percent of Europe’s population, which sounds horrific (and was), but it also meant survivors had social mobility for the first time. Peasants could become merchants. Merchants could become patrons. The old order broke down, and in that chaos, new possibilities emerged.

Today, we’re not facing a plague (well, we recently did, but that’s another story), but we are facing a different kind of death — the slow suffocation of curiosity. And unlike the Black Death, this one is voluntary. We’re choosing the comfort of our echo chambers over the discomfort of discovery.

Regular People Everywhere

I don’t particularly feel extra brave for going to China, but a lot of people thought I was crazy. I can’t wait to go back. I can’t wait to see more. I can’t wait to take groups of people there to let them experience it on their own. It’s hard to believe that a place like that is “the enemy” when you’re dealing with regular people on a day-to-day basis who put their socks on the same way that you and I do. I think that we’re all fed what people want us to believe, for some reason that perplexes me.

The Travel Conversation

It seems like every time I go somewhere interesting, I want to have this discussion. I want to tell people to get out of their armchairs, to get off their social media, and to get out and see the world — to see the results of the Renaissance, to see the beauty of the people in other countries, to see cultures coexisting peacefully in spite of what the media tells us. Yet so many are operating from fear because they’re getting their information from a screen.

Your Personal Renaissance

So if you want to create your own personal Renaissance, here are some thoughts:

One: Have curiosity. Question everything. Ask yourself why. Look into the reasons behind the reasons.

Two: Get out of your box and out of your comfort zone. Comfort is the enemy of progress. Comfort may provide stability, yet stability may cause mental bedsores.

Three: Travel. See the world. Open your eyes to new possibilities.

Four: Put yourself in a position to interact with people you never would otherwise.

Painting With Strangers

Every day during this trip, when I was painting in public places, young kids or teenagers would be curious to see a painter working on a painting outdoors. I would engage them, invite them to paint with me (with parental permission, of course), and most of them would do it. I’d teach them and give them a couple of lessons to get them engaged, and might even have them paint on my painting — not worrying about whether they were going to ruin it. They’d get excited, and that led me into conversations with the people around. The past couple of weeks, I’ve met people from Germany, Yugoslavia, the Netherlands, Russia, and many other countries, and had an opportunity to see the world through their eyes, to get their opinions.

This is pure Renaissance thinking. You know why? Because that’s exactly how the masters worked. Apprentices would paint backgrounds, grind pigments, even paint entire sections of “the master’s” work. Collaboration wasn’t a buzzword; it was how things got done. Raphael had an entire workshop of apprentices painting from his designs. Was it still “his” work? The Renaissance said yes. Our modern obsession with individual authorship would have confused them.

When I let those kids paint on my canvas, I wasn’t risking ruining it. I was enacting a centuries-old tradition. And more importantly, I was doing what those Renaissance masters did: passing it on. Because here’s the secret they knew and we’ve forgotten — art isn’t about the final product. It’s about the transformation that happens in the making.

The Hotel Trap

If I came to these foreign countries on my own, staying in a hotel and using a tour guide, I’d never meet any of these people. But I talk to everybody. I introduce myself to people in restaurants. I talk to anybody and everybody I can. I talk to waiters. I’m curious. I have rabid curiosity, and that’s what informs my own Renaissance. Because if I’m not reinventing myself every couple of years, I’m gonna get stale. And so will you.

The Challenge Awaits

Vasari tells a story about the proto-Renaissance painter Giotto. The Pope sent a messenger asking for samples of his work. Giotto took a canvas, dipped his brush in red paint, and in one perfect motion, drew a circle freehand — so perfect it looked drawn with a compass. He sent only that. The messenger thought he was being mocked. The Pope recognized genius.

The point isn’t that Giotto could draw a perfect circle (though, seriously, try it — you can’t). The point is that mastery looks simple. From the outside, we see effortlessness. We don’t see the thousands of circles drawn before, the failures, the persistence.

So here’s my question: What’s your circle? What’s the thing you’re willing to practice thousands of times, fail at repeatedly, and still show up for tomorrow? Because that’s where your Renaissance begins — not in Florence, not in some magical moment of inspiration, but in the daily showing up, the consistent practice, the willingness to look foolish while you learn.

What will you do to create your Renaissance? Or will you sit comfortably watching the news, hour after hour, or scrolling social media day after day? Yes, you can grow from watching social media, but you can also get a lot of indoctrination. Get out of your box. It’s narrow. There are walls. And life is so much richer when you do.

Questions for You

What if the greatest artistic movement of your lifetime is happening right now, and you’re missing it because you’re watching Netflix? 

What constraints in your life could actually be gifts if you stopped seeing them as obstacles? 

When was the last time you spent 140 hours on anything? 

What if comfort isn’t just the enemy of progress — what if it’s the enemy of being fully alive? 

And here’s the one that scares me most: What if 500 years from now, someone looks back at our era and wonders how we had access to all of human knowledge in our pockets and did absolutely nothing interesting with it?

The bells are still ringing. The sun is still rising over purple mountains. An angel is still trapped in that marble, waiting for you to set her free.

Are you going to pick up the chisel, or just take a selfie with the statue?​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Eric Rhoads

Deep blue waters stretch endlessly before me, framed by snow-capped Alps that pierce the October sky. From my window at Hotel Barchetta on Lake Como, I watch the morning light dance across waters that have inspired artists for centuries. Fall has painted the mountainsides in muted browns, oranges, and reds, while ornamental estates dot the shoreline like elaborate birthday cakes.

The busy summer lake season has quieted now. An occasional classic wooden speedboat cuts through the mirror-like surface, and a few tour boats ferry the last visitors of the season to distant shores. Churchill, who painted these very waters, called Como “the most beautiful lake in the world.” Even Mark Twain, initially partial to Lake Tahoe, eventually confessed that Como deserved “the eternal comparison.”

This week, I’m painting both Como and Lake Garda as I lead a group of people through Switzerland and Italy on my annual international painting trip. Last May, at the Plein Air Convention, it was Tahoe. Three of the world’s most stunning lakes have graced my canvases this year, and somehow, instead of exhaustion, I feel invigorated — not just by the beauty, but by the stories unfolding around me.

Voice at Dawn

Over breakfast, Joyce — a vibrant woman in her 80s with eyes that sparkle with purpose — shared something remarkable. 

“One day, I was awakened at four in the morning,” she began. “A voice, as clear as we’re talking right now, said: ‘Joyce, you need to build a park.’”

She admitted it made no sense. Of all things, why a park? But Joyce has learned something most of us struggle with our entire lives: When heaven whispers, you listen. And more importantly, you act.

Seeds Become Gardens

What unfolded next reads like a modern-day parable. A hurricane and fire had devastated an economically disadvantaged neighborhood in Northern Florida. A vacant lot appeared. Joyce’s lifetime of relationships and contacts mobilized — donating time, discounted materials, volunteers, and, yes, some of her own resources. The park rose from the ashes.

But God’s whispers rarely stop at our first obedience. They unfold like seeds becoming gardens, revealing purposes we couldn’t initially have imagined.

Beyond the Playground

Visiting the park, Joyce noticed a little girl struggling to play, hampered by dirty, ill-fitting clothes. A trip to the dollar store led to meeting the girl’s father — a man drowning while trying to keep four children afloat. Soon, Joyce was clothing all four kids, becoming “Mama Joyce” in their lives, exposing them to possibilities they’d never imagined.

One daughter’s speech impediment revealed itself as an uncorrected cleft palate. Joyce arranged for and funded the surgery. The transformation was profound — the girl went from struggling in school to becoming a cheerleader, popular and confident.

The park had become more than a playground. It became the catalyst for an entire community’s revitalization.

When Everything Changes

Then came the phone call that would test everything. The sheriff’s voice was gentle but urgent: The children’s father had been arrested, and their mother had long been lost to addiction. Could Joyce take the girls for a few nights?

“A few nights” has become four years. Joyce is raising two of the girls — ages 6 and 8 when they arrived. The younger two, a newborn and toddler, were too much for an 80-year-old woman to foster, so they found homes with relatives. But their sisters found a home with a woman who had simply said yes to building a park.

Pennies and Providence

Joyce’s story stirred something deep within me. I’ve only heard God’s audible voice once — during a desperate prayer to save my business from bankruptcy. An employee had advised me to be specific, so I prayed for the exact amount needed to meet payroll, down to the penny.

The next morning, an advertiser called with leftover budget he wanted to prepay. I agreed without asking the amount. The check that arrived? The exact figure I’d prayed for. To the penny.

Dreams and Dinner Tables

More often, God’s voice comes through dreams and persistent thoughts that don’t seem to originate from my own mind. Years ago, I had a vivid dream about hosting a dinner, the table filled with history’s greatest artists. That dream became the Plein Air Convention — a gathering that has birthed countless miracles.

One such miracle, among many stories, concerns a woman who approached me at the convention with three months to live, wanting to experience the convention once before dying. We prayed together right there in the exhibit hall. She’s alive today, a decade later, her cancer in remission, her doctors unable to explain what happened.

Competing Voices Within

Here’s what Joyce’s story reminded me of: We all hear voices. The question isn’t whether we hear them, but which ones we choose to follow. Evil whispers too, encouraging choices that would destroy us and those we love, just for brief moments of pleasure. The apostle Paul wrote about this very battle in Romans 7:15: “I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate.”

The difference between divine whispers and destructive ones? The fruit they bear. As Jesus taught in Matthew 7:16, “By their fruit you will recognize them.”

The Uncomfortable Truth

Some readers cringe when I speak of such things. The Bible actually addresses this directly. First Corinthians 2:14-16 explains why faith can seem like foolishness to those without it:

“The person without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God but considers them foolishness, and cannot understand them because they are discerned only through the Spirit.”

In other words, spiritual truths require spiritual eyes to see them. It’s not that believers are delusional and non-believers are rational — it’s that we’re operating with different perceptive capabilities. The passage continues: “Those who are spiritual can evaluate all things, but they themselves cannot be evaluated by others. For who can know the Lord’s thoughts? Who knows enough to teach him? But we understand these things, for we have the mind of Christ.”

This isn’t arrogance; it’s simply acknowledging that faith opens doors of understanding that remain closed without it. Like trying to explain color to someone who’s never had sight, some realities only make sense when you’ve experienced them yourself.

I’ve come to accept that following heaven’s whispers will sometimes make us look foolish to the world. Joyce looked foolish building a park in a devastated neighborhood. I looked foolish praying for exact amounts. But foolishness that transforms lives and communities? That’s wisdom dressed in work clothes.

Your Park Awaits

What persistent thought keeps tugging at your heart? What seemingly ridiculous idea won’t leave you alone? What giant idea is being ignored because it seems impossible? What voice have you been dismissing as impractical, impossible, or irrelevant?

Joyce’s park wasn’t really about playground equipment. It was about obedience creating space for miracles. Those two girls thriving in her home? They were always the point. The park was just God’s way of getting Joyce to the right place at the right time with the right heart to rescue these precious lives.

Life isn’t about what we accumulate — it’s about who we help when heaven whispers their name. It’s not about our plans — it’s about having the courage to say yes when God’s plans interrupt our own.

Listen and Act

Joyce’s advice was beautifully simple: “Listen and take action.”

Not just listen. Not just act. Both.

Because somewhere, there’s a park waiting to be built. A life waiting to be changed. A miracle waiting for someone brave enough to look foolish for heaven’s sake.

This week, as I paint the beauty of Como, I’m asking myself: What’s my next park? What voice have I been too busy, too practical, too afraid to follow?

The morning light on Lake Como reminds me that God is an artist too, painting possibilities across the canvas of our lives. We just need to pick up the brush when He hands it to us.

What will you paint when heaven whispers your name?

Eric Rhoads