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You’re driving home after a wonderful weekend with friends in the country. You left a little late because you were having such a good time. It starts to drizzle and you flick on the windshield wipers and headlights.

The rain gets a little heavier. It’s harder to see the road, so you turn off the radio and focus. “Well this is a bummer,” you say, “but hey, it’s only an hour and a half til home.”

Then comes the wind, and the sideways sheets of rain. The road starts to flood, and you’re having trouble seeing the yellow line. At times you feel yourself hydro-planing. If only you could pull over, but this is a country road with no shoulder and it might be more dangerous to stop.

So you just keep going.

After a while, the headlights aren’t cutting it anymore. You’re only able to see a few feet in front of you and you’re crawling along at 10 m.p.h.. The words of your high school driver’s ed teacher come to you, “Don’t overdrive your headlights!”

So you decide to make it to the next telephone pole, then the next, and the next. You keep going. You know it’ll be a long haul, but what other choice do you have? You need to get home.

So what does the above scenario have to do with making art? For me, anyway, quite a bit.

Last Friday, I had one of those synchronous days. You know, when you could swear the universe is trying to send you a message? Well my message came from 3 different people all saying the same thing on the very same day.

In a nutshell? They said,

“I really want to make art.”

“I’m not making art, because __________” The answer was different for each of them.

“How do I start?”

I didn’t have a glib answer for them. But, as so often happens, an idea came to me a few days later. “Don’t overdrive your headlights.”

Getting better at art is a long, long journey. If your initial goal is to paint a masterpiece, you’re setting yourself up for heartache. So many people see a master artist’s work and compare their first attempt to that. They don’t think about the long journey it took that painter to get to that masterwork. They only know that their attempt falls short.

It’s like me in that rainstorm, telling myself, “I’ll never get home. I’m going so slowly.”

What are your assumptions about art? I don’t have time. I’m too old. I don’t have any artistic talent. Those beliefs are like my whining about never getting home. The truth is I always do if I keep driving.

Write your assumption on a piece of paper. Now burn it. If making art is a priority, then you’ll find a solution. You’ll begin and you’ll get there.

Next come the tiny, almost imperceptible steps. Put pencil and paper on a table and leave them in full view so you’ll pass by several times a day. You’ll think about it. The pencil and paper will call to you.

When the urge to draw is finally stronger than your fear to do so, sit down and begin.

Not a masterpiece. You’re just trying to get to the next telephone pole in that rainstorm, remember? Maybe a beginning is to draw straight lines, circles, ovals, and boxes. Fat lines and skinny. Shaky lines, smooth, or jagged. Just put pencil to paper and make marks.

Just 10 minutes a day is good. Stuff what you draw in a drawer and forget about it. But leave pencil and paper out on your table.

Now this is important. Don’t look at what you draw, or God forbid judge it. Just draw 10 minutes a day. Keep going. Just like in that rainstorm.

You want to focus on the doing, not the judging. And don’t show it to anyone, or ask for their opinion. This is all about your journey. You are coming home to your creative voice.

After a while, when doodling or drawing becomes habit. Get yourself some paint or colored pencils. Limit yourself to yellow, red, blue, white, and black. Limit your materials and your choices, so that you’re forced to think creatively. I know this sounds simplistic, but baby steps remember?

Don’t sign up for a class. Not yet anyway. Get creative with those circles and squares. You might be surprised with what you bring forth from within. You know, like when you were a child? Before some adult told you you weren’t creative?

And you are creative. We all are. It’s an inner need to say something, to be heard. You can do this. There will be time later to learn techniques and theory.

For now, don’t overdrive your headlights. Learn to play and experiment with pencil, paper, and a few colors—one step at a time.

And then, you’ll have to see what the next telephone pole is for you. It’s different for each of us. Maybe you’ll watercolor? Or sculpt? Or quilt? It’s your journey. Different from mine.

There’ll be time later for classes, or teachers. But this journey is yours. Own it. You have something to say. We all do. So put pencil to paper and begin.

In March 2020, Panama entered one of the most severe and lengthy COVID quarantines worldwide. My wife and I had moved here 2 years earlier and lived in the sleepy town of Puerto Armuelles on the Pacific Ocean near the border of Costa Rica.

But she was stranded in the U.S., unable to get a humanitarian flight home.

And for 3 ½ months, I was in total lockdown, save for a 2-hour window to scramble for food and necessities. With the ocean on one side of me and the jungle on the other, I felt incredibly alone.

Like many people, I spent days scrolling through COVID statistics, watching too much T.V., and sleeping.

Then one day, out of sheer boredom, I watched an interview with Robin Sharma. He mentioned “day stacking,” the notion that how we spend our day reflects our life in miniature. We stack good day upon good day to create a life worth living.

The interview was geared toward corporate types and not a retired music teacher who does art. But there were parts to which I could relate so I watched another about his 5 a.m. club idea, and another about a 20/20/20 morning routine.

I thought about how my days were marching on in isolation. I wasn’t making art. If I looked at how my days were stacking, it wasn’t pretty. If each day were my life in miniature, I realized I was going nowhere fast.

I felt whooped. By lockdown. By rural Panama. By my lack of direction.

So I made a few changes. Being totally alone, I could be as eccentric as I liked. So I set up a strict morning routine.

I got up at 5 a.m. to watch the sunrise as I did sit-ups and sun salutes in my pajamas.

I journaled for 20 minutes about ideas and plans for the day and art projects.

And I started art study online for the final 20 minutes.

20/20/20. Exercise/Journal/Learn

I didn’t tell anyone about my new routine, so convinced that I wouldn’t maintain it for long.

But after 2 weeks, I was still getting up at 5. I even started extending my journaling and learning time. My notebook started to fill with sketches and new ideas from artist classes online.

I filled in the gaps in my art knowledge by learning more about perspective, color-mixing, constructivist drawing, and human anatomy.

The more I learned, the more connected with other artists online. I started sharing my work to keep myself honest about progress.

My art sessions increased, frequently lasting 6 or 7 hours. It seemed I had created my own intensive art retreat, one designed specifically for my interests and needs as a developing artist.

I had no time to feel lonely.

I was accomplishing so much and the proof was all of the art I was producing. Animal portraits, studies in perspective, texture, color-mixing. Meditations with zentangle designs. It was as if I were in art school with a syllabus tailor-made for my interests and needs for growth. It was wonderful!

My wife Melinda eventually got a flight back to Panama. It was great to have her home, but a part of me worried that I’d lose my beloved routine. That I’d resort back to the aimless me with no structure to my days.

My worries were unfounded. After seeing the change in me, Melinda was keen to try it herself. A talented writer and blogger, she was grappling with similar issues as far as structuring her days and getting things done.

Melinda started using morning journal time for centering prayer and a to-do list. She signed up for a course in blogging and studied SEO and social media. She was hooked.

So it’s about a year and a half into our new day stacking lifestyle. We still find time to swim, surf, walk the dogs, socialize, and eat well, but we are still on the same path. And we’ve come so far.

Why would we ever want to change when it’s working so well?

If you enjoyed this blog, please consider subscribing, or leave a comment below. I’d love to hear about your artistic journey!

You stand in front of the Rose Window in Chartres Cathedral, France. Hundreds of people mill about. But you feel as if you are all alone. The vibrant stained glass windows of a century gone by call to you. If this is your first viewing, maybe you lose track of time.

You stand, mesmerized, sensing even physical changes in your body. Perhaps your heart rate elevates or you feel slightly warm?

20 years ago I remember scoring a half-price ticket to the Chicago Symphony.

I went alone.

I remember hearing Barber’s Adagio for Strings for the first time. The music’s tension grew and grew and I felt a clutching in my chest as the music carried me along on a beautiful journey. As the final chords died away, I was in tears, so moved by its power.

Many people, on viewing Degas’s Ballerina paintings have described an overpowering sensation of dancing. That is, they feel their muscles contracting as if they were the ballerina.

So in all these examples, we’ve had a transformative experience with art.

What is going on in our brains when this happens?

That question is at the center of a relatively new area of research called neuroaesthetics. This interdisciplinary field draws researchers from fields like psychology, neuroscience, technology, and the arts. They come from different fields but bring similar questions, such as:

Why do great works of art sometimes move us to tears?

Which areas of our brain ping when we listen to music or view art?

Can art experiences help stave off depression, improve circulation and maintain brain function?

Can art help us to stay healthy as we age?

One of the founders of neuroaesthetics is Semir Zeki at the University College London. Zeki’s book, Inner Vision: An Exploration of Art and the Brain reports on findings from research on how the brain is influenced by different art experiences.

This research used fMRI machines, that is, machines that measure blood flow to different parts of the brain. As it turns out there are specific brain areas that light up when listening to music. Other areas ping when we view great art and still others when we view beauty.

But back to our examples of the Rose Window and Barber’s Adagio for Strings. As it turns out one area in the brain is common to both music and art experience. And it is very close, perhaps overlapping, another region that lights up when we feel desire and love.

So when we have a transformative experience with a piece of art, we may feel the same physical responses as those we feel when looking at someone we love. The clutching feeling I had when listening to Barber’s music certainly caused this response in me.

But why are these experiences so rare?

Some researchers believe that art that challenges our perspective or invites us to see the world differently could be one answer. For example, if I have one view of what is beautiful, but am confronted with a painting that drastically alters my idea of beauty, I might be moved to tears or at least be forced to fight them back.

Tension builds in us as we see something that we cannot categorize or liken to anything we’ve seen before. When we finally allow ourselves to take in this new perspective, we feel a release. And, perhaps, some tears.

Another theory is that these experiences are more apt to happen when we are alone. Since we often attend concerts and art openings with friends and family as a social event, we might not get the full impact of the art. Our mind might be divided between social interaction and experiencing the music or art.

I remember visiting one particular room in the Louvre with a friend. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and was waiting for her after about an hour. When I finally decided to go in search of her, I found her at the second painting. She had spent nearly an hour viewing one painting.

At that point, I knew she needed to stay at the Louvre and I was ready for a nice glass of wine on the Champs Elysees. She was having a transformative experience. I was not.

So what does this fascinating research into neuroaesthetics tell me?

Experiencing art alone is important. Immersing ourselves totally in what we are hearing or seeing or reading, is key to truly feeling an art.

For me, I’ll try to take my artist self on a field trip alone whenever possible.

I'll go to a gallery or concert when I have time and can view it with a sense of wonder and openness.

If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll be moved to tears.

Have you ever gotten the perfect idea for a painting, and put in countless hours of work only to scrap the whole thing in the end? Or maybe you’ve begun a project. It’s going splendidly. But then just about the time when you’re giving it the final touches, you hit a snag? Things take a dark turn and your work ultimately ends up in the garbage?

I sure have. And when I do, I know I need to reset and create some really bad art.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to crank out brilliant paintings every single time. But the reality is, I won’t. So here are 7 reasons why making really bad art can get you back on the road to good painting.

IT’S IN THE NUMBERS BABY: You might be able to paint 5 bad paintings, even 10 or 20. But creating 150 bad paintings? Really? Is that possible? You’re gonna get better, trust me.

Hopefully, your odds get better too. Maybe instead of painting a “keeper” for every 20 paintings, you’ve made some progress and every 10th painting is looking pretty good to you.

Warm-ups, sketches, bad 1st or 2nd or 20th “takes.” It’s all just part of getting to a good painting, or whatever art you do. So begin each day, not with the expectation of painting a masterpiece, but rather just painting.

BABY STEPS: - You’re a beginner.

Admit it.

We all are.

Our whole life, if we’re lucky, we can hold onto that beginner’s optimism. Beginners take risks, make big mistakes, and explore. To keep creating good art you’ll eventually have to try different techniques, new subjects, and new perspectives.

Barry Manilow had a knack for cranking out top 10 songs. Copa Cabana, Mandy, I Write the Songs, and Can’t Smile Without You - They’re proof of his songwriting genius.

But eventually, Manilow’s formula became predictable. The quiet opening that built to a crescendo and inevitable key change about halfway through? These were all part of the formula. It earned him millions. But somewhere along the way, I’d surmise, Manilow lost his beginner’s mindset. He played it safe and followed a tried and true formula. His songs eventually showed it.

Predictable is boring.

If you don’t take risks and push boundaries, your art will stagnate. So try on the label of “beginner” and see if it allows you the freedom to play and explore a little more.

FOCUS, FOCUS: I recently wrote a blog post about how making art is a lot like playing golf. There are so many elements to a great painting and a great golf game. So it’s impossible to get them all right.

If I set out to paint something solely focusing on one element, say, composition, I just might fail at the overall work. My color palette or values will be off, for example. But by allowing myself to study that one element, I’m in essence saying. “I’m going to succeed at composition today. I might not hang this piece in my living room, but I’ll improve at one element of art.”

A great piece of art synthesizes so many elements, but maybe you’re ready to focus on just one at the moment. Think of what you’ll learn. You can pull all of those elements together later on after you’ve played with each separately.

OUR DIRTY LITTLE SECRET: We all do it. Create bad art.

We just don’t show it to everyone.

I recently created a piece in a new style using brand new paints. I was so excited that I posted it on a Facebook Group before thinking. And then came the Whoops!

What the heck was I thinking? Luckily no one was harsh, but it’s important to think twice before hitting “share.”

Not everything we make is for public viewing. You know that hyper-critical friend that you always have lunch with? Yeah, that one. Don’t ask for their opinion.

Your psyche is fragile, especially if you’re just starting to paint. You need to hear kind words and constructive tidbits from well-chosen friends. Words that will keep you on the path.

Hopefully, you’re working on having a “tribe” of friends, or maybe just one, who will give you honest but helpful thoughts. Even so, maybe there are times when we should just create, have a good laugh, and move on?

MIXING PICKLES WITH PEANUT BUTTER: - Now don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. But here’s my point. Good art, at least sometimes, makes connections between really disparate things.

Take Leonardo Da Vinci. His curiosity was boundless. Flying machines, botany, weaponry, birds, anatomy. The list is endless. And his sketchbooks are filled with thousands of studies of all his various interests.

Da Vinci’s love of science and deep curiosity ultimately led him to paint better. His work designing sets for a theatre gave him ideas for depicting perspective in a 2D format. Da Vinci spent hundreds of hours observing birds in flight, landing, and taking off. It shows in his paintings.

So if you have other hobbies, embrace them. How could you combine them with what you paint already?

Mixing two different subjects doesn’t always work. It takes courage.

It takes going out on a limb.

It might necessitate making some really bad art, at first.

STEP ON THE GAS! It can be fun to revel in fast and loose painting. You may find a different side of your artist self.

And if it turns out badly? Just paint another one. There is merit in learning your unique working process. It will be different than anyone else’s. If you agonize over one painting for 40 or 50 hours, you might lose out on identifying that process.

Painting quickly and loosely gives you the chance to try different systems. And even if it turns out badly, you’re still closer to knowing how to paint a better one.

The truth is that by spending dozens of hours on one piece, you might miss out on some awesome ideas for future works. Grab those ideas that come to you at 2:30 a.m., write them down, and act . . . quickly!

Don't lose out on that gem of an idea you had last night by overworking the same painting you've been trying to finish since Christmas.

GET OVER YOURSELF: By permitting myself to create a bad painting, I let go of my perfectionistic tendencies. I give up on comparing my step 4 with another artist’s step 122 in their learning process.

We are all on the growth path, but there’s no need for comparison. Many friends of mine set out to paint just like ___________ (fill in the blank). But that famous painter has been honing her craft for 20 years or more. So go ahead and look at the first works of your favorite painter, but don’t compare your “bad” painting to their masterpiece. It’ll only lead to disappointment.

I love bad art.

My bad art.

I might not show it to you, but I sure have learned a ton from the process of making it.

My wife and I recently watched the Korean Drama, Navillera, about a retired mailman who decides to fulfill his lifelong dream of dancing ballet on a stage, despite disapproval from his wife and family, and roadblocks both physical, societal, and psychological.

Navillera. It means “like a butterfly.”

And at 70, Mr. Shim exits his cocoon of a life and emerges a butterfly of sorts - a dancer.

Recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's, Shim realizes that his passion for dance will slip away unless he acts quickly. He begins serious study with a young up-and-coming ballerino and the two form a watchable bromance where both the 23-year-old ballerino and Mr.Shim emerge triumphant.

Shim doesn’t pursue ballet as a dabbler. He’s been enamored with it his entire life and knows the pain and endurance needed.

In the show, Shim advocates for himself again and again, because society tells him to slow down, sit back and simply enjoy life.

I identify so strongly with this passionate man. Now, at 60, I avoid friends that ask, “Why would you want to work so hard now? Take it easy. Kick back and have some wine.” Little do they know that making art gives me energy and purpose and joy.

As I see it, my dream is to make art and I have total control over whether or not I achieve that. There are plenty of things over which I have no control: who will enjoy my art, if my art sells, how many years I have left to paint. But I can create art and improve daily.

And that shift in perspective makes all the difference in the world.

Writers, dancers, woodworkers, quilters . . .

Everyone has creativity within.

It’s just a matter of saying yes to it.

And making art when we are older requires courage. Courage to stand up to friends who may naysay or societal norms that encourage a much different view of old age.

Navillera, or butterfly, is mesmerizing because passion, in anyone, at any age, is beautiful.

And at 70 years old?

It’s astounding.

So why are there not more Mr. Shims in the world? Everyone has their own reasons. But we lose out when we don’t listen to our inner voice.

Saying yes to creating art, or writing, or dancing, or cooking, or gardening - the list is endless - is saying yes to everyone’s core impulse to express themselves and to create beauty in their own life.

Society tells us that getting old equals doing less, looking backward. What if, instead, we used our time left to pursue what gives us joy?

The university-trained artist, writer, or dancer may caution us that a lifetime of study is required for mastery. But what if the goal is not perfection, but simply the act of creating?

If we don’t start today, we’ll be even further behind tomorrow.

Society tells us that great art requires focused, full-time, 8-hours-a-day dedication. What if, instead, we saw art as play and pursued it with the gusto of Mr. Shim?

After finding joy in 20 minutes of creativity today, we just might find time for an hour’s worth tomorrow. So why not just start?

Creating art, dancing, writing, woodworking, gardening, quilting, cooking, singing, playing the saxophone. . . . . . they are all paths to the same goal - our inner passion.

Don’t you want a little of that for yourself?

“Who’s the artist?” I asked my host a few months back, at an artists’ get-together. On the wall were 2 miniature collage pieces framed on a simple black mat. Each piece was the size of a business card and their colors, textures and composition were beautiful.

I was intrigued.

“They’re artist trading cards.” my friend told me. “A bunch of us got together to trade our ATCs and a friend gave me these.” She and her artist colleagues used collage, fiber art, drawing, and painting to create wonderful miniature works of art.

It turns out that Artist Trading Cards or ATCs have been around for 25 years.

They started in 1997 when Swiss artist, M. Vanci Stirnemann dreamed up a project called the Collaborative Cultural Performance. The idea was that artists of all different backgrounds and using all sorts of mediums would create cards and then gather to trade the 2 ½ by 3-inch miniatures.

Stirnemann wanted no money involved. It was a free sharing of artwork and ideas from artists of all mediums and ability levels.

There have been many ATC events since the initial one in 1997. Galleries and art schools have had exhibitions of ATCs. Artists have evened mailed ATCs across continents.

Some artists have started selling their ATCs, especially on EBay. But they’re kind of missing the point. I like Stirnemann’s original idea of free-sharing.

I make Artist Trading Cards frequently and find they offer so many benefits:

GET OUT OF OLD HABITS OR RUTS: As a pet portrait artist working on commissions, I was stuck in a realistic frame of mind that focused on details, details, details. ATCs allowed me to break out of realism and play with abstract ideas, not worrying about a finished product.

EXPLORE NEW COLOR PALETTES: I often play with complementary color palettes on larger pieces of paper, then cut them into small business-card-sized bites. I keep these ATCs on a wall behind my workspace to remind me which color palettes piqued my interest.

TRY OUT DIFFERENT COMPOSITIONAL FORMATS: Working big is a bit of a time investment. With small ATCs I can play with compositional ideas in miniature and not commit a lot of paint, materials, and time to the process. Many artists use thumbnail sketches for this reason. ATCs, for me, are easier to store and find when I need to refer to them.

TRADE WITH FRIENDS: Our monthly art get-together turned into a trading card event last December when we were asked to share ATCs with the hostess. We also shared with each other how we created our cards. Lots of good ideas floated around that day!

GET UNSTUCK: Sometimes when I don’t have a new idea for my next painting, I’ll sift through my ATCs and simply choose one. Analyzing the texture, composition, and color palette, I’ll try to incorporate these into the background or an entire abstract piece.

USE UNFAMILIAR TOOLS/MATERIALS: For some ATCs I play with mark-making tools like combs, toothbrushes, Q-tips, straws as well as gels and mediums. I’m often able to create new textures not possible with standard brushes and pencils. Playing with these tools on small cards is risk-free and brings out the child in me.

By now Artist Trading Cards have become standard for many artists. But if you haven’t tried your hand at these little wonders, I invite you to explore their power!

Now go play!

The color turquoise - it’s ever-present here in tropical Panama where my wife and I live. It’s the dramatic shadows in a steamy green jungle or the ocean’s horizon line seen from our back deck. It’s often coupled with shocking pink and orange on houses and graffiti and billboards. I love all colors, but turquoise has a special place in my heart.

What cinched my love affair with turquoise is the last paragraph in the book Color: A Natural History of the Palette by Victoria Finlay (pub 2007). In 395 pages exploring the origins and fascinating stories behind various colors, Finlay never mentions turquoise.

Until the very last paragraph when Finlay writes:

“When I was two days from finishing the first draft of this book, a friend called from New York in great excitement. “There’s a text message on CNN. They say someone’s found the color of the universe,”

It turns out that scientists at Johns Hopkins University had discovered that by combining all the colors of all the atmospheric light in the universe one would come up with a very pale turquoise.

The color of the universe - pale turquoise.

Fascinating.

I had to read further.

As it turns out, the scientists got it wrong. They used the wrong color white for their computations. Actually, beige is the color of the universe. But for me, I still wanted more on turquoise and its cousin aqua.

Are they 2 different colors?

If so, how?

Some online searching gave me an answer. Although aqua and turquoise are both part of the Cyan or green/blue family - they’re a bit different. Aqua has exactly equal parts green and blue and absolutely no red tint whatsoever with an RGB of 0 (red)/255 (green) /255 (blue).

While turquoise’s RGB numbers are 64 (red), 244 (green) and 208 (blue). Hence turquoise plays so nicely with red because it has red within it. Turquoise leans more toward green than blue. There’s a reason why aqua feels so cool and turquoise, more vibrant and perky.

Yes, yes, my wife mused, but what does this have to do with real life?

A painting she inherited gave one answer.

The painting was of an Alaskan sled dog by Fred Machentanz, an early 20th-century painter. Machentanz was known for his ability to capture the eerie, glowing light of Winter in Alaska.

If you ever have had the pleasure of walking on a glacier in Winter twilight, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

The snow twinkles with pale pinks, blues, and, yes, aqua. Glacier crystals are compact and refract light much differently under the pale, weak sunlight of an Alaskan day.

Aqua leans more toward blue than turquoise. And so, Machentanz's paintings create a twinkling calm, a reflective and peaceful vibe. But the more adventurous scenes approach shades of turquoise where brighter, warmer colors are brought in to create drama and excitement, such as one painting of a musher leading a pack of dogs down the icy Bering Sea coastline.

Machentanz was a master of capturing aqua and turquoise on polar bears, on huskies, on mountains, on most everything in rural Alaska. He used aqua as a base layer with transparent glazes on top to create incredible depth in his work.

Take a look at the famous Coca-Cola ad with a polar bear and you’ll see a similar Machentanz shimmer on the fur and snow.

Fast forward to Panama, where my wife and I now live in the oceanside town of Puerto Armuelles. From our deck, we look at the amazing pacific ocean with its myriad shades of aqua. The ocean horizon line is a deep turquoise melting into a gorgeous orange/red sky. And inland? There’s the green and dramatic turquoise of a thick jungle. 100’s of different greens, yes, but turquoise lends the definition and pop of color to the green.

In the evening we’ve been watching the popular Korean drama “Mr. Sunshine” about South Korea’s righteous army and their struggle to maintain the Joseon empire in the early 20th Century. The cinematographer, I’m told, was meticulous in his filming to make sure that every scene, emphasized turquoise and its complement red/orange.

Watching it I was struck again and again by the symbiotic relationship between turquoise and orange/red. The turquoise tile roofs of the emperor’s palace juxtaposed with the bright red of women’s robes. The turquoise shadows on a black horse’s mane as he prances through a funeral procession - bright red flags flying in the wind. Breathtaking cinematography at every turn brings unity to the entire 24-episode drama. At times I lost track of the plot as I marveled at the photography.

Aqua and turquoise have a solid place of honor in my paintings as well. They are often the cool undertones I lay down first. Spicier, warmer tones come later. I look forward to trying the glazing effects of Machentanz or capturing the dramatic scenes and colors of “Mr. Sunshine.” Take a look and see if you can spy these two colors in my work. Thanks for reading.

For me, playing golf and making art are two of the best ways to spend any day of the week. Surprisingly, they have a lot in common.

THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT-

In golf and art, there’s the long game. The perfect long drive down the fairway. The brilliantly planned composition.

And then, BAM!, my short game kills me.

In golf?

I can’t even sink the 6 -inch putt.

In art?

I get lost in the details (the “putts” of painting) and lose sight of the big picture, literally.

THE UNPREDICTABILITY OF IT-

Playing golf in Alaska (the only place I’ve ever played) I encountered bears ambling over the course and my perfect drive being snatched by a baby fox.

Really.

It happened.

In Art?

I once started painting an abstract about the war in Ukraine and all of a sudden, unbeknownst to me, Tweety Bird made an appearance. I only noticed after quitting for the day and saw him peeking from the left side of my creation.

Strange.

Whether I find myself on the fairway or in the studio, I don’t know how the day will unfold.

THEY'RE BOTH MORE FUN WITH FRIENDS-

In Alaska, single golfers are often paired with the next available player. I was once matched with an 85-year-old gentleman golfer who brought his oxygen tank on his golf cart! I thought I was in for a very long, boring day. I assumed he would be a “duffer”. Instead, he was a hotshot and a great conversationalist to boot. He also regaled me with tips and tricks to improve my game.

In art?

There are few things better than painting with a friend or two, sipping a glass of wine, and chatting about viral abstract technique videos. Monthly, I make a long drive from my home on the ocean up to the highlands to join a group of painters to do just that. It’s always great as well to bounce ideas off of others. I’ll save the lonely, starving artist stereotype for someone else.

THE EQUIPMENT FRENZY-

I once agonized over buying a driver, thinking it would transform me into the next Tigress Woods. Little did I know that that new high-tech carbon fiber club needed Tiger to make it sing.

In art?

My studio is stocked to the hilt. I love trying out new paints and mediums. And yah, the new brushes sure give me a reason to paint. But there’s no magic potion in those new Golden Acrylics. Really. My Colombian knock-offs do the job just fine.

YOU GOTTA PUT IN THE HOURS-

Both golf and art require meticulous technique. Without hitting a lot of balls at the driving range first, I typically blew my game around hole 10. I didn’t have the muscle memory or the mind game to hold it together for the last half of 18.

And art? Well, nuff said.

THEY'RE BOTH GAMES-

I know folks who love to tell me how much agony they’re in when they make art.

The time . . .

the hard work . . .

the sacrifice.

Well, I say, good for them. But I consider it pure joy to paint. It is play in a challenging format. I won’t agree with the whiners about art but I would say the same about golf. Honestly, chipping out of a sandtrap was agony at times.

But when it went well? Exhilarating.

NEITHER IS ESSENTIAL TO SURVIVAL-

This last point might be news to some of my golfing or artist friends. But truly, there are people out there who manage to cobble together a life without either golf or art.

Poor souls.

So here’s to golf and art! May they challenge us to our dying day.

As artists we’ve probably all experienced it: Flow. That experience of losing track of time, being so caught up in artmaking, and forgetting all else. It’s a wonderful experience where the art seems to simply emanate effortlessly and there is joy in every brush stroke.

The 1990 book Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi describes it as a time when the task or project at hand is challenging but it is exactly equal to our skill level.

I’d love to make art in a flow state every day. But it can be tough to achieve. Here are some ideas that work for me.

SET THE STAGE - I clean paintbrushes and gesso at night so I can get up and go in the morning! Nothing stops motivation more than a half hour of cleaning and prepping. Sometimes I even paint a broad brush stroke before bed to pique my interest when I awake.

SET RULES - I’m more creative when I limit my palette, or dictate only certain shapes in a painting. I got this idea from a TedTalk, “Embrace the Shake” where artist Phil Hansen developed a career-destroying tremor in his painting hand. Rather than throw in the towel he went on to create amazing art, as well as to inspire us all. https://video.search.yahoo.com/search/video?fr=mcafee&ei=UTF-8&p=embrace+the+shake+youtube+art+video&type=E211US885G0#id=1&vid=d3f0c955eaaa30ee8e04836f10a0baaf&action=click

DISTRACTIONS KILL - Instagram, Facebook, phone calls, etc… I turn ‘em off while making art and shut the door. Just me, my little dog Violet, and the canvas now.

TAKE YOUR GLASSES OFF - I tend to get caught up in the details and can’t see the big picture or idea. By squinting, or using a quilter’s eye tool, I can fix big areas and not obsess about the details too early in the painting process.

WAKE UP AT THE WITCHING HOUR - For some reason, I naturally wake up around 2:30 or 3:00 a.m. and often get my best ideas then. My wife wrote a telling Medium.com blog, “Bewitched from Alaska to Panama” about awakening early in the morning with personal epiphanies. https://melindamileslindberg.medium.com/bewitched-from-alaska-to-panama-28d761db30f1 Upon waking I journal these ideas and act on them in my next art session.

THINK LIKE A TEENAGER - As a teenager I was more apt to act first and think later. Hiking 9 miles along a lonely highway at night to see a friend? Not smart. In the studio anyway, I give it a go , take risks, make bold strokes, and big mistakes rather than small ones. Timidity is the enemy of flow.
SPEED UP! In the flow state I work FAST! Slow meticulous work has its place, but speed and loose painting tend to turn off my inner critic, and, well, let creativity flow.

VARY YOUR SCHEDULE - Through trial and error I found that I paint best in the early morning. I have energy and ideas flowing from my dreams the night before and not many distractions. I also guard this time fiercely. Don’t assume you’re a night owl. Have you experimented to see what time works for you?

INCENSE & MUSIC - Lavender incense, and jazz are triggers for me. When I smell lavender, it’s art time. And Stanley Turrentine Saxaphone classics or Bill Evans piano jazz allow me to mellow and paint.

Have you had a flow experience? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Leave me a comment below and tell me what works for you.