Famous Last Words of a Growing Artist Be careful what you say you’ll never do… because the universe is petty and loves a good irony. I once swore I’d only work in pencil. Black-and-white. Realism or bust. Color? Too chaotic. Oil paint? Too slow. Landscapes? Snooze fest. Abstract art? That’s just what people do when they can’t draw, right? (Insert dramatic eye roll here.) Then I found Patrick Nagel’s work… clean lines, bold color, graphic punch… and I was hooked. That led to p

Look at anything you think is white. Go ahead … stare it down. Now here’s the truth: It’s probably not white. It’s just telling a little white lie. White loves to pretend it’s pure and simple … like it has nothing to hide. But under the right light, it spills all its secrets. You’ll find blushes of pink, dabs of pale blue, hints of yellow, whispers of lavender … Turns out white is a drama queen just waiting for a spotlight. One of my favorite art class moments is sending m

His Dad Spills the Beans I asked Leopold Mozart (possibly a fictional interview) what it really took for his son to become, well… Mozart. Me: Herr Leopold, people love to believe that Wolfgang was born with divine talent … like he popped out of the womb humming symphonies. Leopold Mozart: Oh, that old myth? Let me assure you, Wolfgang wasn’t born conducting. He cried like every other baby … but maybe in perfect pitch. Me: So, he wasn’t born with all that genius? Leopold: Geni

You know that awkward moment when someone gushes about your painting, and all you can think to say is, “Uh… thanks”? Yeah, me too. It’s like our brain gets hit with wet paint fumes and forgets how words work. Well, fear not, my fellow paint-slingers and canvas warriors! I’ve collected 10 responses that will make you sound clever, charming, and just humble enough while still letting people know you appreciate their compliment. 1. “Thanks! I’ll let my brushes know … they’ve bee

Choosing Not to Be Bullied (Even By Yourself) When I was young, I was short, skinny, and an easy target. I was bullied, not just by kids at school, but by the people who were supposed to love me the most … my own parents. I never knew when it was coming. A slap, a punch, a scream. There was no safe corner of the house, no warning signs. I couldn’t just not be there. I was a child with nowhere to run. But I’m not that child anymore. Now, I have choices. When I owned a martial

When I was a kid growing up in Dallas, there was a waterpark called Sandy Lake. I have no idea if it still exists … but if it does, I’m sure OSHA has since visited and changed a few things. One thing I remember vividly was the high dive. I swear it had to be 483 feet tall. (Okay, maybe it was 20. But I was 8, so … same difference.) I remember standing in the long line of kids waiting to climb the ladder. I’d watch each of them run, bounce, leap into the air, and hit the water

The Pollock Myth I Wish Was Real Jackson Pollock: Genius, Acrobat, or Accidental Innovator? Confession time: I’m not a huge Jackson Pollock fan. There. I said it. Go ahead and gasp with horror. But I recently heard a story about him that was so wild, I wanted it to be true. The rumor? That Pollock was drunk, stumbled across a canvas, splattered paint everywhere, looked down, and said, “Actually… not bad.” And boom—drip painting was born. Naturally, I had to check the fax (bec

A Buyer’s Guide to Not Asking That Out Loud Let’s set the scene. You walk into a gallery. You see a painting. It’s beautiful. It’s powerful. It stirs something in your soul. Then you look at the price tag and suddenly the only thing stirring is your blood pressure. “Why is that so expensive?” You think it. You whisper it. Some of you even say it out loud (you know who you are). So this blog is for you. And for all the artists who have had to politely smile while dying a littl

Here’s What He Taught Me About Listening. He was bigger than life. Not because he was loud, quite the opposite. He was a quiet man. The kind of quiet that draws people in instead of pushing them away. Always with a slight smile. The kind that made you feel like he already knew the punchline but wanted you to enjoy telling the joke. He was my grandfather. He was a preacher. He was my hero. In everyday life, he gave others the floor. He didn’t need to dominate a conversation. H

My wife and I have this thing we whisper to each other: “Headlines.” It started after one too many conversations where someone just… kept… talking. I’m not saying it was bad. I’m saying it was everything. Like they opened their personal newspaper and started reading it out loud … every section, every ad, even the classified listings … without checking if anyone else was still breathing. (Quick history note: newspapers were how we got news before the algorithm on every social

“Those who don’t jump will never fly.” —Leena Ahmad Almashat Oh boy… that one hit me today. I’m standing at the edge of something new. A fresh painting series. A blank canvas. And honestly? I’m nervous as hell. You’d think after all these years of painting, showing, and selling, I’d be immune to this feeling. Nope. It still sneaks up on me. That little voice whispering: “What if this one fails?” “What if nobody gets it?” “What if I forget how to paint halfway through?” So tod

(The title was on purpose ... for those that caught it.) I just finished the most amazing painting! It is beyond my wildest dreams. It is… perfection. OK, I’m joking. Seriously...can we all stop using the word perfection as an excuse not to create? I hear it all the time: “Oh, I would be an artist… but I’m such a perfectionist. I’d never be happy with my work.” Oh, please. You’ve just described every artist … past, present, and probably even in the afterlife. Let’s bring in s

I’m sorry if I get all emotional on you right now… but this topic has been bouncing around in my head since yesterday. I was chatting with another artist … one of those “just feel it, man” types … who told me I need to “open up and let my emotions flow onto the canvas.” Well… That’s never been my way. I’ve never sat down at the easel thinking, “Today, I shall pour my tortured heart out.” I sit down thinking, “Let’s paint something ...” Or “Let’s solve this color problem.” Or

I love to teach. One of the biggest reasons I love to teach is because it always brings me right back to my foundations … drawing. Drawing is where it all begins. Every brushstroke, every painting that works, every piece that feels right—it all starts there. Yet, over and over, I see people trying to skip this step. They rush headlong into painting like it’s some sort of artistic fast-pass to greatness. It’s not. Here’s the uncomfortable truth no one really wants to hear: If

I’m always amazed … genuinely baffled … by how many people think you have to be born with talent. Like it’s something slipped into your diaper alongside baby powder and pacifiers. “Oh look, this one came with oil-painting ability … let’s upgrade to the talent crib!” Here’s the truth: We were all artists as kids. Every single one of us. We scribbled, we colored outside the lines (sometimes on purpose), we sculpted masterpieces out of Play-Doh and boogers (you know who you are)

There’s a strange chant that echoes through the hallowed halls of art shows, Instagram comments, and YouTube videos: “You’re cheating!” It’s not about cheating on your taxes. Or poker. It’s about … painting. Say the words “photo reference” and the pitchforks come out. Mention a projector and suddenly you’re a fraud with a brush. These folks act like the ghost of Rembrandt is watching over your shoulder with a clipboard, grading your process. I guess you’re wondering when I re

Let’s talk about the phrase “toxic paint.” Every time I hear it, I giggle just a little. Not an evil villain laugh—just a soft, internal “Oh bless your heart” kind of snicker. You see, someone will wag a finger at a tube of cadmium red like it’s a loaded weapon. “That’s toxic!” they gasp, then proceed to hop in their SUV, drive to a gas station, inhale a lungful of gas fumes, swipe their card, and pump 12 gallons of explosive liquid into a steel container strapped under their

Lessons from the Dojang to the Easel There’s a rhythm in life that only becomes clear when you’ve spent enough time in two places: a dojang and a studio. One teaches you to fight with grace. The other, to create with discipline. I’ve spent decades in both. When people see a finished painting, they often imagine bursts of inspiration and flashes of genius. But the truth is—like Tae Kwon Do—art is a daily practice. It’s repetition. It’s breath. It’s showing up, even when your h