Staying Creative

When I think about the most creative people I know, I don’t think of famous artists or designers—I think of kids. They’ll turn a stick into a sword, a blanket into a cape, and a cardboard box into a spaceship without hesitation. No second guessing. Just pure imagination. Somewhere along the way, most of us lose that. But I’ve realized it doesn’t have to be gone for good.

For me, staying creative like a kid starts with staying curious. I try to ask more questions—not just about art, but about everything. Why does light hit that wall like that? What would happen if I mixed these two ideas? When I stay curious, I stay open—and that’s when the good stuff starts to show up.

Another thing I’ve learned: play matters. I used to think every creative session had to be productive. Now, I let myself mess around more. I scribble, I doodle, I experiment with no real goal. That’s when things get interesting—when there’s no pressure to be brilliant.

“…play matters.”

And honestly, I’ve had to work on letting go of the fear of looking ridiculous. Kids don’t care if their drawing makes sense—they’re just in it for the joy. I try to tap into that. The less I judge my work while I’m making it, the freer I feel.

I also find that reconnecting with my senses—walking outside, watching how shadows move, noticing tiny details—keeps me grounded and inspired. The world is full of little sparks if I actually take the time to look.

Mostly, I just try to keep that sense of wonder alive. The world’s still magical, if I let it be. And when I do, creativity follows—just like it did when I was a kid.

AT Experience

A few weeks ago, I hiked a short stretch of the Appalachian Trail—not the whole thing, just a few miles, but enough to feel something shift. I didn’t go with a plan, really. I just packed my water, a small sketchbook, and hit the trail early in the morning, hoping to clear my head. What I didn’t expect was how much that walk would quietly reshape the way I paint.

There’s a rhythm to walking through the woods. Footstep after footstep, heartbeat steady, breath syncing with the rise and fall of the trail. I found myself noticing things I usually pass by—a single red leaf clinging to a branch, the soft decay of mossy logs, the shimmer of morning light through mist. Each detail felt like its own painting.

When I got home, I couldn’t shake that feeling. Instead of rushing to paint something “impressive,” I started working slower, letting my brush follow the same kind of quiet pace I had on the trail. The work became more about atmosphere and feeling than precision. My colors shifted—more earth tones, more soft transitions. I wanted the viewer to feel what I felt out there: stillness, awe, and a gentle sense of presence.

That short hike reminded me that art doesn’t always come from pushing harder. Sometimes it’s about stepping back, getting quiet, and letting the world come to you. The trail gave me that. And now, every time I paint, I try to carry a little piece of that forest with me. Just a few miles—but they went a long way.

Go Take a Walk!

There’s something magical about taking a walk in the woods early in the morning. When the world is still quiet and the sun is just beginning to filter through the trees, everything feels a little more open—especially my mind. It’s during these moments, with no distractions and no pressure, that I feel the most creatively free.

In the woods, the noise of everyday life fades away. There are no emails to answer, no deadlines to meet—just the sound of birds waking up, leaves whispering in the breeze, and my own footsteps on the trail. It’s a kind of peace I don’t find anywhere else, and it gives my mind the space it needs to breathe. With that space, new ideas seem to come more easily, almost effortlessly. Thoughts connect in unexpected ways, and I often find myself inspired by the simplest things—a pattern of light, the texture of bark, or the way the air smells after it rains.

I’ve noticed that walking in nature helps clear out the mental clutter. The things I’ve been stuck on or overthinking suddenly don’t feel so heavy. My brain resets a little, and with that comes a fresh wave of creativity. Whether I’m writing, sketching, or just trying to solve a problem, the woods always help me see things from a new angle.

I’ve noticed that walking in nature helps clear out the mental clutter.

What’s even more special is the time alone with my thoughts. Out there, it’s just me and the trees, and something about that allows me to dig a little deeper. I get more honest with myself, and that honesty feeds my creative work in a big way. It’s like I can hear my own voice more clearly, without all the noise.

So for me, a walk in the woods isn’t just a walk. It’s a reset, a source of inspiration, and a reminder that creativity doesn’t have to be forced—it just needs room to grow.

In morning light, the forest wakes,
A hush beneath the pine and brakes.
The world falls quiet, thoughts run free,
As whispers drift from tree to tree.

Each leaf, a spark; each breeze, a guide,
To places hiding deep inside.
The path unwinds, the clutter clears,
Ideas bloom where once were fears.

No screens, no noise, just earth and air,
And sudden truth found everywhere.
In solitude, I find my start—
The woods redraw the map of heart.

A walk, but more—a sacred space,
Where stillness makes the mind embrace
Its wildest, truest, untamed grace.

The Quiet Labor

With calloused hands and steady gaze,
The artist meets the morning haze.
Each dawn arrives, serene and still,
A canvas waits beneath his will.

A single stroke, then pause, then two—
He listens for what's good and true.
The paint may speak, the wood may sigh,
And clay holds dreams not seen by eye.

He does not rush the shaping flame,
For beauty’s not a thing to tame.
And patience walks beside his hand,
A quiet force that helps him stand.

He feels the soul in stone and grain,
In weathered knots and lines of strain.
Within the flaws, he finds the thread,
Of stories time has left unsaid.

The floor is strewn with starts and drafts,
Each one a step along his craft.
He toils not for the world’s acclaim,
But for the fire that has no name.

He works for love, not fleeting praise,
To bring forth light from shadowed days.
To build from nothing something true,
And say, “This is my gift to you.”

Each pigment mixed, each chisel’s trace,
Speaks quiet hope and boundless grace.
A silent hymn, a guiding spark,
For souls who wander in the dark.

He does not seek the hurried cheer,
But plants his art and waits the year.
As seasons turn, so does his hand,
In rhythm only hearts understand.

For art is not a race to win,
But something slow, and deep within.
It calls for time, for care, for truth,
For weathered hands and dreams of youth.

So let him work, and let him be,
A steward of what few can see.
A patient soul, a sacred part,
The quiet labor of the heart.

To Art: a Poem

O muse of art, thou vision born of perfect grace,
A lady fair, whose beauty none can name,
Thy gentle hands do carve in time a place
Where all that’s bright is born from thy pure flame.
With every stroke, thou paint'st the perfect dream,
Thy lips untouched, yet whispering soft and true,
Each curve and line a tale that dares to gleam
As though the very stars had seen thee through.

Thy eyes, a mirror of the heaven's light,
A depth so vast no mortal heart could hold,
Thy form, a vision born of endless night,
Where shadows breathe and secrets do unfold.
Thy skin, as soft as petals kissed by rain,
Thy spirit, woven deep in every hue,
Thy touch, a balm that heals all earthly pain,
A quiet force that stirs the soul anew.

Thy colors weave a love, both soft and bright,
Like evening's glow upon the setting sea;
Thy gaze a mirror of the starry night,
In thee, all passions find their sanctuary.
Thy hands, with grace, do mold a world divine,
Where dreams take shape and memory takes flight.

Thy voice, unspoken, fills the heart’s design,
And we, the watchers, yield to pure delight.

In thee, O Art, we see all beauty born—
As stars that glisten on the velvet sea,
As roses kissed by the first light of dawn,
As love itself, too deep for eyes to see.
Thy soul, transcendent, whispers like the breeze,
A muse eternal, floating in the night,
Thy art, a flame that kindles hearts with ease,
A beauty ever vivid, ever bright.

Monet and Renoir: A Personal Reflection on Their Differences

Claude Monet and Pierre-Auguste Renoir are two of my favorite artists from the Impressionist movement. Both of them captured light, color, and movement in a way that changed art forever. Though their works share similarities—like soft brushstrokes, vibrant outdoor scenes, and a focus on those fleeting moments of life—I’ve always felt that their artistic visions are quite different. Monet was obsessed with light and the atmosphere, while Renoir focused on the warmth of human interaction and emotion.

When I look at Monet’s paintings, like his Water Lilies or Haystacks, I feel like I’m seeing more than just a landscape. It’s almost like I can feel the sunlight changing through the day, or the breeze gently moving the water. Monet’s brushstrokes are soft, blurring the details, and it makes me feel like the scene is slipping into a dream. His art isn’t about the specific subject—it’s about how the light shapes everything around it, how it breathes life into the scene.

It’s almost like I can feel the sunlight changing through the day, or the breeze gently moving the water.

Then there’s Renoir, whose work is full of warmth and life. His paintings, like Luncheon of the Boating Party or Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette, are filled with people enjoying each other’s company, smiling, laughing, connecting. Where Monet’s figures blend into the scenery, Renoir’s are alive with texture and emotion. You can almost feel the joy radiating from the people in his scenes. His work feels like a warm, inviting moment, where you can almost hear the music and feel the happiness in the air.

Despite their differences, both Monet and Renoir were true Impressionists. They didn’t care about rigid details—they wanted to capture movement, emotion, and the fleeting beauty of life. Monet painted the world as it shimmered around him, while Renoir painted it as he felt it—with affection, charm, and warmth. Both of them remind me to appreciate the beauty in life’s little moments, whether it’s the changing light or the joy of being with others.

Brushstrokes blend in light,

Monet's blooms, Renoir’s glow,

Impression's soft flight.

The Fount of Creation: A poem

Creation’s fount! thou queen of beauty, pure and bright,
With grace and majesty, thy hands impart
A radiance that fills the world with light,
And stirs the deepest secrets of the heart.
Thine eyes, more tender than the morning sky,
Reflect a truth that cannot fade or die,
And in thy gaze, all mysteries are told,
A wealth of wonders more than can be sought or sold.

Thy form, a vision born of heaven’s bliss,
A perfect harmony of love and grace,
Each movement like a soft and fleeting kiss,
Each breath an echo of the sainted place.
Thy colors weave through time, both bright and fair,
Like autumn leaves, caught in the golden air,
And every line thy hand does softly trace
Becomes a story written in thy face.

In thee, O Art, we find a noble soul,
A love that heals, a peace that makes us whole,
Thy presence lifts the burdens of the mind,
And in thy beauty, all our hearts are twined.
For thou, eternal as the stars above,
Art beauty’s form, art love’s own sacred dove,
Thy hand has touched the world with gentle grace,
And left upon it beauty's sweet embrace.

The Connection Between Art and Grief

Correctly expressing Grief is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to figure out. I’ve tried ignoring it and pretending everything was okay; I’ve inappropriately lashed out when grief-induced frustration pushed me over the edge, and that did nothing to deal with the grief behind the frustration. Losing someone you love or something you really enjoyed leaves a hole that feels impossible to fill, and for a long time, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I struggled to find the right words to express what I was feeling, and the weight of my emotions felt unbearable. But art became my outlet, my escape, and ultimately, my way of healing.

One of the most powerful things art did for me was give me a way to express emotions I couldn’t put into words. When I was overwhelmed with sadness, I would pick up a paintbrush and let the colors tell my story. Some days, the strokes were chaotic and angry; other days, they were soft and sorrowful. Even though I wasn’t always sure what I was painting, the process itself helped me release emotions I had been holding inside. Writing worked the same way—I could pour my feelings onto a page, even if no one else ever read them.

“Art gave me a way to express emotions I couldn’t put into words.”

Art also reminded me that I wasn’t alone. At my lowest points, I would listen to music or read poetry that spoke to my pain, and it was comforting to know that other people had felt this way too. Their words and melodies became a reminder that grief is universal, that others had survived it, and that I could too. It connected me to something bigger than my own sorrow.

More than anything, creating art gave me a sense of peace, even when everything else felt chaotic. When I focused on painting or writing, my mind wasn’t consumed by sadness—it was present, engaged in the act of creating. It didn’t make the grief disappear, but it made it more bearable.

Art didn’t "fix" my grief, but it helped me live with it. It gave me a way to feel, to remember, and to heal. And in those moments of creation, I found light even in the darkest places.

The Relationship Between Music and Painting

What do music and painting have in common? Actually, a lot. Music and painting, though distinct art forms, share a real connection rooted in their ability to evoke emotions, tell stories, and express the depths of human experience. The interplay between these two mediums can result in powerful, inspiring works of art that transcend boundaries and create a holistic sensory experience. One of the most enjoyable art projects I’ve ever undertaken was to paint four large paintings, each painting representing what I SAW in my mind as I listened to the four movements of Beethoven’s fifth symphony. It was a wild experiment for me!

I think the connection works because the way music inspires painting is through its capacity to evoke emotions and moods. Music, with its rhythm, melody, and harmony, can transport listeners to different emotional states. An artist can translate these feelings into visual elements, using color, texture, and composition to mirror the emotions stirred by the music. For example, a piece of classical music with a slow, melancholic melody might inspire a painting with cool, muted tones and fluid, gentle brushstrokes, capturing the essence of sadness or introspection.

Music also has the power to stimulate the imagination and conjure vivid imagery. Listening to a piece of music, an artist may visualize scenes, landscapes, or abstract forms that resonate with the sounds they hear. This synesthetic experience allows artists to create paintings that are a direct response to the music, blending auditory and visual elements into a cohesive artistic expression.

Listening to a piece of music, an artist may visualize scenes, landscapes, or abstract forms

The rhythm and dynamics of music can influence the composition and movement within a painting. Just as music has crescendos, diminuendos, and varying tempos, a painting can incorporate contrasting elements, such as bold, energetic strokes juxtaposed with soft, delicate details. This rhythmic interplay can create a sense of movement and flow within the artwork, making it visually engaging and dynamic.

Also, the themes and narratives within music can inspire artists to explore similar concepts in their paintings. An orchestral piece that tells a story of heroism and adventure might lead an artist to create a dramatic, epic scene filled with tension and excitement. Conversely, a folk song about love and loss might inspire a more intimate, personal painting that delves into the complexities of human relationships.

Music and painting are intertwined in their ability to inspire and enhance each other. The emotions, imagery, rhythm, and narratives found in music provide a rich source of inspiration for painters, enabling them to create visually compelling works that resonate on a deeper, emotional level.

Artistic Enlightenment: Lessons from Italy

A couple years ago, my wife Joy and I had the opportunity to visit Italy. And honestly, visiting Italy was like stepping into an artist's dream. The country is a living, breathing gallery, and the experiences I had there have truly transformed my creative process.

Wandering through the Uffizi Gallery in Florence was like meeting the greats—Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Botticelli. Seeing their masterpieces up close taught me that there’s so much value in mastering traditional techniques and understanding art’s historical context. These guys showed me that sometimes, to innovate, you need to have a deep appreciation for the past.

The beauty of Venice, with its crumbling buildings and weathered charm, was a revelation. The city’s worn steps and peeling paint told stories of their own, proving that imperfection adds depth and character to art. This experience encouraged me to embrace flaws in my work and see them as unique features rather than mistakes.

“Honestly, art is everywhere in Italy, and people genuinely cherish it.”

Italy’s landscapes, like the rolling hills of Tuscany and the sunlit Amalfi Coast, were a lesson in color and light. Watching how the colors of the countryside changed with the light of the day helped me grasp the dynamic relationship between color and light in my paintings. The vibrant Mediterranean light has definitely influenced my palette, adding a new warmth and brightness.

Honestly, art is everywhere in Italy, and people genuinely cherish it. From Rome’s art districts to Florence’s artisan workshops, the dedication and passion I encountered were infectious. This immersion reminded me that true artistry isn't just about talent; it’s about persistent dedication to the craft.

One of the biggest takeaways from my Italian adventure was realizing that inspiration can be found anywhere I go. Whether in the grand frescoes of a cathedral in Rome, the elegance of a handmade ceramic in Sulmona, or the lively gestures of street performers in a Bari piazza, Italy taught me to always keep my eyes open. Every moment, no matter how small, can translate into a burst of creativity.

In a nutshell, my journey through “the boot” was a rich tapestry of lessons that will stay with me forever. The history, beauty, passion, and everyday moments I experienced have deeply enriched my creative vision and appreciation for art. I can’t wait to go back!