The Inner Battle

There’s a side of being an artist that people don’t really talk about enough. The side where your mental health can slowly get tied to numbers, likes, engagement, sales, opportunities, and comparison. The side where you pour your heart into a painting, share it online, and somehow let the response to it affect how you feel about yourself. I’ve found myself in that place more times than I’d like to admit.

For a long time, I didn’t realize how much I was measuring my success through social media. If a post didn’t do well, I’d overthink it. If another artist sold work, landed a gallery opportunity, or seemed to be gaining momentum, I’d catch myself comparing my journey to theirs. And when certain opportunities didn’t work out for me, whether a roster was full, applications were closed, or it simply wasn’t the right fit, it was easy to internalize it and question myself.

Lately, though, I’ve been learning how important it is not to let those things define me.

That quote, “Comparison is the thief of joy,” may sound cliché, but I’ve realized there’s a lot of truth in it. Comparison has a way of shifting your focus away from your own growth and making you feel like you’re falling behind, even when you’re actually moving forward in your own way.

Social media especially can create this illusion that everyone else is constantly winning. You see the sold stickers, gallery announcements, packed workshops, and viral reels. What you don’t always see are the quiet moments behind the scenes — the doubt, rejection, burnout, and hard seasons that almost every artist experiences at some point.

Over the past year, I’ve really been trying to approach my art differently. I want to create work that genuinely means something to me. Paintings that connect with me on a deeper level and remind me why I fell in love with painting in the first place. Not work rushed for the algorithm or made just to keep up, but honest work with intention behind it. Quality over quantity.

I’ve also been learning the importance of slowing down and resting when I need to. For a while, I felt like I constantly needed to be producing, posting, and proving myself. But that nonstop mindset can quietly drain the joy out of creating if you’re not careful.

Most importantly, I’m learning not to hand my self-worth over to numbers on a screen. Likes and engagement don’t define my value as an artist or as a person, even though it can be easy to forget that sometimes.

I know these feelings probably won’t disappear overnight. There will still be moments where doubt creeps in or comparison sneaks its way back into my mind. But I’m getting better at recognizing it and choosing not to sit in it for too long. I’m learning to celebrate other artists without seeing their success as something that takes away from my own journey.

A friend once told me something that really stuck with me: my path isn’t supposed to look like anyone else’s. Success looks different for every artist. We may all be heading toward similar goals, but we’ll arrive there through different experiences, different timing, and different paths.

And honestly, I’m starting to see that maybe that’s the beauty of it all.

From Sketch to Wall

There’s something wild about finally standing in front of a mural that’s been living in your head for months.

This whole project started back in February with a simple pencil sketch. Nothing fancy. Just ideas, lines, and trying to figure out how everything would flow together. From there, I moved it over to my iPad and built out a digital rendering in Procreate. That’s usually the stage where things start feeling real for me. You can zoom in, move colors around, test compositions, and slowly see the vision come together before a single drop of paint ever touches the wall.

And then… life happened.

Honestly, these last few months have been an absolute blur in the best way possible.

I had my show in Valdese, then the art residency through the North Carolina Museum of Art that carried into mid-April. Right after that came the Southport Plein Air Festival, plus a couple of plein air workshops squeezed in between everything else. Then came my nephew’s wedding up in Virginia, followed by a reception in South Carolina. It was basically nonstop movement for months. Go, go, go.

Eventually sleep caught up with me.

But through all of that, this mural stayed in the back of my mind waiting for its moment.

Day 1 at the school was all prep work. Not glamorous, but honestly one of the most important parts. I taped everything off, covered furniture in plastic, and got the whole space protected before paint started flying around. After that, I rolled on an interior paint-and-primer combo in this really rich violet plum color to act as the underpainting. I love using bold base colors because even if little pieces peek through later, it gives the mural extra depth and energy.

Once the wall was toned, I started sketching everything out using a paint pen. That’s always the moment where the nerves and excitement hit at the same time. There’s no undo button on a wall.

Day 2 was all about blocking everything in. Big shapes. Big color relationships. Just getting the entire mural established and making sure the composition flowed the way I imagined it would months ago sitting with that original sketch.

Then Day 3 came around and it was time for the details. Tightening edges, adjusting color here and there, adding little touches throughout the painting that make it feel alive. Those final passes are always my favorite because the mural finally starts talking back to you a little bit.

And finally… signing it.

That moment never gets old.

Now I’m letting everything fully dry before I go back next week to seal it up and protect it for the years ahead.

More than anything, I’m just grateful. Grateful for the opportunity, grateful for the trust, and grateful that after months of chaos, travel, painting, events, workshops, weddings, and exhaustion… this mural finally made its way onto the wall exactly with it was supposed to.

How I got started in plein air.

How I Got Started in Plein Air Painting (And My Slight Gear Problem)

Before I get into how I started plein air painting, there’s something you should know about me.

I love travel bags.

Not a casual appreciation. I mean a deep, borderline concerning admiration for them. The compartments, the zippers, the hidden pockets, the clever organization systems. I love it all. If a bag has a place for everything and everything has a place… I’m probably already adding it to the cart.

And most importantly—I refuse to check luggage. Checking a bag costs money, takes time, and there’s always a chance your bag ends up in a completely different city living its best life without you. Carry-on only. Always.

So naturally, this love for organized gear somehow blended perfectly with painting.

About seven years ago I was doing what many artists do late at night—scrolling through YouTube instead of sleeping. By that point I had already made up my mind that I wanted to pursue art full time. I was watching anything and everything related to painting when I stumbled onto the YouTube channel by Michael Chamberlain.

In one of his videos he started talking about his plein air setup—his gear, his pochade box, how everything packed neatly together and how mobile it all was.

And that was it.

I didn’t even finish the video before thinking:

“Yep… I’m doing this.”

Because now we had two things happening at the same time:

1. Painting outdoors.

2. Cool gear that packs neatly into organized compartments.

I was SOLD.

So I went and bought my first setup: a Sienna Pochade Box and a basic camera tripod from Amazon. Nothing fancy. Just enough to get started.

I took it outside, set everything up, probably fiddled with it for way too long trying to make it “perfect”… and painted my first plein air piece.

And I’ve been hooked ever since.

There’s something about painting outdoors that just hits differently. The light is changing every few minutes, the wind is doing whatever it wants, strangers walk by and ask what you’re doing, and occasionally you’re fighting bugs, weather, or gravity.

It’s chaotic.

It’s unpredictable.

And it’s awesome.

Now here’s where things start to get a little… questionable. Because just like travel bags, once you start looking into plein air gear you realize there are a lot of options.

Lightweight boxes.

Heavy-duty boxes.

Boxes with compartments.

Boxes for tiny paintings.

Boxes for big paintings.

Next thing you know you’re researching things like “optimal pochade box hinge angles” at midnight.

Let’s just say things escalated. At this point I probably own 10+ pochade boxes.

Yes… ten.

No… I will not be answering further questions about that.

But the funny thing is, I still own that very first Sienna Pochade Box… and I still use it all the time. Now here’s the part I really want people to hear if they’re thinking about getting into plein air painting:

You do NOT need expensive gear to do this.

You don’t need a $500 travel bag to carry your supplies.

You don’t need expensive brushes.

You don’t need the latest gear, the newest setup, or whatever fancy thing artists are posting online.

A regular backpack from Amazon or Walmart works perfectly fine. You can get great brush bundle packs from Amazon or even at Michaels. Honestly, the most expensive thing in your setup will probably be your painting box—and even that can be something simple when you start.

Start small. Save up. Build your kit over time.

The real goal of plein air painting isn’t having the perfect gear—it’s learning.

Paint to study composition.

Paint to understand value.

Paint to experiment with color palettes.

Paint to learn how light actually behaves in the real world.

And here’s another important thing:

Most plein air paintings are not masterpieces.

Some of them are… how do I say this politely… learning experiences.

That’s normal. You’re outside. The light changes every five minutes. Sometimes the wind tries to take your painting home with it. Sometimes a bug lands directly in your fresh paint and becomes part of the composition.

It happens. Mistakes are part of the process.

The real takeaway is simple: have fun and paint for you.

Gear doesn’t need to be expensive to get outside and paint.Now in my case… I just happen to have a very strong appreciation for organization, travel gear, and packing systems.

Which is my polite way of saying I might have a small addiction to pochade boxes.

But hey—there are worse hobbies.

Gallery vs. Studio Pricing (And What I’ve Learned About Pricing My Art)

One question that comes up a lot when people see my work is why the price of a painting might be different in a gallery compared to buying directly from me on my website or in person. It’s a fair question, and honestly, the answer is pretty simple.

When a painting is shown in a gallery, the gallery takes a commission on the sale. Most galleries take anywhere from 40% to 50% of the final price. That’s pretty standard in the art world. They’re providing the space, marketing the work, bringing collectors through the door, and representing the artist. All of that takes time, energy, and resources.

Because of that, the price of the painting has to be set higher in the gallery so that both the gallery and the artist can be paid fairly.

On top of that, there are also taxes involved with gallery sales. When a painting sells through a gallery, there are additional layers of accounting and reporting that I have to factor in as a working artist. By the time everything is said and done, the portion that actually reaches me is often much smaller than people expect.

For years, I struggled with pricing my work. I raised my prices, lowered my prices, and adjusted them constantly trying to compete with other artists. It’s easy to look around and start comparing yourself—what someone else charges, what sells, what doesn’t. But over time I realized that chasing other artists’ prices isn’t the answer.

Eventually I landed on a pricing structure that helps keep things consistent: I price my paintings by the square inch. That means the size of the painting determines the base price. It’s a simple, transparent way to price artwork and it helps keep things fair and consistent across different sizes.

That’s also one of the reasons you’ll sometimes notice that my prices are a bit lower when you buy directly from me through my website or when you meet me out painting in the field. When there’s no middle step, I’m able to offer my work at a more accessible price.

And that part is important to me.

I’ve always believed that art shouldn’t feel out of reach. I want my paintings to live in people’s homes, to hang on walls where families gather, where conversations happen, where someone pauses for a moment and feels something when they look at it.

Not everyone walks into a gallery, and not everyone feels comfortable in that space. But art belongs to everyone.

That’s why I love connecting with people directly—whether it’s online, at a plein air event, or when someone stops to watch me paint outside. Those moments remind me that art isn’t just about sales or exhibitions. It’s about sharing something human.

So if you ever notice a price difference between a gallery and my website, now you know why.

At the end of the day, my goal is simple: keep painting, keep sharing the work, and make sure that the people who connect with it have a way to bring it into their lives.

Because art should be for everyone.

Back to Panels.

Sorry if the plein air festival keeps popping up in the next few entries of this journal. It’s still fresh in my mind, and honestly, a lot of the conversations and experiences from that week are still rattling around in my head.

One of those moments came from a conversation with my friend Truman, a fellow artist. We got to talking about masonite panels and how ridiculously affordable they are compared to buying pre-made panels from art stores. If you’ve been painting long enough, you know the struggle—art supplies add up fast. Canvas, linen, pre-made panels… it’s all beautiful, but it’s also expensive.

That conversation stuck with me.

It got me thinking about the early days when I started my 365-day goal of painting every single day a couple of years ago. Back then, I painted on panels a lot more. There’s something about them that just feels right. The surface is smooth, the brush glides differently, and the sturdiness is something I really miss. No bounce like stretched canvas, no worrying about puncturing it or the wind catching it when you’re out painting.

Right now I’m on a bit of a forced break because of my back, which has been frustrating to say the least. But the upside of stepping back for a minute is that it gives me time to think about what I want my process to look like moving forward.

And I think panels are going to be a big part of that.

Once I’m feeling better, I’m planning on prepping a whole stack of masonite panels—seriously, a ridiculous amount of them. Sand them, seal them, gesso them, the whole process. Then I want to make it a goal to head out and plein air paint using only panels for a while.

Here’s the idea: treat those panel paintings like studies. Quick, direct, honest paintings from life. If one of them really sings—if there’s something special about it—then I’ll take that painting and turn it into a larger piece later on canvas.

It feels like a simple system, but also a really freeing one.

Plein air has a way of stripping things down to the essentials anyway. You’re chasing light, atmosphere, color, and time. Panels seem like the perfect partner for that kind of work—durable, lightweight, and ready to take a beating from the elements.

So yeah… this idea has been sitting in my head ever since that conversation.

Thanks Truman for the inspiration, man. Sometimes all it takes is a simple artist-to-artist conversation to spark a whole new direction.

Now I just need my back to cooperate so I can get back out there and start cranking through a mountain of panels.

Southport, NC

Plein Air, Persistence, and Perspective: My Southport Experience.

Every plein air event has a story behind the paintings. This year at the Southport Plein Air Festival, mine had a few chapters I didn’t expect.

Plein air painting always comes with its own set of challenges—weather, light changes, curious onlookers, and the occasional unexpected obstacle. But this year, the obstacles felt like they were testing me from every angle.

Fire Ants, Mosquitos and Flying Canvases.

It started with the elements—nature doing what nature does. At one point while painting, I realized I was standing in the middle of a fire ant colony. If you’ve never been mauled by fire ants while trying to paint, let me tell you, it’s not exactly conducive to calm brushwork. There’s nothing quite like trying to keep your composure while your legs feel like they’re on fire.

Then came the wind.

Southport has these sudden coastal gusts that come out of nowhere. One of them caught my biggest canvas and sent it flying off my field easel like a sail. When it hit the ground, a hole was punched straight through it. For a moment, I just stared at it thinking, Well… there goes that.

But plein air teaches you something important: adapt or pack up. So I patched the canvas right there, reset the easel, strapped the painting down tighter, and kept going. Because once you commit to painting outside, you commit to rolling with whatever the day throws at you.

The Part People Don’t Talk About.

Not all the challenges were physical. During the event, I had an interaction with a fellow artist that left me feeling uneasy—something that, at the time, I brushed off and kept moving past. When you’re in the middle of a festival, painting against the clock, surrounded by people, you tend to compartmentalize things and focus on the task at hand.

But as I drove back home later, replaying the week in my head, it finally hit me.What I experienced wasn’t just an awkward interaction. It was racial profiling and racism.

That realization sat heavy. It’s a strange feeling when you recognize something after the fact—when the moment has already passed and you’re left processing it alone in the quiet of a long drive home.

And unfortunately, moments like that aren’t unfamiliar. Welcome to my life as a brown man.

Most days, I just keep moving forward. I focus on the work, on the art, on the people who show genuine kindness and support. But it’s still something that happens, something that lingers in the background even in spaces that are supposed to be about creativity and community.

Why I Still Show Up.

Despite all of that—the fire ants, the wind, the damaged canvas, and the heavier moments—I kept painting. Because painting outdoors is still one of the most freeing experiences I know. Standing in front of a canvas with the ocean breeze, trying to capture a fleeting moment of light… that’s why I do this.

And in the end, the community showed up in a way that reminded me why I keep coming back.

I was honored to win the People’s Choice Award at the Southport Plein Air Festival. That award means a lot because it comes directly from the people who stopped, looked, connected with the work, and cast their vote. After everything that happened that week, that moment felt like a reminder that the art still speaks louder than the noise.

The Real Story Behind the Paintings When people see a finished painting hanging in a gallery, they rarely see the full story behind it. They don’t see the wind trying to steal your canvas, the ant bites, the patched holes, or the emotional weight you might be carrying while you paint. But all of that ends up in the work somehow.That’s the reality of plein air painting—and honestly, the reality of life. You take the hits, patch the holes, and keep painting. And sometimes, despite everything, you still come out the other side with a painting you’re proud of and a story worth telling.