What a Jazz Virtuoso Taught Me About Mastery, Joy, and Making a Difference

The night before we left Orlando, the bags were nearly packed and the whirlwind of the PGA Show was finally slowing down. Joy Ross and I decided to step away from convention halls and conversations about business and technology and do something different—something live.

That decision led us to Judson’s Live, and to a performance I’m still thinking about days later.

From the first note, Gunhild Carling didn’t just walk onto the stage—she owned it. Within minutes, I realized we weren’t simply watching a jazz show. We were witnessing a masterclass in courage, discipline, and creative joy.

And then she did something I’ll never forget. She played three trumpets at the same time.

Moments later, she balanced herself, played trumpet, and laid down bass—simultaneously. It was bold, playful, technically brilliant, and utterly fearless. The audience wasn’t just applauding skill; they were responding to spirit.

That night stayed with me because it reminded me of something I’ve seen time and again in art, leadership, and life: true excellence rarely fits neatly into one box.

Click pic to see a clip of this amazing talent!

Three takeaways worth stealing

Mastery comes from saying “yes” to discomfort
Gunhild Carling’s résumé is impressive—classically trained, steeped in swing-era jazz, and fluent across instruments—but what makes her unforgettable is her willingness to stretch beyond what’s expected. Watching her perform wasn’t about gimmicks; it was about confidence earned through repetition, risk, and relentless practice. Growth doesn’t happen in comfort zones—it happens when you dare yourself to try what others won’t.

Joy is not optional—it’s contagious
What struck me most wasn’t just what she played, but how she played. There was joy in every movement, every grin, every playful exchange with the audience. That joy became the bridge between performer and listener. Whether you’re an artist, a leader, or a professional in any field, enthusiasm isn’t fluff—it’s fuel. People follow energy long before they follow credentials.

Don’t dilute your gifts—layer them
In a world that often encourages specialization to the point of narrowing ourselves, Carling does the opposite. She layers talents. Trumpet, trombone, vocals, dance, humor, showmanship—all working together in harmony. It was a reminder that our gifts don’t compete with one another; they complement each other when we allow them to coexist.

Why this matters beyond the stage

As someone who has spent a lifetime creating art and encouraging others to use their talents to make a difference, that evening felt personal. I’ve learned that the people who truly stand out are rarely the ones who follow a straight line. They’re the ones who embrace curiosity, take risks, and refuse to downplay what makes them unique.

Gunhild Carling didn’t just perform jazz that night—she modeled what it looks like to fully commit to your craft and invite others along for the ride.

Closing thought

The world doesn’t need more people playing it safe. It needs more people willing to practice, prepare, and then step boldly into the spotlight—trumpets, balance, courage, and all.

“Don’t ask if your gift is too much. Ask if you’re brave enough to use all of it.”

 Innovation Changes. Relationships Matter More;
A Return to the Professional Golfers Association (PGA)Trade Show

Twenty-five years ago, I made my debut at the PGA Show in Orlando. I can still remember the feeling — a mix of excitement, uncertainty, and hope — standing among industry leaders I admired, wondering where my place might be in such a fast-moving world. That year, I walked away with something extraordinary: a commission to paint Congressional Country Club and an invitation to paint for Pebble Beach. It was one of those pivotal moments you don’t fully appreciate until years later.

This past week, Joy — my longtime associate — and I returned for a visit. We weren’t there to exhibit, pitch, or chase the next opportunity. We simply went back to see, to observe, and to reconnect. And I have to tell you, it was an extraordinary getaway. The pace at which this industry has grown is nothing short of phenomenal. Technology, fashion, equipment, club amenities — every corner of the golf world seems to be evolving at warp speed.

Yet as I walked those aisles again, I was reminded that while much has changed, some of the most important lessons remain timeless.

Three Reflections from the PGA Show

Innovation Is Relentless — and Inspiring
The PGA Show is a front-row seat to the future of golf. From cutting-edge equipment and performance analytics to beautifully designed carts that feel more like luxury vehicles, innovation is everywhere. It’s exhilarating — and a reminder that growth favors those willing to stay curious, adaptable, and open to new ideas. The industry is not standing still, and neither can we.

Relationships Still Matter More Than Products
One of the highlights of our visit was stopping by to see my longtime friend, Dewitt Miles, who has spent 35 years with Titleist. Standing there together, surrounded by hundreds of new products and countless innovations, I was struck by a simple truth: nothing replaces the consistency of trusted relationships. Titleist’s enduring commitment to performance, quality, and respect for the dedicated golfer mirrors what Dewitt’s career represents — loyalty, integrity, and excellence over time. Products may change each year, but relationships are built one conversation at a time.

Culture Is Carried by People — and a Little Humor
The show wasn’t just impressive — it was fun. Among the polished displays and serious business conversations were moments of humor and humanity: statue impersonators like  "Rusty Bob", and even an unexpected Sasquatch making an appearance. Those moments reminded me that culture isn’t built by brands alone — it’s shaped by people, personality, and shared experiences. Laughter, after all, is still one of the best connectors we have.

Closing Reflection

As we left the show, I found myself reflecting not just on how far the PGA Show — and the golf industry — has come, but on how relationships have quietly guided my own journey. Twenty-five years ago, one conversation led to a commission that changed my path. This year, a simple visit reaffirmed that while innovation fuels progress, it’s relationships that sustain it.

The PGA Show will continue to evolve — as it should. But the heart of this industry still beats strongest where trust, consistency, and personal connection live.

The Value of Trying Something New
Beach Bliss II, a small experiment, and a reminder worth sharing

The other day, after listening to a short talk that caught my attention, I did what usually happens when something resonates with me—I wandered into the studio. No grand plan. No agenda. Just the quiet urge to paint.

Like many artists I know, I’ve watched friends post short videos of their work on Instagram—little glimpses into how a piece comes together. I’ve always enjoyed seeing them, but I’ve never felt much pressure to do the same. Painting itself has always been enough.

Still, curiosity nudged me.

So I decided to show up and try something new. I painted a small piece that became Beach Bliss II, and along the way experimented with new software that made it surprisingly easy to capture a quick, 30-second look at how the painting came together. Nothing instructional. Just a peek behind the curtain.

Adding this to my workday wasn’t seamless—but it was worthwhile.

Watch the Creation

Showing Up Doesn’t Always Mean Doing More
Sometimes showing up means doing something slightly different. Not changing direction—just widening the lens. The painting still mattered most, but sharing a glimpse of the process added a new layer to the experience.

Small Experiments Keep Things Fresh
Trying new tools or approaches doesn’t require a major commitment. This was a small experiment, but it reminded me how energizing it can be to remain curious—even after years of doing the work.

Process Invites Connection
What I like about the short video isn’t that it explains anything—it doesn’t. What it does offer is a moment to pause and see how a painting unfolds. Behind every finished piece are quiet decisions, revisions, and time.

That’s part of the story too.

In the end, this wasn’t about technology or technique. It was about being willing to show up, try something new, and share the journey along the way.

So I’ll leave you with a simple question:

What small experiment might be worth showing up for—just to see what it teaches you?

Preparing to Lead: Lessons from the Studio
Or how an artist somehow ended up talking about leadership

If you had told me years ago that I’d be invited to speak to a leadership class, I probably would have nodded politely… then gone right back to mixing paint. I’ve always thought of myself as an artist—someone who worries more about color, light, and whether a painting is finished than whether I qualify as a “leader.”

And yet, here I am this week, preparing to talk about leadership.

Which made me laugh—and then reflect—on how often the studio has quietly been teaching me lessons I didn’t realize I’d ever need outside of it.

I didn’t prepare for this moment by reading leadership manuals or chasing titles. I prepared the only way I know how: by showing up. By working. By making mistakes. And by learning—sometimes the hard way—what happens when you try to use what you’ve been given with a little care and intention.

Awareness: Figuring Out What You’ve Got
Every artist eventually comes face to face with their gifts and their limitations—usually at the same time. For me, that awareness didn’t arrive with trumpets. It crept in slowly, somewhere between unfinished canvases and paintings that surprised me.

At some point, I realized that my work could do more than hang on a wall. It could tell stories. Spark reflection. Even help support causes I cared about. That awareness didn’t come from asking, What do I want to be? It came from asking, What’s already in front of me?

Resourcefulness: Making Do with What’s on Hand
Anyone who’s spent time in a studio knows this truth: inspiration has terrible timing. You work with the light you have, the tools you own, and whatever ideas decide to show up that day.

Over the years, I learned that the same is true in life. Waiting for perfect conditions usually means waiting forever. Preparation often looks like using what’s already within reach—and trusting that it’s enough to get started.

Timing: Knowing When to Step In
Painting teaches patience, but it also teaches commitment. There’s a moment when you have to stop circling the canvas and make a move. Too soon, and you rush it. Too late, and the energy disappears.

Being asked to speak this week didn’t happen overnight. It grew out of years of showing up, doing the work, and not always knowing where it might lead. Preparation, it turns out, has a way of revealing itself only when opportunity knocks.

As I think about standing in front of that leadership class, I’m reminded that preparation rarely looks impressive while it’s happening. It’s shaped in ordinary days—brushstroke by brushstroke—long before anyone labels it as leadership.

And maybe that’s the real takeaway.

So here’s a question I’ll leave you with, from one person figuring it out as he goes:

What might you be quietly preparing for—without even realizing it yet?

Growth Requires the Courage to Be an Amateur Again
What the studio continues to teach me about discipline and discovery

Not long ago, I found myself sitting in the studio surrounded by two very different works in progress. One was a painting of ”Roberts Hall” at High Point University—architectural, detailed, demanding absolute accuracy. Every window mattered. Every shadow had to earn its place. Across it was a contemporary piece—looser, expressive, open to interpretation, free to wander.
What struck me wasn’t the contrast in style, but the mindset each required. One demanded precision and patience. The other demanded trust and courage. The painting of High Point University is in my wheelhouse. Something that I’m known for; the ability to capture intricate architectural subjects come naturally to me.  On the other hand the contemporary painting “Under the Wire” required me to step outside of my comfort zone, experiment and trust the direction making me feel like an amateur again.

And that’s when I was reminded of a simple truth we all know but often avoid: everyone that masters their craft, their livelihood once began as an amateur.

Three Short Takeaways

Growth Begins Where Comfort Ends
When you stretch into unfamiliar territory, confidence gives way to curiosity and imagination. That’s not weakness—it’s the starting line.

Discipline Beats Inspiration
Showing up daily matters more than getting it right. Improvement hides in repetition, not perfection. It’s the ability of taking risk, trying a new approach, a new perspective.

Variety Sharpens Vision
Working between structure and freedom—detail and abstraction—has made me more thoughtful, intentional, and present as an artist.  We all have the opportunity to take on our work in a new way, not making it wrote but enlightening and learning by experimenting.

Trying something new will often make you feel unpolished, uncertain, even exposed. That’s the cost of learning—and it’s a fair price. When the work matters to you, you stay with it long enough for clarity to emerge. You work through the early awkwardness. You let the process shape you as much as the outcome.

Looking back, I don’t regret a single moment spent pushing into unfamiliar territory. Even the pieces that didn’t land taught me something essential. Growth rarely looks graceful in the moment—but it always looks honest in hindsight.

So here’s the question I’ll leave you with:

What are you willing to be an amateur at?