When the Stage Became Another Canvas
Following My Bliss from Professional Artist to Keynote Speaker

My journey as a professional artist began in college with a 59-cent tray of watercolors. I was very much an amateur, searching for a medium that might give voice to something stirring inside me. Watercolor became that medium. It opened my eyes to the remarkable beauty of North Carolina—an artist’s paradise of mountains, coastlines, farms, gardens, and historic places.

What began with that inexpensive tray of paint eventually carried me around the world, introduced me to extraordinary people, and placed my work in collections I could never have imagined.

Joseph Campbell encouraged us to “follow your bliss and don’t be afraid,” promising that doors would open where we never knew they existed. Looking back over nearly five decades, I understand those words more clearly today.

Follow the thread, not simply the path
Following your bliss does not mean choosing one path and remaining on it forever. It means recognizing the thread that has been running through your life all along—and having the courage to follow it when it leads somewhere new.

The path of my career has included traditional watercolor, contemporary acrylics, commissioned works, books, charitable projects, and now speaking. The mediums have changed, but the thread connecting them has remained constant: creating something meaningful that moves another person.

Allow your medium to change
Over the years, I have been inspired by magnificent creations from other artists and by the many ways they expressed their gifts. Some moved confidently among different mediums. Others used their work to celebrate important milestones, raise awareness, or support significant humanitarian causes.

Their example helped me understand that art can do far more than decorate a wall. It can preserve a story, awaken compassion, bring people together, and help someone see the world differently. Growth often requires us to loosen our grip on the familiar. The gift remains, but the way we share it may need to change.

Your bliss becomes more meaningful when it is shared
Eventually, my creative journey led me to an entirely different kind of canvas—the stage. Instead of relying solely on paint, brushes, color, and composition, I now use stories, humor, vulnerability, and lessons gathered through a lifetime of creating.

Speaking allows me to share not only what it has taken to become and remain a professional artist, but also something I believe applies to everyone: we each possess gifts and talents capable of making a difference.

We may not all stand before an easel, but we are all creating something—experiences, relationships, organizations, communities, and opportunities. The question is whether we are using what has been placed in our hands to leave the world a little better than we found it.

See Where The Journey Has Led Me

My new speaker reel offers a glimpse of what happens when my life as an artist meets my work as a storyteller:

Perhaps your association, company, conference, club, or community is planning an upcoming gathering. If your audience would benefit from an uplifting message about recognizing possibilities, navigating change, and using their gifts to make a difference, I would be honored to be part of it.

The stage may be a different canvas, but my purpose remains the same: to create something meaningful—and encourage others to do the same.

Where Generosity Becomes Good Medicine

Years ago, before GPS and Google Maps, we relied on something called a road map—and occasionally a generous helping of good fortune. As an artist roaming North Carolina’s backroads in search of something worth painting, I got lost more times than I care to admit. I backtracked, guessed at unmarked turns, and sometimes wondered whether I would ever find my way home.

One afternoon in Ashe County, I managed to outdo myself. I had coaxed my Jeep onto an old tractor trail while searching for a distinctive view of a farm I wanted to paint. Then my radiator hose burst. The Jeep ran out of steam, and did any sense I had of where I was.

I remembered passing a house more than a mile back, so I began walking. When I finally arrived, I asked the woman who answered the door if I might use her telephone, (before cell phones were invented!) and calling AAA was my only hope of being rescued.

She graciously invited me inside. What began with a telephone call soon included a glass of iced tea and a friendly conversation. When I explained why I had wandered so far off the beaten path, she told me about another place where I could see the farm from an even better vantage point. 

She was right. That interruption led me to the view that became Appalachian Beauty. What had seemed like a frustrating breakdown turned out to be the break I needed.

Writer James Clear recently shared a reflection about learning to love life’s interruptions. His words brought that afternoon rushing back to me and left me with three things worth remembering. 

An interruption may be an invitation.
Our first reaction to an unexpected delay is usually frustration. But occasionally, life closes one road because something is waiting for us on another. Had that radiator hose held together, I might have driven away with an ordinary perspective and missed an extraordinary one.

The people along the detour may become part of the destination.
I knocked on that woman’s door because I needed a telephone. What I received was kindness,
hospitality, and knowledge no road map could have provided. We can become so focused on reaching our destination that we overlook the people who may enrich the journey.

A change in perspective can change the entire picture.
As an artist, I understand the importance of perspective. Move a few feet, climb a little higher, or look from another direction, and an ordinary scene can become remarkable. The same is true of life. We may not be able to change the interruption, but we can change how we see it. Frustration can become curiosity. Delay can become discovery. A breakdown can become a breakthrough.

Most of us would still prefer the hassle-free route. I certainly would. But some of life’s finest gifts are tucked inside days that refuse to go according to plan. The next time your plans unravel, pause before deciding the moment has been wasted. Look around. Talk to someone. Stay open to the possibility that the inconvenience may be carrying you toward something you could not have discovered on your own.

After all, I went looking for a painting and found myself stranded on a tractor trail. Yet somewhere between a broken radiator hose, a stranger’s kindness, and a glass of iced tea, I discovered Appalachian Beauty.

Where Generosity Becomes Good Medicine

The room was already buzzing when my longtime friend Bob Rodman stepped forward and took the microphone. In front of him sat an extraordinary collection of auction offerings—fine jewelry, a prized bourbon collection, and family adventures stretching all the way to Bryce Canyon. My two original paintings waited beneath the lights as Bob worked the crowd with the warmth, humor, and persistence of someone who understood that every raised hand represented far more than a winning bid.

It represented a community taking care of its own.  The historic Hound Ears Open began in 1970 as a tribute to Grover Robbins, one of the three brothers who founded Hound Ears Club near Boone. Over the years, the tournament and auction have raised more than $2.5 million in support of the Appalachian Regional Health Care Foundation and its work to strengthen healthcare throughout North Carolina's High Country.

That is an impressive number, but numbers alone rarely tell the whole story. The real story is found in the people who continue to show up.

Someone has to care enough to lead.
This year’s festivities were beautifully coordinated by Libba Gaither and Mac Parrott. Following the golf tournament, guests gathered for cocktails and dinner before leaning into an energetic live auction.

Events like this may look effortless from the outside, but they never are. Behind every welcoming smile and perfectly timed moment are people who have invested countless hours, invited others into the cause, and cared enough to make the evening matter.

Bob and Anne Rodman are relatively new to Hound Ears, yet they have already immersed themselves in both the community and its way of life. Bob didn’t simply serve as auctioneer. He brought his enthusiasm, relationships, and personality to the room. He reminded us that joining a community means more than occupying a place within it. It means finding a way to contribute.

Someone has to offer what they have.
For this year’s auction, I created two original paintings celebrating the character of Hound Ears. “Hound Ears No. 5” captures the magnificent new fifth hole, while “Hound Ears Rocks” portrays the distinctive formations that gave the resort its name.

As an artist, I never quite know where a painting’s journey will lead. It begins alone in the studio, but its meaning often expands when someone else discovers a connection to it.

David and Debbie Sapp, along with their son Mac, purchased “Hound Ears Rocks.” I especially enjoyed learning that David once painted in watercolors himself. Perhaps he saw not only a familiar landmark in the painting, but also something of his own creative journey.

Anthony and Jeannie Sedberry purchased “Hound Ears No. 5." By the following morning, Joy and I stopped by and hung it in their dining room. That quick trip from auction floor to a family home felt like the perfect final brushstroke.

By evening's end both paintings had found new homes, becoming part of a larger story of generosity and a community willing to invest in the well-being of its neighbors.

Someone has to answer the invitation.
Local healthcare is one of those things we may not think about until we need it. Yet it remains a bedrock of every thriving community—caring for our families, supporting our neighbors, and standing ready during some of life’s most vulnerable moments.

The generosity surrounding the Hound Ears Open is especially meaningful because those who have been blessed are choosing to lean into a cause that serves the entire region. They aren’t simply giving back. They are helping ensure that excellent care remains close to home.

A strong community is not created by one generous person, one successful auction, or even one beautiful evening. It is created when organizers, volunteers, donors, bidders, and friends each bring what they have and trust that, together, it will be enough to make a difference.

That evening, every raised hand told the same story: We are fortunate to be part of this community. And we are willing to help take care of it.

It's Never to Late to Raise the Bar

Three years ago, I found myself standing in the lobby of a hotel in Orlando wondering if, at this stage of my life, I had any business trying to learn an entirely new craft.

I had joined the National Speakers Association and traveled to its national convention with one purpose: to raise my bar. I had spent decades telling stories about my life as an artist—the bumps, bruises, failures and occasional triumphs—but I wanted to understand what separated someone who simply tells a good story from someone who can truly move an audience.

Then, almost on cue, I bumped into Dr. Nido Qubein.  Nido was surrounded by colleagues, yet he spotted me, welcomed me into the group and even invited me to dinner. What he gave me that evening was more than advice about speaking. He allowed me to experience a community and a profession he has spent a lifetime helping shape.

I watched. I listened. And I learned.

Find people worth watching.
I've discovered that some of our greatest mentors may never know they are mentoring us.  One of mine died years before I ever heard his voice.  Jim Rohn has become an almost daily companion in my studio. As I paint, I frequently listen to recordings of this Idaho farm boy who went broke in his early thirties and ultimately became one of America's great teachers of personal development.  His wisdom is wonderfully simple.

“Work harder on yourself than you do on your job.”  That one stopped me. So did his challenge to become a millionaire, not simply for the money, but because of what you must become in order to achieve it.  Rohn wasn't really talking about money. He was talking about transformation.

It's never too late to become the student again.
Sometimes while listening to Rohn, I've caught myself wondering, Where was this fellow when I was 30?  Then I realize that's probably the wrong question.  Would I have listened?

Back then I was consumed with surviving the proverbial starving-artist syndrome, raising a family, building a business and trying to prove that I could make a living with a paintbrush. Perhaps I needed those years before I was ready to understand what Rohn was teaching.

Today his words land differently.  “Why? Why not? Why not now? Why not you?”  At this stage of life, those aren't motivational slogans to me. They're a reminder that growth doesn't have an expiration date. As long as we're willing to remain curious, there is another bar to raise.

Eventually, someone begins watching you.
A few years ago, another mentor, professional speaker Chuck Gallagher, challenged me to write—and to write often. That encouragement eventually became this weekly article, The ART of Making a Difference.

I didn't begin writing because I thought I had all the answers. Quite the opposite.  I wanted to share what I was seeing, what stirred me, and occasionally a lesson someone else had taught me that might offer you a fresh perspective.

Perhaps that's how mentoring really works.  Nido influenced me by welcoming me in. Jim Rohn mentors me through recordings made decades ago. Chuck nudged me to put my own thoughts on paper. And now I realize something else.  While we're busy watching those ahead of us, someone behind us may be watching too.

The Takeaway
Find people who make you want to raise your bar. Study them, listen carefully and remain teachable regardless of your age or accomplishments.  But don't stop there. Live in such a way that what you learn becomes worth passing along.

Because somewhere along life's journey, we move almost imperceptibly from student to teacher.

You Never Know Who Is Watching

I still find it remarkable how often the most meaningful relationships begin without us ever realizing it.

Years ago, a young artist named Mike Gaydon would occasionally stop by my gallery in Greensboro. Like many artists, he loved the creative process, but he was just as curious about everything that surrounded it. He watched people discover a painting that spoke to them. He observed book signings, community projects, television appearances, and the countless conversations that happened long after the paint had dried. Neither of us could have imagined then that those quiet visits would one day lead to an exhibition together in the mountains of North Carolina.

Life has a way of connecting the dots long after the moments themselves have passed.  Mike eventually discovered that while he enjoyed creating art, his greatest gift was helping others discover it. He built Martin House Gallery in Blowing Rock into a place where artists could flourish and collectors could experience original artwork in a personal way. Today, I'm honored to be exhibiting a collection of my newest paintings in the gallery's Spotlight space—a collaboration that has been years in the making.

Along the way, I've been fortunate to paint the landscapes of the High Country, speak at private clubs, participate in lecture series, and celebrate the remarkable legacy of Hugh Morton, whose love for Grandfather Mountain helped preserve one of North Carolina's greatest treasures. Each visit has deepened my appreciation for this region and for the people who call it home.

As I reflected on this new exhibition, I realized there are a few things every admirer of art should know.

First, galleries are far more than places that sell paintings.
The best galleries build relationships.  A painting may first catch your attention online, but it is often a gallery owner who helps you discover why it belongs in your home. They learn what moves you, remember the pieces you've admired, understand your home, your taste, and the stories you want your walls to tell. They become trusted guides, shortening the distance between an artist's studio and the place where a painting will become part of someone's life.

Second, nothing replaces standing before an original painting.
A photograph can introduce you to a painting.  Only the original allows you to experience it.  The texture of the brushwork... the subtle shifts of color... the way light moves across the surface... the unexpected details that disappear on a screen. Scale, atmosphere, and emotion are difficult to reproduce digitally. Original artwork has a presence that simply cannot be downloaded.

Finally, never underestimate the influence your own journey may have on someone else.
One of the greatest surprises of my career has been discovering that people are often paying attention long before you ever know it. Sometimes they're inspired by a painting. Sometimes by the way you treat people. Sometimes by the way you choose to give back to your community.

Years later, those quiet observations have a way of returning as friendships, collaborations, and opportunities you never could have planned.  That's certainly been true with Mike.

As I look around the walls of Martin House Gallery this week, I'm reminded that this exhibition isn't simply about twenty-five paintings or the release of my latest book, Reflections. It's about the relationships that make those moments possible.

Perhaps that's the greatest lesson Mike and I have both discovered. You never really know who is watching. So live generously, create faithfully, and treat every relationship as though it may become part of a story still waiting to be written.