I've just always loved that word. There's something about it, a kind of balance, I suppose, between the luxury of doing absolutely nothing and the idea of untamed places, wandering paths, and things growing wherever they please. Somewhere between the two feels like a pretty good place to be.   

I'd played around with a name for years. Then Travis, my favorite band, released a song called "Idlewild," and that seemed like a sign. Or at least a very good excuse to stop considering other names.   

And so here we are, with Idlewild Studio Arts.   

The name feels especially fitting because my path to painting wasn't exactly a straight one.  I've spent much of my professional life writing for other people. It's work I enjoy, but it also means meeting expectations and creating something that serves someone else's vision. 

For years, photography gave me a different kind of creative freedom. Some of my favorite photographs are what I call "stumble upons"—those moments when I'd be out with my camera, spot something interesting, and follow my curiosity. But then photography started to feel a little too much like work, especially when I ventured into portraits and events. Once again, I was creating what other people wanted.    

I'd been curious about painting for as long as I can remember, but kept finding reasons not to try, or to give it a serious try. Those chucklehead reasons like: I didn’t go to art school. I don’t know much about color theory or technique. I absolutely cannot draw. (Seriously.)   

Eventually, I let my curiosity win.    

What I discovered was that I didn't need to know exactly what I was doing to enjoy figuring it out. I could experiment, make mistakes, change direction, cover something up, start again. No instructions. No expectations. No one else's vision to satisfy. Just the freedom to create.   

That's still what draws me into the studio. I don't begin a painting with a grand plan for where it is going or who might love it. Mostly, I just want to see what happens.  

And that's what I hope other people find in my work, too. A little beauty in something easily overlooked. A moment of joy. Maybe a spark of curiosity about what they might create themselves.    

And I hope they see something I never even considered.   

It's also why I sometimes struggle with naming my pieces. A title can suggest a direction, and I'd much rather leave the door open for someone to find their own meaning.   

If Idlewild were an actual place, I imagine a cozy cabin tucked into the woods. Autumn leaves, a fire going, candles burning, something good cooking. A place to wander when you feel like wandering and stay put when you don't.   

A little idle. A little wild. And plenty of room for whatever happens next.