In 2012 I took my family to Marineland in Niagara Falls. Most of that day has gone soft in my memory. The rides, the food, the animals, all of it sanded down to a few blurry memories. I have two vivid memories from that day, though, that have stuck with me.

The first is the belugas.

They came up along the wall where we were standing, white as bathtubs. They seemed so happy, friendly, curious. I know they were probably just looking for food, but it felt like they just wanted to make new friends as they shot up to get a better look at everyone standing around the tank. My kids were close enough to touch a whale, and did. I remember their faces better than I remember the whale, and that’s saying something.

We were in awe.

Beluga whales - Marineland, 2012

The second is the protesters.

They got into the park during one of the animal shows, and for a few minutes there was chanting, and anger, and staff moving quickly, and the four of us sitting in a stadium being made to feel like we were part of something cruel. My kids were scared. I didn’t have an argument ready. I just had the feeling, which was: we were loving these animals a few minutes ago, and now apparently we’re in the company of villains. Might we be considered villains too for just being here?

I’ve never resolved it.

We drove home, and my kids talked about the whales the entire way.

What happened to those whales

Last week, the last of them started leaving.

Marineland closed to the public in 2024 after decades of allegations, investigations, and legal fights. Thirty beluga whales stayed behind in the empty park, fed by donations. When the donations ran out, the park told the Canadian government it might have to euthanize them. Canada had already refused to let Marineland export the whales to an aquarium in China.

So a consortium of American aquariums came and got them. On July 20th, teams from Shedd Aquarium and SeaWorld lifted the first six belugas out in slings, loaded them into cold-water containers, and flew them out of Toronto. Veterinarians rode along. The whales ranged from six years old to about forty. They were moved in sub-pods, grouped by which animals already had relationships with each other, so friends traveled together. Four went to Chicago and two to San Antonio. The rest are going to Atlanta, San Diego, and Valencia over the coming months.

Kiska - Marineland, 2012

Since 2019, roughly twenty belugas died at that park, along with Kiska, the last captive orca in Canada, who spent over a decade alone in a tank. The whales I stood over in 2012 were living somewhere that a lot of people with far better information than mine had already concluded was indefensible. I looked at that pool and saw curiosity and happiness. I was an adult with kids and a camera and no context whatsoever.

A few Beluga facts

A beluga’s forehead is called a melon. It’s a fatty organ under muscular control, and the animal reshapes it while producing sound, aiming its echolocation the way you’d aim a flashlight. No other whale can do that. Sailors in the 19th-century Arctic could hear belugas through the hulls of their ships, which is how they got the name canary of the sea. They whistle, click, chirp, squeal, and produce something like bell tones.

They have no dorsal fin, just a tough ridge, because a fin is a liability under ice. Their blubber can be forty percent of their body weight. They’re born gray and go white as they mature.

Beluga whale - Marineland, 2012

And they can turn their heads. Almost no other whale can. Cetacean neck vertebrae are fused; a beluga’s aren’t, so it can look sideways at a fish on the seafloor or up at a man in a windbreaker holding a camera. Whatever passed between me and that animal in 2012 was riding on a skeletal quirk that evolved for hunting in shallow, ice-choked water. They live up to seventy years.

A 2020 study that looked at ten sites across the Arctic found that beluga groups aren’t organized around close family the way killer whale and pilot whale pods are. They form communities of hundreds, sometimes thousands, mixing kin and non-kin, with associations that last from a few hours to several years. Unrelated adult males travel together for long distances. Belugas are also one of the very few mammals, humans included, where females go through menopause and then keep living. Grandmothers, in other words.

The case against, taken seriously

I went looking for the strongest version of the argument I was on the wrong side of that day, and it’s stronger than I expected.

Start with sound. A beluga perceives its world acoustically. A concrete tank has smooth walls, and smooth walls throw sound back instead of scattering it, so the reverberation is severe. Captive dolphins have been found producing weakened echolocation signals because of it. Belugas moved between facilities have gone quiet for extended periods afterward. Whatever a tank is to a whale, it isn’t quiet, and it isn’t legible.

Then space, which matters less as square footage than as escape. In the ocean, a whale that’s being harassed leaves. In a pool it can’t. In 2012, a one-year-old beluga at Marineland named Skoot was attacked by two older males and died. A trainer who was there wrote that they held her until it was over. That’s not an argument about tank dimensions. It’s an argument that the geometry of captivity removes an option every wild animal has.

And then the record. Twenty belugas in six years at one facility. Ontario inspectors declared the park’s marine mammals in distress over water quality in 2021. Three of five belugas that Marineland sold to an aquarium in Connecticut died there.

I’ve long thought that it was necessary to have zoos and aquariums. Good education requires up-close experiences. Something that you can feel and put your hands on. This experience changed my kids’ lives in real ways, and I know this experience made them care more about these animals. I believe that some part of them still retains that experience and carries it with them as they engage with the world around them to this day.

Beluga whale - Marineland, 2012

But that education claim might be marketing.

In 2010, a group of researchers went through the industry’s flagship study on visitor attitudes and found the argument too weak to support. Their conclusion was that there was no compelling evidence that zoos and aquariums change anyone’s mind about anything.

The case for, taken just as seriously

A 2025 meta-analysis in Conservation Biology pooled 56 studies and found a small-to-medium positive effect of zoo and aquarium visits on visitors’ conservation knowledge, attitudes, and intentions. The effect on actual behavior was smaller but still there. I’ll note the things a fair reader should note: most of those studies measured people on the way out the door rather than months later, and one of the authors works for a zoo. It isn’t proof, but it’s better than nothing.

There’s also the money. In 2024, accredited North American zoos and aquariums reported spending about $341 million on field conservation work, on more than a thousand species in 130 countries. Whatever else that is, it’s real money going to wild animals, and it’s generated by turnstiles.

There are about 331 belugas left in Cook Inlet, Alaska, down from roughly 1,300 in 1979. The St. Lawrence population has fallen from thousands to around 900, poisoned slowly by what we put in the water. Those whales need people who care about them, and almost nobody will ever see one. My kids will likely never stand at the edge of Cook Inlet. They stood at the edge of a pool in Niagara Falls, and all these years later, I know they still care what happens to whales. I can’t prove the second thing came from the first. I can only tell you what I saw, and continue to see in their eyes.

The irony is that when thirty whales needed to be moved on short notice, the only institutions on the continent with the trucks, the slings, the veterinarians, the money and the cold-water containers to do it were aquariums.

The rescue was performed by the industry and people under indictment. The villains.

The job

The frame Marineland used, and that every aquarium still uses, is that these animals are working. Education, conservation, research. A job.

People do jobs that aren’t ideal. Somebody runs the night shift at the water treatment plant so the rest of us can drink in the morning. The work is necessary, imperfect, and unglamorous, and we don’t call it evil.

Maybe it’s just because we, as humans, have a choice. The whales don’t.

The man on the night shift made his own decisions and agreed to be there and can quit. The animals can’t. That’s a real difference, and I’m not going to talk my way around it.

But it doesn’t break cleanly either, because we ask enormous things of the earth’s creatures that never agreed to any of it, all day, every day, and most of those arrangements produce nothing anyone would call education. If I’m going to be angry about thirty whales in Niagara Falls, I should probably account for what I had for dinner.

So here’s the closest thing to a conclusion I’ve got, and I suspect it will satisfy nobody.

I still have a wide open mind on this subject, but I don’t think what my family did in 2012 was wrong. I think the experience was real and impactful. It did something for my kids that a documentary on TV could never have done. Personally, I know that the experience was incredibly impactful. I can’t defend the specific place where it happened. Marineland probably earned every bit of what came for it. Those two statements sit next to each other in my head.

What I’m left with is a question I’d rather put to you than pretend to answer. If direct contact and experiences are what make people care, and caring is what saves the wild ones, what do we do when the contact costs one animal its whole life?

And if your answer is that we find another way, I’d love to know what it is. I have many ideas and suggestions. But I’m not sure that any of it is as easy as spending $20 for a ticket and standing 5 feet away from a real beluga whale.

I feel for these animals. I’d like to think that they were well cared for and happy. I want to believe that their sacrifice is justified and worth it. They live their lives imperfectly to indirectly save their own species.

My mind is open. Let me hear from you.

Please be kind.

Beluga whale - Marineland, 2012

I’m going to be honest. I’ve been distracted from my art practice.

The reasons are many, and I’m not going to go into all of them here. Just to mention a few: We’ve been traveling a lot. My dog has been sick. My kids are home from college for the summer. I’ve gotten involved with local boards and charities. I’ve been exploring many other projects, personal and professional. (I have a day job!) My eldest son bought a house and is getting married this year.

I’ve felt tired lately because of all this.

(My daughter took this picture recently and I kinda sums up how I’ve been feeling.)

I want to remind myself of the following:

1. The most important thing is to start again. (Always!)

2. I have actually been doing creative work. (Just different kinds.)

3. I have been making slow progress with my art practice. (Any progress is good progress.)

4. I will not manufacture pressure or stress when, in reality, none exists.

5. This is not the first time, or the last time that this will happen, and I’m just going to acknowledge it and move on.

Over the last couple of months, I have been working on multiple creative projects despite my busy life. The first being a 100-day project where I’m creating a painting from 100 blocks of painted collage. This is supposed to be 100 continuous days of work, but I released myself from that pressure and just embraced the goal of completing 100 days.

One of my core beliefs with creative work is that the pace doesn’t matter. Consistency matters. Completing work matters. I’m 85 days into the project, and although I’ve missed days, I’m extremely proud of myself for not quitting. I see the finish line now, and that’s rewarding.

What comes next is going to be the really fun part of assembling the blocks into a final piece. Then, working to create an e-book of each individual piece paired with the short stories that I wrote from the posts here on Substack. (Keep an eye out for updates about these projects in the near future.)

Below is an example of one of the blocks. I see each of these as a mini seascape painting, each with its own appeal and vibe. Together, they’re going to create something that, I hope, is infinitely interesting to look at and enjoy, especially up close.

Sidenote: So many times in life we’re moving too quickly to appreciate and enjoy the details of the world around us. We just don’t look close enough. I try to notice this on a daily basis and slow down. This project has been a creative way to do that every day as I explore and review my painted papers, considering the details and interesting aspects of each, and carefully cropping each block to add to the final composition.

As I mentioned, I have been working on other creative projects too. Many have nothing to do with creating paintings or drawing. I haven’t completely stopped creating art. I have actually finished paintings, and I have finished drawings recently. It’s just that the pace has slowed.

I think this is “ok”.

I’ve been cooking.

I’ve been writing.

I’ve been creating frames for my art.

I’ve created my own frame shelf for our bedroom.

I’ve been working on my own website.

I’ve been learning to use AI to code.

I’ve gotten involved in my community and charities.

I’ve been traveling.

I’ve been spending time with my family.

All of these things are creative acts. Cooking, writing, woodworking, experiencing, and contributing to the world around me. All involve learning. All are fun. All are fulfilling. I think it’s important to acknowledge this.

All of these things have allowed me to take the time necessary to simply take a break from the actual act of creating art on a regular basis. This will not be the last time that my practice slows, and honestly, I think I’ve learned that this is a good thing.

I’m ready to start again with some intensity and renewed energy and enthusiasm.

This is all that really matters.

Morning coffee and doodling at the beach.

Below are several shots of a painting that I recently completed. (18x24 - acrylic on canvas)

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(Woman By The Sea - 18x24 - Painted paper collage)

This got me thinking about how easy it is for creatives to try to skip this small, first step because it feels too small. We tend to hoard our work, waiting for something big to happen. A full gallery show, a full room of people, some big, public unveiling where everything clicks. And because that version feels far away, it’s easy to just do nothing. But none of that ever happens if the work never leaves the room. Getting one piece on one wall somewhere is enough. It’s one step forward, and it’s actually a big one. It creates a little bit of momentum that you can continue to build on, and then you just follow that with the next thing, and the next. This is the real life of anyone with a creative practice.

(Cloudy day at the sea - Ink doodle, colorized on the computer - 7x10 on bristol)

I’ve been celebrating that win while dealing with a completely different kind of tension in my head lately. Recently, things picked up on Substack, and I received a lot of new subscribers. There was growth, a lot of interaction, a sense that something was working. Then it slowed down again. That shift does something to your thinking if you’re not careful. You start reading about tactics, looking for patterns, manipulating the algorithm, trying to figure out what changed, and spending time worrying about what to do to recreate another big jump in subscribers. Without realizing it, you stop posting and engaging in a way that makes you happy to satisfy the algorithm.

This makes you a little more calculated, a little more motivated by what might perform instead of what actually feels honest. Growth that comes from chasing signals isn’t sustainable, and I hate how inauthentic it feels. The funny thing is, my most popular post of all time was a simple drawing of an octopus where I typed, “Here’s an octopus to brighten your day.” This tells me that there isn’t any “trick” to getting attention beyond posting something that people want to see and just being authentic. It’s not about tricks, tactics, volume, or length. It’s about being real. Plain and simple.

Many of you have seen the octopus drawing before, so I’m going to give another example here. The image below was extremely fun to draw, and it has nothing to do with my core subject matter of the ocean. It was just fun to draw, and I posted it with just one word, “Connections”. People really seemed to enjoy it, and it got more attention than most of my posts lately. So the takeaway for me is, don’t overthink social media. Just do what makes you happy.

On that note, I had a moment this week where everything I’ve been working on kinda came together at once. I was moving between a few different sizes and approaches in the same stretch of time. Writing, small drawings, larger paintings on canvas, works on paper, and designing physical and digital products. At the center of it is this new 100-day project I’ve been working through. Each day, I create one small 3.5-inch square of painted paper. That’s it. Nothing complicated, just one piece a day. Eventually, they’ll all come together into a 36-by-36-inch piece. I’m not even a quarter of the way through yet, but I’ve stayed consistent so far, which feels like the real win. For me, the whole thing is a metaphor for what can happen if you just take one small step forward on anything, every day.

(Painted paper square for collage - 3.5x3.5 inches)

Alongside each piece, I’ve been researching and writing something small. A thought about the ocean, a quote, a scientific detail, or a real historical story. Just something simple to sit next to the image. I’d like this to eventually turn into a meditative book with large, close-up views of each square and something to read on each page. It will all culminate with the final assembled piece at the end.

On top of it all, I even started to build an app for creatives. I’m not ready to reveal what it is except that it’s a support tool for creatives like me. They say if you want to build something successful, build it for yourself first, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s a lot when I write it all out, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming right now. It actually feels pretty energizing as I try to balance it all equally.

A few months ago, this probably would have felt a little stressful. Now it just feels like momentum and fun. And I think that’s what I’m trying to hold onto. Not the idea of having everything figured out, but the simple act of continuing and moving forward with my creative practice. Putting something out into the world, finishing the next small piece, sharing something that feels honest. Then doing it again the next day.

Below are the first 16 days of my 100-day project, roughly assembled. Enjoy and have a great week!

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I’m a huge fan of the band Rush. If you’re not familiar, Rush is a Canadian band from the beautiful city of Toronto. They built a reputation on doing things their own way.

I know this sounds like a cliché for a rebel rock band, but Rush is truly different. They have never chased trends or dumbed down their work to fit into something more mainstream. They leaned into being progressive, creative artists.

Without going too deep into their music, they simply pursued making music that they loved. They didn’t chase trends. They didn’t let outside influences, such as record executives, control them. They invited feedback and options from outsiders. But, at the end of the day, they created amazing careers on their own terms, making music that wasn’t ever really accepted by the masses.

I remember reading a biography once about the band, and the drummer mentioned the point where they had to make their music their way, or just give it up. They decided that if they did get dropped by their record label, they knew that they would go out on their own terms. They could still be happy doing something else that made them happy and making a living, right?

Once they had this mindset, they never looked back.

They were never told what to do or how to do it ever again.

Today, the Rush song “Tom Sawyer” showed up on my Favorites Playlist on Spotify. I’m a little embarrassed to say that I never really dug into the meaning of the song until I was an adult.

The song itself feels like an extension of the band’s mindset. The original Tom Sawyer, created by Mark Twain, is a clever, independent kid who resists authority, bends rules, and sees the world a little differently than everyone around him. He’s not exactly rebellious for the sake of it. He just doesn’t naturally conform. He trusts his own instincts more than what he’s told.

At its core, the song is about a modern person who moves through the world without being easily shaped by it. Not in a rebellious or forceful way, but in a steady, grounded way. The character in the song is someone who understands what’s happening around them but doesn’t feel the need to adjust themselves to match it.

Though his mind is not for rent

Don’t put him down as arrogant

His reserve, a quiet defense

Riding out the day’s events

This section of the song seems to carry a lot of weight. The idea that our minds are not for rent feels especially relevant when we’re trying to make anything creative these days. We’re surrounded by examples of what works. What gets attention. What connects quickly and gets as many likes as possible. It’s all visible, all the time.

As a creative person, inspiration and exposure to others is generally a good thing. But over time, that information starts to shape things in our minds. You can start to notice it in small decisions. The way you resolve something instead of letting it stay open and pushing forward. The way you lean toward a color or an approach that you know will be safe. None of it feels like a compromise in the moment. It just feels like making smart choices.

But those choices add up.

If your mind is always open to being shaped by what’s around you, it becomes harder to tell what’s actually yours. You’re not copying anything directly, but your instincts are being quietly influenced by everything you’re taking in. The work can start to feel familiar in a way that’s hard to explain.

A modern-day warrior

Mean mean stride

Today’s Tom Sawyer

Mean mean pride

This idea of a “modern-day warrior” may sound a little over the top, but it doesn’t really play out that way. It’s about someone navigating a complicated environment without losing their sense of direction. Not reacting to everything, not pushing against everything either, but holding a steady position inside of it.

That feels like a more accurate description of what it means to be a creative person right now. There’s so much input coming in from every direction that it’s easy to get pulled off course without even noticing it happening.

We see what’s trending, what’s being shared, what’s getting rewarded, and it naturally starts to shift our approach. We start to anticipate how something will be received before we even finish it. Again, none of this is inherently wrong. Some of it is necessary. But there’s a point where the work starts to follow instead of lead, and that’s usually when it begins to lose some of its energy.

The Tom Sawyer in the song is someone who understands the world around them but isn’t defined by it. That distinction matters. It’s not about ignoring everything or disconnecting from what’s happening. It’s about staying aware without letting that awareness turn into constant adjustment. You can know what works and still choose not to build your work around it. You can appreciate what others are doing without feeling like you need to move in the same direction.

That’s not always easy to hold onto, especially when there’s a clear reward for following what’s already working. Things tend to connect faster. They make more sense to more people. There’s less friction. But there’s also less risk, and over time, less originality. The work becomes easier to recognize, but also easier to forget.

Author Sidenote: I’m a lifelong drummer, and this song has a drum solo right in the middle of it. I mean, how many songs do you remember that have a drum solo? This takes courage and sums up everything about the band Rush. They do things their way. If you don’t like it, that’s cool. There is a legion of dedicated fans that do! That’s all you need.

There’s something in the tone of the song that feels important, too. It isn’t asking for approval, and they’re not trying to create something that’s destined to be played on the radio. It was not designed to be a “hit”. That’s a difficult place to be for a creative person, especially now, when everything we make can be immediately measured and responded to. It’s natural to look for signals that what we’re doing might “work”. Some kind of confirmation that we’re moving in the right direction toward our own personal “hit”. But if that becomes the main driver, the work inevitably starts to shift. It becomes more about response than unique expression.

The more I think about it, the more the song feels less like a set of instructions and more like a way of carrying yourself in the world. Stay aware, but don’t hand over your thinking. Let the work come from somewhere that isn’t constantly reacting. Pay attention to when things start to feel too easy, too expected, too aligned with what you already know works. That’s usually the point where something may be lost.

This approach doesn’t mean rejecting everything around you or trying to be different for the sake of it. That usually leads somewhere just as predictable. It’s more about noticing when your decisions are being shaped, and then choosing, even in a small way, to push back against it. If it continues to feel obvious, push deeper. Maybe even start over and follow a direction that doesn’t immediately make sense. Maybe it will only make sense to you. This is where you should follow because you’re following something inside you, and you alone.

These moments don’t always lead to better work right away. I know that they lead to failure more times than not for me. But they tend to keep the work closer to something that feels uniquely yours.

And maybe that’s the part worth holding onto. Not a fixed rule or a clear outcome, but the idea that your thinking is something you don’t have to give away so easily.

As creative and intelligent humans, our minds are not for rent.

Damn straight.

If we’ve learned anything from the band Rush, it’s that doing things on our own terms won’t get us mass acceptance. But it can bring us great happiness and our own ravenous fan base. Sometimes it can even bring great wealth.

What’s ironic is that these are the things that many people are seeking by chasing mass acceptance.

Wouldn’t it be better to just do it all on your own terms?

A modern-day warrior
Mean, mean stride
Today’s Tom Sawyer
Mean, mean pride

Though his mind is not for rent
Don’t put him down as arrogant
His reserve, a quiet defense
Riding out the day’s events

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When something feels that big, it’s natural to think in big solutions. Big changes. Big commitments. We have to try to change the world, right? We need the kind of things that sound really meaningful and impactful.

In reality, these things are hard to sustain once life settles back into its normal pace. It’s the word “big” that causes things to break down. Not because these things are impossible or that people don’t care, but because the version of caring they’re aiming for simply doesn’t fit into their life.

What tends to last isn’t big gestures. These things show up in the things you already do every day. The things you do that don’t feel important and impactful on their own, but repeat often enough to make a difference.

That’s where impact can really start to become real. Not in doing everything. Not in doing it perfectly. Just in shifting a few things that are already part of your day and life.

I have a good example that I’d like to mention that a friend pointed out to me recently. It’s mildly embarrassing. I started selling apparel on my website, and some of the shirts aren’t 100% cotton.

You see, most synthetic shirts (polyester, nylon, blends) shed tiny plastic fibers every time they’re washed, and those microfibers often pass through wastewater systems and end up in rivers and the ocean, where they persist and are ingested by marine life. Cotton, on the other hand, is a natural fiber that biodegrades rather than accumulating as long-term pollution. Choosing 100% cotton doesn’t eliminate impact, but it reduces the steady flow of microplastics entering the water system from something as routine as doing laundry.

There are so many little things like this that, once we realize them, we can change the world in our own small way. I still have a lot of work to do and a lot to learn. But I’m proud to say, the next shirt that I added to my website is 100% ring-spun cotton. It’s also a finer, softer, and more durable fabric compared to regular (open-end) cotton. Win-Win!

Change The World T-Shirt - ChrisAuman.com (10% will go to ocean charities)

When you begin start to notice how often you reach for something that’s designed to be used once and thrown away. You begin to see packaging more clearly. Not as something neutral, but as something that can stick around long after whatever it held is gone. You pay a little more attention to seafood when it comes up. Not every time, not perfectly, but enough to recognize that some choices are better than others and lean in that direction when you can.

Even waste, in general, starts to look a little different. What you throw away, what you reuse, what you recycle. These are just a few things that you can gradually get better at noticing.

None of these things is extreme. That’s the point. I’m very concerned with trying to make an impact whenever I can, but I have a very hard time. I am far from perfect. In fact, I’m not even “good” because life is a challenge every day. But the point is that I’m slowly getting better. One step at a time.

These small changes don’t require a complete shift in how we live. They don’t depend on motivation. They can be small enough to repeat without much effort (like paying attention to the material of the next t-shirt you purchase), and that’s what gives them weight.

Here’s what I keep reminding myself of. A single decision doesn’t do much. But a decision you repeat every day does. I have the same mindset for my art. If you engage with your practice, just a little every day, you’ll be incredibly surprised at what you produce at the end of the year.

Sidenote: I’ve been working on a few blocky collage portraits recently, and putting each piece together is a good example of what I’m saying. Each small piece isn’t much by itself. But when they all come together, it can be pretty impactful.

Surrender (Acrylic painted paper collage on illustration board - 18×24)

Over time, these small shifts start to feel normal and frictionless. You don’t think about them as “doing something for the ocean.” They just become part of who you are and how you move through your day.

Most of what we do each day isn’t a decision. It’s a pattern we’ve repeated enough times that it runs automatically. That’s what makes change possible. A single action doesn’t carry much weight, but something you do every day quietly compounds. Over time, those small, repeated behaviors start to define outcomes in a way that feels almost invisible while it’s happening.

And that’s really where the impact comes from. Not from intensity, but from consistency.

These kinds of small choices can make a big difference. They don’t need to be loud to matter. They just need to happen again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

So I stopped thinking about it. I just started making loose marks across the surface. Quick, almost careless. I kinda surprised myself by doing this. (I guess it’s always a bit of a surprise when you actually talk yourself into taking that brave step forward into the unknown.) Then I realized something. The marks I was making were the same kind I’ve been making when I’m half-watching TV at night, sketchbook on my lap, not trying to make anything good. Just moving my hand around. They were doodle lines like those shown in the image below.

I’ve heard many artists talk about being brave when they’re stuck. This has been hard for me. But what I’ve realized through experience is that when a creation of yours isn’t quite working, the only thing you’re protecting is the status quo. Without bold moves and bravery, the result will just be average. Worst case, you scrap it all and just start over. But, you know what I’ve found? I rarely end up starting over. The work tends to push through and go somewhere completely different, and it usually gets better.

Blocky scribbles, whimsical swirls, repeating lines. This is a language that I’ve been exploring and enjoying, and it made its way out of my sketchbook onto the canvas!

Work In Progress Detail (36x36 on canvas - collage, mixed media on canvas)

I’ve seen this happen before with collage, too. Putting something down without overthinking it, just to see what it does to the surface. Sometimes it lands. Sometimes it doesn’t. But every now and then, something unexpected happens. It wasn’t planned. Sometimes it was just a mistake. We have to realize that these things open new doors for us as creative people. The doors are small, but they lead us to who we are and become part of what makes our work uniquely our own.

These marks on the page started to push this painting into new territory, and it came from all those small moments of doodling that didn’t feel important at the time. Sitting on the couch. Filling a page. Trying something with no pressure attached to it.

The interesting thing is that sometimes those random doodles and experiments turn into something great, too. Bonus!

Pisces 2026 Doodle Illustration (7×10 India Ink on Bristol Paper - Colorized by hand in Photoshop)

I can actually connect this idea to the ocean. Small waves keep coming in, barely noticeable on their own. But over time, they shape everything. Patterns form that no single wave could have created.

Most of what we do doesn’t look like progress when we’re in it. It looks like messing around. Doodling. Wasting time. Failure. (It definitely feels like wasting time when you actually fail!) But those small repetitions start to build a language, a style, without us really noticing.

Then at some point, we’re standing in front of something bigger, and it shows up. It just becomes the way we do things. It forms who we are becoming as creatives.

We don’t always know which small things will matter. Which mistakes will turn into gold? But we need to keep making them anyway.

This doodle is an example of a mistake. It’s a piece that went south, and it happens a lot. But did I learn something? I can’t say what right now, but I’m confident that even though it was an ugly failure, there is a step forward there somewhere.

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But the ocean is not far away.

Seascape Sunrise - Chris Auman (36x36 - Painted paper collage and acrylic on canvas)

Even inland, it shapes the air we breathe, the weather we experience, the food we eat, and the products that fill our homes. The separation we imagine is largely psychological. Physically and functionally, our worlds are deeply connected.

A significant portion of the oxygen in our atmosphere is produced by microscopic marine organisms drifting near the surface of the sea. These tiny life forms—largely invisible to us—contribute constantly to the air that fills our lungs. We don’t see them, most people don’t know about them, but each breath carries a subtle reminder that life in open water is intertwined with life on land. The ocean is not just scenery; it is part of the biological machinery that sustains us all.

Woman By The Sea - Chris Auman (18x24 - Painted paper collage on paper)

The ocean absorbs and stores vast amounts of heat from the sun, redistributing it through global currents that function like enormous conveyor belts. These currents help regulate climate patterns across continents. Storm systems often gather strength over warm water before moving inland, bringing rain that nourishes crops and replenishes reservoirs. The weather outside our windows, even hundreds of miles from the coast, bears the fingerprints of ocean temperatures and circulation patterns.

We tend to think in lines on maps: coast here, inland there. But air and water do not recognize those boundaries. Heat moves. Moisture rises and falls. Currents circulate. What feels geographically distant is often functionally near.

Another connection appears quietly on our plates. Seafood is one of the most direct ways many of us interact with the ocean, even if we live far from the coast. A piece of fish in a grocery store in Ohio or a tuna roll in a small inland restaurant represents a long chain that began in open water. Fishing vessels, aquaculture operations, distributors, and global transport networks all link a meal back to the sea. What we choose to eat, and how often we eat it, shapes demand that eventually reaches the water itself.

At the level of an individual meal, the connection feels small. But collectively, millions of purchasing decisions guide how fisheries operate, what species are harvested most heavily, and how seafood supply chains evolve over time. Markets respond to patterns of demand.

For that reason, seafood choices can be another point of participation. Learning where certain species come from, how they are harvested, and which populations are under pressure can gradually shift habits toward more sustainable options. Like many of the ocean connections in daily life, the impact does not come from one dramatic action but from steady awareness shaping routine decisions.

Whispers Of The Horizon - Chris Auman (24x24 Acrylic on Canvas)

Water itself tells an even more direct story of proximity. Rain falls on rooftops, roads, and farmland. It flows into storm drains and small creeks, which feed larger rivers. Those rivers converge and, eventually, many of them make their way to the sea. The journey may take time, and it may pass through countless landscapes, but gravity carries water toward a larger body. What enters a local waterway does not remain isolated. Fertilizers, soil runoff, litter, and chemical residues travel along with it. The ocean is downstream from us. What is on or in the ground will likely end up in the sea and then delivered back to us in our food.

This continuity becomes especially clear when we consider microplastics. Synthetic fabrics shed tiny fibers during routine laundry cycles. Tires release microscopic particles onto roadways, which are then washed into drainage systems during rainfall. Packaging breaks down into fragments too small to notice, yet persistent enough to move through water systems. Many wastewater facilities capture a portion of these particles, but not all of them. Over time, they accumulate in rivers and, eventually, in marine environments.

The point here is not to provoke alarm. It is to reveal a connection.

Abstract Seascape - Chris Auman (18x24 - Painted paper collage on paper)

Distance often shields us from consequence, not because the connection doesn’t exist, but because we can’t see it. When we do not witness a journey, it is easy to assume it never happened. When we can’t see or touch something, it’s even easier to feel that it doesn’t exist.

Psychologically, distance reduces urgency. Humans are wired to respond to what is immediate and visible. We care most deeply about what we encounter directly—what we can see, hear, and touch. When the ocean exists only as a faraway concept or a dramatic news headline, it remains abstract. Abstract things rarely command sustained attention.

But when we begin to see how the sea is woven into ordinary life—into breath, weather, trade, and our food—the abstraction will soften. The ocean shifts from being “somewhere else” to being part of the world we touch and inhabit daily.

Sun Day, Fun Day - Chris Auman (7x10 - India Ink on paper - colorized on the computer)

This shift does not require guilt or grand gestures. It begins with awareness. A simple daily practice can gradually close the psychological gap.

When you check the forecast, remember that sea temperatures influence storm paths and rainfall patterns. When you wash synthetic clothing, consider the fibers that enter water systems. When you see heavy rain moving along a curb, imagine the route that water will take toward rivers and eventually to the sea. What can you do to influence its quality? When you purchase your seafood, recognize the countries or companies that brought it to you. You can decide to buy from them or choose different options.

These small acknowledgments interrupt autopilot and can make an impact. They remind us that we are not separate observers of environmental systems but participants within them.

Over time, repeated noticing builds familiarity. Familiarity builds connection. And connection forms the foundation of care.

There is also a subtle but important reframing that occurs when we move from thinking about “the environment” as something external to recognizing that we live inside interconnected systems. Our ocean systems are not outside of us. Participation is not a choice; it is a condition of being alive on this planet.

When we understand that we are already entangled in these systems, responsibility feels less like adopting a new cause and more like honoring an existing relationship. Care no longer begins with obligation; it begins with recognition.

The shoreline may be hundreds of miles away. We may not smell salt in the air or hear waves at night. But the ocean remains present—in circulation patterns overhead, in global supply chains beneath our consumption, in waterways flowing quietly beyond our view.

Tides Of Light - Chris Auman (18x24 - Acrylic on textured canvas)

Recognizing proximity changes tone. It softens the sense of distance that often makes care feel abstract and overwhelming. Instead of trying to protect something remote and unfamiliar, we begin to see ourselves as tending a system we already rely on every day.

The ocean is not somewhere else. It is dreamy, but it is not a dream. It is present in the structures that sustain our daily life. When we allow ourselves to notice that, care becomes less about adopting a position and more about participating with awareness.

And awareness, practiced consistently, has a way of reshaping behavior over time.

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There’s pressure placed on artists to stay pleasant.

Make beautiful things. Entertain. Decorate the walls. Brighten the feed. But don’t make anyone uncomfortable. Don’t wade into difficult conversations. Don’t “use your platform.” Just paint. Just write. Just be an actor. Just do your job and stay quiet.

I understand where that instinct comes from. No one enjoys being talked down to. No one wants art or entertainment to feel like a lecture. And most of us who create don’t wake up in the morning thinking, I’d like to ruffle some feathers today.

But as an artist myself, it’s my opinion that it’s not only acceptable for artists to speak publicly about what matters to them. It is necessary.

Not because we are morally superior. Not because we have all the answers. But because art has never been separate from the world it lives in.

When we look back through history, the idea of the “neutral artist” almost disappears. Francisco Goya did not paint war as a decorative exercise. His Disasters of War prints were raw, unsettling, almost unbearable.

The Third of May 1808 - Francisco Goya

Por una navaja (For a clasp knife) - Francisco Goya

Pablo Picasso painted Guernica in response to the bombing of a Spanish town. It was not subtle. It was not neutral. The attack killed civilians and shocked the world. Instead of painting a literal battle scene, Picasso filled the mural with distorted, screaming figures, a dying horse, a grieving mother, and fractured bodies. The chaos and pain make the point clearly: war destroys innocent life.

Guernica - Pablo Picasso

Pablo Picasso painted Guernica entirely in black, white, and shades of gray. Without color, the viewer focuses on forms, emotion, and chaos rather than aesthetics. The stark grayscale makes the scene feel cold, brutal, and documentary-like, reinforcing the horror of the bombing.

Artists may never hold a protest sign, but they can still shape culture by what they choose to show and what they choose to ignore. We often romanticize these figures now. We frame them. We hang them in museums. We stream their music. But throughout history, many of them were criticized for being too political, too loud, too divisive.

When Pablo Picasso unveiled Guernica in 1937, reactions were mixed. Supporters saw the painting as a powerful condemnation of the bombing of the Basque town of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War. Critics raised many objections. Some argued the work was too political for art, while others dismissed it as propaganda against fascism. Many viewers found the imagery confusing, chaotic, or deliberately disturbing, and a few even accused Picasso of exploiting tragedy for artistic effect.

The fact is, artists shape culture. Culture shapes what people accept as normal. And what people accept as normal eventually shapes policy, law, and collective behavior.

January 6th, 2021 - Chris Auman (Acrylic and mixed media on paper - approx 18x24)

That may sound lofty, but it plays out in small ways every day. The images we see. The stories, poems, lyrics, and speeches that we hear. They tell us what matters to us and what does not.

On the flip side, silence is not neutrality. Silence is also a statement.

If something is happening in the world that deeply affects people, communities, or the natural world, and we have an audience, even a modest one, choosing not to acknowledge it is a choice.

There are seasons when being quiet is necessary for personal reasons. There are moments when listening is more important than speaking. But long-term avoidance, especially when we have something to say, slowly erodes us from the inside out.

I am an artist, designer, and writer who generally centers my work around the ocean. The ocean is not just a backdrop in my work. It is a source of meaning. I think it’s a vital part of our existence. Do I not have a responsibility to speak up about its fragility? Not as an expert scientist. But, simply, as someone who cares.

I think we have to believe that conviction is not the same thing as preaching. Preaching assumes superiority. Protest, at its best, assumes shared humanity.

When an artist speaks publicly about injustice, environmental degradation, or human dignity, they are not claiming to be the final authority. They are saying, This matters to me. I cannot pretend it does not.

There is humility and courage in that.

Resistance Poster - Chris Auman (Painted paper collage on paper - approx 11x14)

We live in a time where attention is currency. If you have an audience, even a small one, you have earned a degree of trust. People have chosen to listen to you. That trust should not be exploited, but it also should not be wasted.

If artists with platforms stay silent out of fear of offending someone, what message does that send? Silence only leaves a void for someone else to fill. In today’s world, it will definitely be filled. Many times, by voices that may destroy what we seek to protect.

The artists we remember most clearly are not the ones who carefully avoided tension. They are the ones who allowed their work and their voice to intersect with the realities of their time.

That does not mean every piece must be a protest. It does not mean every speech or social post must be a call to action. It means that when something genuinely matters to us, we allow it to surface without fear.

There is also a deeper philosophical layer here. To create is to pay attention. To pay attention is to notice where things are broken, unjust, or fragile. If we are doing our job as artists, we are already tuned into the world with sensitivity. It is almost impossible to remain completely detached.

Art, at its core, is an act of interpretation. We take the chaos of experience and shape it into something visible and useful. If we refuse to interpret the moral or social realities around us, we narrow the scope of our own work.

And beyond philosophy, there is a human truth. Many people do not have platforms. Many people do not feel safe speaking publicly. Many people do not have the privilege of being heard.

If you do, even in a small corner of the internet or a local community, that access can make a real difference.

Protest is not a disruption of a free society. It is evidence that one exists.

In a country built on the idea that power ultimately rests with the people, protest is one of the clearest ways citizens remind institutions who they serve. It allows ordinary individuals to challenge decisions, defend rights, and push culture forward without violence. It is not about chaos. It is about accountability. When people can gather, speak, create, and dissent openly, it signals that freedom is not just a slogan but an active, lived responsibility.

People who believe protest is wrong often argue that it creates disorder, disrupts everyday life, and risks escalating into conflict or violence. They believe change should happen through established democratic systems like elections, courts, and legislation rather than public demonstrations that pressure institutions.

I don’t discount these things as levers that we should pull as well. But the more we’re told that we should all stay quiet, the more our freedom will ultimately erode. It’s ok to disagree with what someone is protesting about. But telling them to “sit down and shut up” is no different than telling them that freedom simply isn’t meant for them.

When artists withdraw completely from public conversation, culture becomes shaped primarily by corporations, politicians, and algorithms. That is not healthy for a society or our long-term freedoms. That expectation misunderstands art itself. To create honestly is already to reveal what you care about. Speaking up is simply an extension of that honesty.

If you have freedom, you can have a platform. If you have a platform, you can have influence. If you have influence, you have the opportunity to shape culture in some small way. You may lose a few people. You may gain others. But more importantly, you remain aligned with yourself. You remain aligned with your core values and the core values of a free society.

Creativity and conscience belong in the same room.

Art has always lived there.

We are not breaking tradition by speaking up.

We are continuing it.

If you’d like to speak up in your own small way, consider wearing a statement!

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I was talking with my wife, and I think the origin of my love of the Olympics is rooted in a memory from my childhood. I can still see the small, hand-me-down, black-and-white TV that sat on a dresser in my bedroom. The screen was fuzzy. The signal wasn’t great. But I remember lying there, completely locked in. It felt like something important and exotic was happening somewhere far away.

It’s strange how vivid those memories still are. I’m not sure why they stuck. Maybe because the Olympics felt larger than life. Maybe because it was one of the few things that held my full attention as a child. Maybe I just liked all the beauty of the landscapes, even though it was all in black and white. That’s a big part of it even now.

I’ve realized that part of what I love now isn’t just the events. It’s the memory of how it felt back then. The feeling of being young and captivated. The feeling of possibility. The feeling of winter stretching out in front of you. We spend a lot of our adult lives chasing that feeling without realizing it.

Because I’ve been watching every night, I haven’t worked in my studio at all. Normally, that would bother me. But over the last few weeks, instead of forcing it, I’ve been doodling on the couch. Just a pen. Bristol paper. No plan.

I start by moving my hand. One line. Then another. Sometimes it turns into nothing recognizable. Pure abstraction. Other times, a horizon appears, waves, a face. Or, once it’s colorized, it becomes something that feels like a seascape without trying to be one.

It always begins the same way. Motion first. Meaning later.

When I work in the studio, there’s often a subtle pressure. Make something good. Make something shareable. Make something that fits the larger body of work. Even if I don’t say those words out loud, they hover.

On the couch, while half-watching a game of curling, that pressure disappears. I’m not trying to create a finished piece. I’m not trying to accomplish anything really. I’m just there. Ink moving across paper. Crowd noise in the background. Family nearby. Just working to see what happens.

The funny thing is, the resulting drawings aren’t bad. I think they’re at least interesting. I’m very surprised that when I post these simple doodle drawings online, people seem to really enjoy them.

Not overthinking is harder than it sounds. We’re wired to evaluate, compare, and optimize. Especially if we care about what we make. But sometimes the best thing we can do is stop trying to control the outcome and just be in the moment.

Sometimes this is when you find success. Just like athletes, at some point, preparation gives way to instinct. They trust their training and let their bodies move.

In a small way, doodling like this feels similar. I trust the years of making. I trust my eye. I trust my hand. And I let it move. It moves me and my work to new places.

It reminds me that creativity doesn’t only live in a dedicated room with good lighting and a stretched canvas. It can live on a coffee table while the Olympics are on. It can live in a quiet ten minutes before bed. It can live in the margins.

And maybe that’s the deeper point.

We don’t always need to carve out more time. Sometimes we just need to lower the stakes. To let ourselves create without the weight of expectation. To chase the feeling instead of the finished product. It’s about the journey, and we arrive where we arrive.

This week has been about that for me. Snow on the screen. Ink on the page. Old memories mixing with new ones. Not forcing anything. Just showing up in small ways.

More doodles below… Enjoy!

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- Chris

When you think about an octopus, many people might feel fear as you envision the Kraken fable with the giant octopus that’s literally a killer monster. Some might think “gross” because of the crazy, suction cup legs that resemble an underwater spider that might grab on and never let go. Others might feel hungry because they think of sushi or a fried appetizer.

Thinking back, I created this illustration after watching the great documentary The Octopus Teacher. It has all the feels.

I was just flipping through my options on Netflix, looking for something relaxing and different to watch. Something that wouldn’t demand too much of me when I saw the intriguing title. So I clicked in and started watching. I expected beautiful footage of sea life, maybe a few interesting facts, and then I’d move on with my night.

Instead, I found myself pulled in. It was a fascinating and impactful experience that I’ll likely never forget.

I already “knew” octopuses were smart. But I didn’t realize quite how smart. Many times, you think of sea creatures like fish that seem kinda brainless. But octopuses are actually smart. Like, little child smart!

There’s a moment early on when the octopus reaches out and touches the man telling the story of his new little friend. That wasn’t reflex. That wasn’t random movement. That wasn’t defense or reactive fear. That was real curiosity. And once you recognize that, it changes the tone of everything that follows.

From that point, the film becomes less about observing an interaction between a man and a sea creature and more about witnessing a relationship unfold between two friends.

As the film goes on, you start to notice details. The way she experiments with her environment. The way she approaches new objects is with interest rather than fear. The way she adapts when things don’t go the way she expects. Octopuses don’t just react to the world. They seem to evaluate and experience it as we do. They learn. They adjust. They feel. They remember.

Octopuses are doing all of this without the kind of bodies we associate with intelligence. They are the most odd beings. This is one reason why we might consider them to be just another dumb creature. They’re so different from us. They have no bones. No expressions we recognize. No familiar signals. Just movement, texture, color. They’re little water aliens. Even their eyes are odd. Yet, you can tell there’s a lot going on behind those eyes.

Watching her navigate danger was harder than I expected. There’s a point where she’s attacked, and afterward, you can see that something has changed. She survives, but she carries that experience forward. She moves differently. She hides differently. She’s learned something, and that learning has a cost. You can see it. Their will to live is certainly just as strong as ours.

What stayed with me long after the film ended is how little time octopuses actually have to live. I just didn’t realize. Many live only a year or two. All of this awareness, curiosity, and adaptability exists within a relatively brief window. And still, they engage deeply with life. It’s almost like they know that their time is short. They seem to lean into it.

Anyway, I could go on and on about how fascinating octopuses are. I kinda wish that I could be the guy in the film and have an octopus friend of my own.

That observation made me realize something important, though. The creator of the film wasn’t just trying to tell a unique and engaging story. They were creating a connection.

That's important to notice because I believe that changing someone’s mind will never come from information or education alone. You need to have experiences that create and reinforce a connection. You need to see it. You need to feel it. You need a connection that makes you care.

What I’ve realized is that creatures like octopuses aren’t just fascinating beings. They’re bridges. They sit at this strange intersection of alien and familiar that’s incredibly intriguing for so many people. My little octopus drawing proves that. This film proves that too.

I didn’t walk away from The Octopus Teacher feeling like I’d been given a direct lesson. But I did feel more connected, and that matters. I think the creators of this film succeeded in their real mission without being so direct about it. I simply cared a little more about the ocean and its inhabitants from the experience of seeing, hearing, and connecting to the story. The experience of watching this film was extremely emotional, and I’ll never forget it.

What I’d like to personally remember and pass along to you is that caring about our oceans and the lives within them doesn’t start with facts, fear, urgency, or repetition. It starts with connection.

Octopuses are simply another bridge to make that connection possible. They remind us that the sea isn’t mostly empty space filled with dumb creatures that we consider food. This film reinforced that it’s actually full of minds moving through water, living lives that matter in their own small way. I would go so far as to say that they matter as much as the lives that we can see and touch on land.

Octopuses matter not just because they’re fascinating, intelligent, emotionally complex, or even because of their place in the food chain. But because, like us, they’re a part of a living system that only works when all of its parts are allowed to exist and interact in balance.

It’s easy to think of the sea and its creatures as something separate from us, something vast, distant, and ancient that will always be there no matter what we do. But the truth is, our lives are braided into it. The oxygen we breathe. The climate that allows our food to grow. The systems that keep this planet stable enough for us to create, learn, evolve, raise families, and plan futures. None of that exists without a functioning ocean and all the creatures within it.

That’s why connection matters so much. I applaud the creators of The Octopus Teacher in their approach. We protect what we feel connected to. We remember and change more easily when something feels personal instead of abstract.

Octopuses just happen to be incredible ambassadors for that realization. They pull us in, sometimes literally. They surprise us. They create wonder, as if we’re actually interacting with an intelligent alien child from another world. But we have to realize that it’s our world. We’re all connected.

If we can keep finding ways to build this kind of connection, through stories, photos, video, experiences, art, and moments of attention, then caring stops being something we have to convince others to do. It becomes a natural response.

This is how change happens.

Abstraction removes friction for me. I get into the work faster. I find “flow” quicker. And I almost always end up with something I genuinely enjoy looking at. It’s about producing a “vibe”. It’s about chasing and seeing a feeling. That’s the only challenge. There’s very little resistance when the goal is simply to follow a feeling and see where it goes.

At the same time, something in me wants to be a little more grounded in subject matter. A little more real. The portrait work has been a way to explore that pull. The pieces I’ve been working on are all collage, painted paper, and layered materials. I really love the end result. It’s deeply satisfying. But it’s also slower. More meticulous. Every decision matters more. There’s no rushing it. Instead of finishing a painting in two or three sessions, it tends to take me a month or more to finalize something. This “slowness” is a challenge for me because it’s deep within my nature to want to finish things quickly and move on.

To tackle this challenge, I’ve been moving between pieces. I’ll work on a portrait until I feel resistance creep in, then I’ll step away and move to something more abstract that has no structure. That shift gives me momentum instead of slowing my enthusiasm. When I come back to the portrait later, I see it more clearly and enjoy the process again.

This connects directly to the doodling I’ve been sharing recently. Those drawings are completely abstract, but I’m still quietly tying them back to my core subject, the ocean. Movement, rhythm, color, vibe. They’re loose and freeing, but they also satisfy my love of detail once I start refining lines and shapes.

What I’m realizing is that I don’t have to choose between any of these approaches. I can have them all. Exploration and structure. Flow and patience. Fast, intuitive marks and slow, careful decisions. Balancing those modes feels good, and there’s something for every mood and situation. It keeps the work progressing, keeps me showing up daily, and keeps the process enjoyable. And right now, that balance feels like exactly where I’m supposed to be, and on track to whatever I’ll become as an artist in the future.

Below are some examples of abstract portraits that I’ve produced over the years. The first one below is a work in progress. It’s simply a woman by the sea, and it’s got some great vibes at the moment.

Speaking of the ocean, after checking out the works below, I hope you can continue reading to explore my thoughts on why it’s important to connect with our oceans. Not only yourself, but also helping others to do the same.

We know a lot of negative things about our oceans.

We know the water is warming. We know plastic is accumulating in places most of us will never see. We know coral reefs are under stress and fisheries are shifting. We know the ocean plays a central role in regulating climate, producing oxygen, and supporting life on this planet. None of this information is hidden. It appears regularly in articles, documentaries, social posts, and reports.

And yet, knowing these things rarely changes how most people live every day.

That gap between what we know and how we behave is one of the frustrations of our time. We read something concerning. We feel a moment of awareness. Sometimes, even a flash of guilt, and we want to do something about it. Then life moves on. I know I’m busy. I’m sure you’re busy. The concern fades, not because the issue stopped mattering, but because it never found a place to land and become actionable.

This pattern repeats so often that we’ve started to treat it as normal. We assume people are distracted. Or indifferent. Or unwilling to change. We tell ourselves that the message just hasn’t been strong enough yet. Maybe we tell ourselves that the problem is so big that there’s nothing we can ever do about it, so why bother?

But the problem is not a lack of information or urgency.

The problem is a misunderstanding of how care actually forms.

Care does not begin as a decision. It begins as a relationship.

If we look honestly at the things we care about most in our lives, they rarely enter through facts alone. We care about people because we know them. We care about places because we have spent time there. We care about experiences because they left a mark on us. Information may later help us understand why something matters, but it almost never creates the attachment by itself.

The ocean and its living things, for many of us, exist mostly as an idea.

It shows up as a vacation destination, a backdrop for photos, a beautiful nature show on television. Or, it shows up as a topic that surfaces when something has gone horribly wrong. For people who don’t live near it, the ocean can feel distant in every sense of the word. Even when we understand its importance intellectually, it often sits outside our daily awareness.

We can agree that the ocean matters without feeling personally connected to what happens to it. We can acknowledge that damage is occurring without sensing how that damage relates to us. The information lands in our minds, but it doesn’t settle into our sense of who we are or how we move through the world.

This is where facts tend to lose their power.

They speak to understanding, but care lives somewhere else.

On top of these challenges, most messages come framed as a warning. The tone is urgent. Scary. The language emphasizes loss or damage or a dire, immediate threat. The underlying message is that something must be done quickly, or else.

That approach makes sense on the surface. The problems are real, and time matters. But urgency often asks people to feel deeply before they have had time to connect. It demands emotional energy without offering a place to put it.

When people are asked to care intensely about something that still feels distant, the result is often discomfort rather than engagement. That discomfort rarely shows up as open resistance. More often, it shows up as avoidance. We scroll past. We change the subject. We tell ourselves we will come back to it later.

This is not apathy.

It’s simply self-protection.

We are not built to sustain constant concern for everything we are told is important. Our attention has limits. Our emotional capacity has limits. When those limits are pushed repeatedly, distance becomes a coping strategy.

I think of it like a canister of gas that we hold, and everyone’s canister is a different size. Once that canister is empty, we stop and check out. I know I’ve personally done this many times. In the best cases, I do it knowingly. In the worst cases, an empty gas container can manifest itself in so many different, negative ways, including prolonged depression.

Many people today are simply fatigued by the constant stream of information and people screaming for our attention. Each new article has to sound more serious than the last to hold attention. Over time, the nervous system simply stops responding. What once felt urgent begins to feel familiar. Eventually, many people disengage, not because they no longer care, but because they cannot live in a permanent state of concern and fear.

Concern that depends entirely on an alarm in our head does not last.

Care that grows from a relationship behaves differently.

To see this more clearly, think about how many people first learn about plastic in the ocean. Often, it begins with images of some exotic animal that was harmed in some way. It may also be conceptual or invisible, like microplastics accumulating deep down offshore or moving through our food systems.

These ideas are unsettling, but a lot of it is also abstract. It tells us something is wrong without actually being able to experience it or see it outside our own windows.

For many people, those images and facts register briefly and then fade. It’s just a fact of the world we live in right now. It’s a brutal world after all, right?

What often changes things is something that’s a little more personal. A piece of trash caught in seaweed on a beach. A familiar shoreline that looks different from the way it used to. A real-world conversation that connects convenience to consequence. Suddenly, the issue feels closer. Not solved, but present.

The facts did not change.

The relationship did.

Once the idea becomes personal, information begins to work differently. A statistic about plastic no longer feels theoretical. It connects to something we’ve seen, experienced, or touched. A warning about pollution no longer feels like abstract pressure. It feels like context for something we already care about.

This is why two people can hear the same information and respond in completely different ways. One moves on. The other slows down and pays attention. The difference is not intelligence or compassion. It’s connection.

Connection gives facts somewhere to go.

That connection can come from many places. For some of us, it comes from being near the water. For others, it comes from memory. A childhood trip. A sense of scale that made us feel small in a good way. A moment that stayed with us longer than expected.

Care grows through familiarity. Through repetition. Through presence over time.

We protect what we recognize as part of our lives. We defend what feels connected to us. The ocean is no different. When it remains distant, concern stays shallow. When it becomes familiar, care deepens naturally.

This also helps explain why education alone rarely changes behavior. Teaching people about the ocean without helping them feel connected to it is like explaining the importance of a relationship to someone who has never met the person involved. The logic may be sound, but the motivation simply doesn’t last.

Understanding tends to follow connection more often than the other way around.

Attention is the bridge between knowing and caring.

When we pay attention consistently, not reactively, our understanding changes. We stop waiting for dramatic proof that something matters. We begin to notice smaller signals. We start to see patterns instead of isolated events.

This kind of attention is a little softer. It does not rely on fear. It does not demand constant emotional intensity. Because of that, it is sustainable.

From this place, our sense of responsibility begins to shift. Not toward panic, but toward steadiness.

Our actions may seem small on a daily basis, but they do important work.

They keep the ocean, and everything in it, present.
They keep it all visible.
They remind us, and others, that it is not somewhere else.

When the ocean shows up in everyday life, facts feel less like pressure and more like clarity. They help us understand something we are already paying attention to. They inform rather than alarm.

None of this minimizes the seriousness of the challenges we face. The problems are real. The systems are complex. The consequences are unfolding.

But how we invite people into understanding those realities matters.

If we lead with facts alone, we often ask too much, too quickly. We ask people to care deeply before they have had time to connect. We mistake awareness for relationship.

A more durable path begins by helping people notice the ocean as something already woven into their lives. By allowing connection to come before responsibility. By trusting that when people feel connected, they will want to understand more.

Care does not need to be forced.

It needs to be grown.

When connection comes first, facts become allies instead of obstacles. They help us see clearly what we are already invested in. From there, attention steadies. Concern settles. Engagement lasts. Our fuel tanks, hopefully, are refilled with energy, enthusiasm, and passion for change.

That is how care can take hold.

One way I do that is by working on smaller collage pieces at the kitchen table while everyone else is watching TV. I’ve done that a lot, and I’ll keep doing it. Another way I’ve just started up again is doodling while I’m sitting on the couch and watching TV.

I try to turn my brain off and let my hand move. One continuous line. No plan. I aim for some kind of structure so it doesn’t turn into pure scribble, but beyond that, I just go. Once the initial drawing is down, I go back in and refine it. Strengthen lines. Fill solid areas. Add new elements with different pens. Eventually, I color everything in with markers.

The end result is a picture of nothing in particular, as you can see. But the focus required to work through all the lines, shapes, and connections pulls me into a deep flow state. It blocks out the rest of the world. It’s restorative.

I’m convinced that intense focus is the real secret sauce here. The challenge of taking something rough and turning it into something visually interesting is engaging, calming, and genuinely fun.

The first time I shared one of these doodles on Substack, I almost didn’t post it. It felt random. Disposable. Not especially “good.” But I shared it anyway. I even said when I posted it that this may not be great art, but it was definitely great therapy. To my surprise, it sparked a lot of interest and conversation. People connected with it in ways I didn’t expect. It’s funny, after all the art that I’ve posted on Substack, this was the post that got the most attention.

It’s not the direction my larger body of work is heading, but I plan to keep this practice going. For all the reasons above. It also reinforces something I come back to often: there’s no such thing as bad art. There’s always someone out there who will connect with what you make. The real work is finding them.

If you want, you can follow this link to read the comments and add your own thoughts to the conversation around that first doodle.

This week, I also returned to another direction I’ve been exploring. Moving beyond fully abstract work and abstract seascapes and getting a little closer to the real world through abstract portraiture.

These pieces use painted paper collage along with vintage magazine and text elements on heavyweight paper. I’m still working to connect them to the sea. In the current piece (rough, in progress), you see below, there’s a woman by the water, and the ocean is present more as atmosphere than subject. It’s more specific than much of my other work, and I’m enjoying that shift.

The process is definitely more meticulous, so I’ve been keeping multiple pieces going at once. That way, I’m not locked into a single mode of working. I need room to explore. Moving between doodling, fully abstract work, seascapes, and portraits has kept me busy, productive, and genuinely excited to sit down and work.

Lastly, I’ve been developing a new podcast idea and recorded the first episode. I’m keeping it under wraps for now while I decide whether it’s something I want to commit to long term, but the concept feels promising.

Like most creative people, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how creatives across disciplines think, work, and keep going, and what we can learn from the way they move through the world. The show will explore both well-known creatives and people working quietly without much attention at all. Chefs. Writers. Artists. Musicians. Woodworkers. Builders. Designers. Engineers.

What interests me most isn’t just what they make, but how they think while they’re making it. The ideas they return to. How the process feels. The perspectives they’ve formed over time. And why those ideas might matter to anyone trying to live a creative life, even if their work looks completely different.

Many of us are drawn to the ocean for the way it supports our own health. Time near the water offers many positive benefits. What we have to remember is that this relationship works both ways. The health of our oceans is influenced by the choices we make on land and by how we interact directly with the sea.

What’s encouraging is that this understanding is already shaping how people build, design, and innovate. Over the past year, a wide range of new technologies and approaches have been introduced with ocean health in mind. Some focus on reducing pressure before it reaches the sea. Others operate directly within marine environments. Together, they reflect a growing effort to support ocean ecosystems through thoughtful, practical innovation.

To celebrate this positive momentum, let’s take a closer look at breakthroughs making a measurable difference for our seas.

Coral Vita - Resilient Corals

Coral reefs support an enormous range of marine life and protect coastlines, but they are highly vulnerable to rising temperatures and environmental stress. Coral Vita is tackling the climate-driven collapse of coral reefs by growing corals faster and smarter than nature does on its own. By identifying which corals grow faster and tolerate heat better, restoration efforts can become more targeted and resilient, improving the chances that restored reefs will survive long term rather than requiring repeated intervention.

Kind Designs – Living Seawalls

Traditional seawalls protect coastlines but often strip away natural habitat. Living Seawalls approach coastal protection differently, using textured, modular surfaces designed to mimic natural rocky environments. These surfaces, commercialized by a company called Kind Designs, create space for oysters, mussels, seaweed, and other organisms to attach and grow, allowing marine life to coexist with necessary coastal infrastructure rather than being displaced by it.

Eco Wave Power

Ocean waves contain vast, untapped energy. Eco Wave Power captures that motion using floating devices attached to existing coastal structures and converts it into electricity that feeds directly into the grid. By generating renewable energy without drilling, dredging, or offshore platforms, wave power offers a way to reduce fossil fuel dependence while minimizing disruption to marine environments.

Flocean

Freshwater scarcity is becoming more common in coastal regions, yet traditional desalination plants are energy-intensive and environmentally disruptive. Flocean’s systems operate hundreds of meters below the ocean surface, using natural water pressure to push seawater through filtration membranes. This approach significantly reduces energy use and surface-level impact while providing a quieter, lower-footprint method of producing freshwater.

Wildtype

Seafood demand continues to rise while wild fish populations face increasing pressure. Wildtype produces salmon by growing fish cells in controlled environments rather than harvesting live fish from the ocean. FDA approval in 2025 marked a major milestone for cultivated seafood, signaling that alternatives to traditional fishing can safely enter the food system and help reduce strain on marine ecosystems.

Shinkei Systems – Poseidon

Shinkei Poseidon brings automation and precision to a centuries-old fish processing method known as ike-jime. Using computer vision and AI, the system identifies fish species and applies the correct humane technique instantly. This reduces stress on the fish, improves meat quality, and extends shelf life, which in turn reduces waste across the seafood supply chain and encourages more efficient use of harvested resources.

Carbios

Synthetic textiles are a significant source of microplastic pollution in waterways and oceans. Carbios uses engineered enzymes to break polyester down into its original components so the material can be reused repeatedly. This process supports a more circular materials economy and reduces the volume of plastic waste entering the environment from clothing and packaging.

The Garbage Cafe Model

Plastic pollution often begins far from the coast, moving through rivers and drainage systems before reaching the ocean. The Garbage Cafe model addresses this upstream by allowing people to exchange collected plastic for meals. It creates a direct incentive to remove waste from the environment while also supporting food access, demonstrating how community-scale solutions can have environmental impact beyond their immediate location.

RootWave

Chemical runoff from agriculture is a major contributor to water pollution that eventually reaches coastal ecosystems. RootWave replaces herbicides with controlled electrical currents that destroy weeds down to the root. By reducing chemical use, this approach helps protect rivers, estuaries, and marine life while supporting more resilient farming practices.

FutureFeed

Climate change remains one of the largest long-term threats to ocean health. FutureFeed uses a small amount of the seaweed Asparagopsis in cattle feed to significantly reduce methane emissions from digestion. Cutting methane at the source helps slow ocean warming and acidification, offering an indirect but meaningful benefit to marine ecosystems.

Why This All Matters

It’s easy to think of the ocean as something separate from everyday life. A place we visit on vacation. A backdrop. Somewhere beautiful, but distant. In reality, the ocean quietly supports much of what makes modern life possible. It regulates climate. It produces oxygen. It feeds billions of people. It shapes weather patterns and coastlines. And for many of us, its beauty supports something less measurable but just as real: our sense of calm, perspective, and well-being.

The innovations highlighted here matter because they recognize that connection. They acknowledge that human health and ocean health are not separate concerns. They move the conversation beyond abstract responsibility and into practical action. Each one addresses a specific pressure on ocean systems, whether that pressure comes from energy production, food supply chains, materials, agriculture, or coastal development.

What’s worth celebrating is not just any single breakthrough, but the pattern that emerges when you look at them together. These efforts show that protecting the ocean does not require choosing between progress and preservation. It requires designing smarter systems. Systems that reduce waste before it reaches the sea. Systems that work with marine environments instead of against them. Systems that allow people to meet real needs, for food, energy, water, and shelter, while placing less strain on ecosystems that have already given us so much.

This work also reminds us that solutions don’t all look the same. Some happen far inland, long before pollution or runoff ever reaches the coast. Others operate directly in the water, restoring reefs, supporting marine life, or generating clean energy from natural movement. Some are highly technical. Others are simple, community-driven ideas. All of them matter because they reflect intention.

This continues the idea that ocean protection doesn’t have to be limited to conservation alone. It is showing up in engineering labs, design studios, farms, fisheries, and cities. That shift matters because the ocean can’t be saved without a creative, multi-pronged approach.

Taken together, these innovations offer something genuinely hopeful. Proof that caring for the ocean is not just an environmental goal, but a human one.

“Start small and become the kind of person who shows up every day. Build a new identity. Then increase the intensity.” - James Clear

Happy New Year, friends! I spent some time while I was off for the holidays thinking about starting a “100 project.” There’s something appealing about the accountability of it. A defined number. A visible goal. Regular urgency. A sense of completion is built right into the structure.

But the longer I sat with the idea, the more I realized the number itself wasn’t what I was after. What I wanted was consistency. What I wanted was to stay connected to the work without turning it into a generic task to complete. I wanted to be accountable to progress without manufacturing stress.

So instead of committing to a certain amount of output, I decided to commit to a very reasonable amount of time. Fifteen minutes a day. Minimum. No requirement to finish anything. No pressure to make something worth sharing. Just showing up and working. Some days, those fifteen minutes will naturally turn into more. (Some days it will be a lot more!) On other days, the time will be minimal. And that’s fine. The rule isn’t about productivity. It’s about staying in a relationship with the process.

Without a finish line looming every day, I hope that I’ll be enjoying the act of making every day more. I’ll pay closer attention. I’ll experiment more freely. Progress will still happen, but it will happen without anxiety, and I’m sure the progress will add up quickly, even if it’s just many small steps.

I think that growth and quality are often born out of steady presence, not ambitious targets or urgency. Accountability doesn’t have to mean producing something tangible every day. Sometimes it just means keeping a promise to yourself, and that’s good enough.

Throughout the end of the year, I took a break from my art, but still made some progress. I really wanted to get organized in my studio, so I spent some time clearing things out and making my space livable again. (This counts too!)

I also officially finished this piece below. I wasn’t in love with it at first, but it’s surprising how framing something properly and seeing it in a room can change how you see a piece. I like it now and will have it for sale on my website soon. There are many layers of collage and paint and drips. It feels very organic and moody.

On to other news… At the end of the year, I read that, after years of discussion and negotiation, the High Seas Treaty is scheduled to come into force this month. (January 2026) This agreement creates a framework for protecting international waters, which make up nearly half of the planet’s oceans. Until now, these areas have largely existed without coordinated stewardship.

This kind of protection doesn’t promise immediate transformation. It creates conditions. It allows better decisions to be made over time. It acknowledges that care at this scale has to be collaborative, patient, and sustained. I like that.

It’s encouraging to see attention shifting toward long-term thinking rather than short-term fixes, or nothing at all. As I keep advocating, ocean health isn’t restored through single actions or dramatic moments. It’s shaped through frameworks that support consistency, much like a creative practice. This treaty doesn’t solve everything. But it gives future efforts a place to stand. Learn More.

And finally, I’ve been thinking a lot about attention as we wrap up the end of the year. Specifically, how rarely we give it fully. I came across the concept of “slow looking,” a practice used in museums and education that encourages spending extended time with a single artwork or object.

The idea is simple. When we slow down long enough to really look, our understanding changes.

What struck me is how transferable that idea feels. It applies just as easily to conversations, daily routines, and creative work. When we stop rushing toward conclusions or outcomes, we begin to notice subtleties we would otherwise miss. We can miss life if we’re not careful. I realized that I do that a lot in the name of progress.

Throughout my time off at the end of the year, I spent a lot of time really trying to focus on being in the moment. One example was reading several physical books. Normally, I don’t do this because I love to multitask. I love audiobooks that allow me to consume a book but exercise or completing a task.

But what I realized is that I have a real problem now focusing. It’s bad. I noticed that when I tried to read for extended periods of time, my mind wandered a lot. This is happening all the time outside of reading, too. My mind is always elsewhere. Rarely in the moment. Always thinking about what’s next.

I’ve noticed that the moments that stay with me most aren’t the busy ones. They’re the moments when I linger, focus, live intentionally in the moment, and resist the urge to move on too quickly. Slow looking (living?) isn’t about efficiency. It’s about presence. And presence, more often than not, is where meaning quietly accumulates.

To close out this edition of Studio Notes, here’s a picture of my wife and me from Christmas Eve. This year will be a renewed focus on being in the moment with her as much as possible, too. This year is our 30th wedding anniversary!

I hope you have a great week, and thanks for following along! Happy New Year!

I’ve been bouncing between small collage experiments and much larger paintings. I like collage a lot. Painted paper. Cutting and tearing things up. Moving pieces around until something clicks. It feels like a puzzle that produces something original, something that’s clearly my own.

I don’t think this is great, but it was fun to put together. Can you see the abstract connection to the sea at some level?

At the same time, I keep wanting to make simpler paintings that don’t lean on anything else. Just color, texture, and whatever feeling is there. It’s a different kind of energy. The process takes more patience and time.

Trying to do both has been fun, challenging, and a little frustrating. Part of me wants the freedom to experiment without worrying about the bigger picture. Another part wants some sense of direction, something that builds toward a body of work. I don’t know yet if this mix is helping or slowing me down. Right now, it just feels unsettled. I’m trying to give it the time it needs instead of forcing an answer just to make that feeling go away.

This is a work in progress… (Painted paper collage - approx 36x36 on canvas)

This is an example of the simple seascape paintings that I enjoy creating as well…

This brings me to a simple thought. The ocean doesn’t evolve quickly either. Damage rarely comes from one dramatic event. And real improvement doesn’t, either. Change happens through small, ordinary things, accumulating quietly over time.

There’s almost never a clean moment where everything shifts, and you can point to it. Progress looks less like reacting and more like paying attention. Learning. Making small adjustments. Staying with it even when nothing obvious seems to be working, and even when it feels like we might be drifting the wrong way.

I feel that same tension in the studio. Wanting clarity. Wanting momentum. And knowing the work doesn’t move on command. Lately, I’m trying to slow down and be more deliberate about what I’m exploring and why. That feels better than pretending I’ll solve this anytime soon.

Related things I’m exploring:

Why ocean literacy matters more than awareness alone

Quiet but meaningful progress in coral restoration

Our Brains Are Not Multi-Threaded

Tuning in to our brain: Reactive vs response mode

I love a good “best of” list, and I look forward to spending time every year reading everyone’s posts about the music, books, products, and things that they enjoyed and experienced throughout the year.

So, building on those traditions, I’m sharing my own list for the first time. It’s a mix of moments, experiences, and a few everyday comforts that stood out this year. Many of them are heavy on “the feels.” Fun, pride, gratitude. Taken together, they reflect just how fortunate I’ve felt.

This is only a short list. There were many more things, big and small, that were on my master list. I mean, my son got engaged this year, we visited San Diego as a family, I got to shoot a shotgun for the first time. My daughter got accepted to Ohio State, and I got to attend my first Ohio State game. My son Matthew made a short film about my brother and me. There are too many good, interesting, fun things that happened. I just can’t list them all.

So with that, here are just a few of my favorite things that I thought I’d share.

1. My son became an official MLB Umpire

Watching my son Brendan put in the work, grind through the training and studying, the pressure, and the egos, and finally reach the level he dreamed about was deeply satisfying to watch. I’ve always told my kids that they can do anything in life if they work hard enough. This statement has almost become cliché with parenting these days. But my son proved this advice to be true.

Becoming an MLB umpire is almost as hard as a player making it to the MLB. Not everyone can do it. Not everyone has the dedication and stamina to do it. Most end up being forced to give up their dream.

I will always remember the phone call where he told us that he was actually hired. Tears were flowing for all of us, and I felt so proud of him for working so hard and not giving up. I also felt proud of myself as his father for always telling him that he could literally do anything in life. Encouraging him, supporting him, and never doubting.

I should mention that he’s not actually umpiring yet at the major league level. He just works for the MLB in the minors–just like most players would if they were just drafted. Over the summer, though, he was actually promoted to single A, which is even more rare for a first-year umpire. Then he was asked to come back and actually be an instructor at the school he just graduated from. So many successes.

He was gone from our lives for most of the year, which really sucked. But most nights, we could turn on the TV and see him on the field behind the plate at his games. It was surreal, and I’m still adjusting to the idea that he actually did it.

Brendan is on the right.

2. Succeeding with Weight Watchers
I’m not exactly fat. But I’ve spent the last 20 years of my life fighting what could have gone south quickly. I love to eat and drink. On top of it, I’m now 54 years old, and my body loves to store fat.

This year, I went to my annual checkup and complained to my doctor about feeling fat, and she recommended Weight Watchers. The idea of counting “points” was a little annoying. But if someone tells me that something works and to just follow the process, I can do that all day.

What surprised me most was how sustainable it felt. I didn’t feel like I was on a diet. It simply helped me make better decisions more often, and that added up pretty quickly. I even learned that I could go back to eating a light breakfast in the morning and that carbs and fruits can be “ok. I ended up losing over 10 pounds and put on muscle on top of it.

It’s still a daily battle, and I’m winning and losing. But I know what works now and will keep resetting every day to try and maintain a healthy weight.

For those struggling with their weight, try Weight Watchers. Follow exactly what they say to do. Stay below your points for the day and be active. That’s all you have to do, and you will lose weight.

Sidenote: I also committed to simple strength training this year. Just basic curls and lifts with free weights. It feels great. I have no aches and pains. I think the added muscle has possibly helped with burning calories, too.

3. Donating a Painting That Raised $750
Letting go of a painting is always a little personal. But watching it turn into real support for a good cause shifted how I think about the work. For me, it was worth more than money in my pocket.

It reminded me that art can be useful beyond personal satisfaction, decor on a wall, or monetary compensation. Your art can be a direct force for good.

Conductor (Painted paper and collage on canvas with custom-made frame - Approx: 24×24 on canvas)

4. Learning how to create stained glass with my daughter
My daughter Abby and I took a stained glass class this year. I love learning new things, and it was fascinating to get a “hands-on” experience around how stained glass creations are made. It was a lot of fun and a little dangerous if I’m being honest. We came away from the experience with a greater appreciation of the art.

Doing something creative side by side with my daughter felt grounding. These are the moments in life that matter.

We ended up hanging the little suncatchers in our dining room window together. I now see them every morning. It’s a daily reminder for me of how much I love my daughter and how we are always bonded, even when we’re apart.

5. Rum and Coconut Old Fashioned
I love a good cocktail–sometimes a little too much. I enjoy bourbon, especially bourbon old-fashioneds. This year, we went on two cruises, one with friends and one with family, and the rum old-fashioned cocktail was an enjoyable part of both trips.

I bonded with friends, bonded with my sons, and I can still remember many of the moments where this drink enhanced my day. Not because of the alcohol buzz. It was just an anchor that enhanced moments that I remember. Chatting with good friends on the deck, playing trivia in the bars, sitting on the edge of the pool, people watching with my son, and having dinners with the entire family while watching the sea flow by.

The drink did not enable these experiences. The flavors of rum and coconut just became tied to the experiences. Now it pulls me back to all those moments by the ocean with family and friends whenever I get to have one of these simple cocktails again.

Recipe:

• 2 oz quality aged rum

• ¼ oz toasted coconut syrup (Liber and Co.)

• 3 dashes orange bitters (or Angostura bitters)

• Orange slice and toasted coconut flakes for garnish

• Stir and pour over a large ice cube in a cocktail glass

6. Visiting Disneyland
It might seem odd, but one of my heroes in life is Walt Disney. If I had to simplify it down, I would just reference a quote that is attributed to him. “If you can dream it, you can do it.”

Everyone around him, including his own brother, literally told him that he was crazy every step of the way. For most people, their dreams would end right there. Walt was a true visionary, and his tenacity resulted in one of the most respected and valuable companies in history. As I said previously, I’ve always tried to teach my kids that you can literally do almost anything in life if you work hard enough and “stick to it. One of my favorite quotes of all time, “Find a good idea and stick with it,” is attributed to Walt, and I believe in this idea wholeheartedly.

I could go on and on about what I admire about Walt. His attention to detail, his deep dedication to quality, his approach to customer service, and his innovative and creative thinking.

So, when I got to go with my family this year to the actual place that Walt built and walk the paths that he walked and touch the things that he touched, it was a big deal for me.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I felt his presence everywhere. Walking through Disneyland in California was like walking with the man himself. Simply because every inch of that place, and every person who works there, embodies his values and continues his vision every day. It’s exactly like when he was alive. This is probably why it feels like he’s actually still alive, and in a way, he is.

I’m a huge fan of George Lucas for many of the same reasons I admire Walt Disney. So when Disney acquired Lucasfilm, it felt like a natural fit to me. Star Wars land at Disneyland was amazing.

7. Dolphins in the Pacific
We were on a cruise in the Pacific this year, just relaxing, reading, and enjoying some quiet time on the deck. Suddenly, someone said, “Look at the dolphins.”

I’ve seen dolphins in the wild before, up close and personal. We’ve swum with dolphins. Believe it or not, I’ve even ridden a dolphin. Crazy, I know. Natural experiences with wild animals don’t get much better than that.

When I first looked up from my book, I was expecting to see a few off in the distance as usual. But when we looked out, it was overwhelming. There weren’t a few dolphins. There were thousands. They surrounded the ship, moving with it, leaping out of the water in every direction as far as we could see.

They weren’t just swimming alongside us. They were playing. Jumping, spinning, cutting through the waves like the ship was part of their game. The sheer number of dolphins was so vast that it was honestly hard to take in. Everyone around us went quiet, like we all instinctively knew this was something rare.

It’s hard to explain the scale of it unless you were there. I’m not even going to post photos and videos because they wouldn’t come close. I’m still in awe of seeing it all take place right outside our window. Talk about once-in-a-lifetime experiences.

8. Muesli
I discovered Muesli this year. It’s a cereal. I picked it off a buffet as an afterthought, and it quickly became one of my favorite things. It’s literally a morning ritual now.

Muesli is basically a simple cereal made from raw oats mixed with things like nuts, seeds, and dried fruit. It’s usually not sweetened and not cooked, so it’s more natural and less processed than most boxed cereals or quick oatmeal. I just fill up a mason jar and cover it with unsweetened almond milk, and let it sit in the refrigerator overnight.

I eat it cold, topped off with more cold almond milk. Sometimes, fresh fruit, if it’s available. The oats slowly soften as they soak, but they still have some texture, which is kind of the point. You don’t have to eat a lot of it. A quarter to a half cup of the cereal is enough.

This is now part of my morning ritual. I’ve deprived myself of breakfast for many years now in the name of losing weight. But I oddly look forward to this now every day. It’s one of my favorite things, and it’s so simple.

9. Matthew Working on Film Sets and Photography
I’ve always been a film and photography buff. If I could have chosen a different career path, I would have been a drummer. But after that, I would have worked in the movie industry or been a photographer. Specifically, I would have probably worked for Disney or Lucasfilm if I had a choice. But I took a different path. It all worked out.

Anyway, imagine my excitement to see my son having a passion for filmmaking and photography. My son Matthew is a senior this year at Kent State, and it’s so fun to see him out there doing the work on real film sets and jobs.

He’s ambitious, he’s having fun, he’s getting real experience, and it’s another one of those things that makes you proud as a parent. Your child is chasing their dreams and succeeding because they have passion and support. I can’t wait to see what he does next.

Matthew photographing his brother and his fiancée for their engagement photos. Photo credit: Chris Auman

10. Neil Peart’s Book Ghost Rider
I aggressively try to keep sad things out of my life. I don’t watch medical dramas, police shows about murder mysteries, or dramas if I know the storyline is going to be anything but positive in the end. I don’t watch the news. I don’t engage in sad conversations if I can help it. I would avoid my own funeral if I could.

So, that said, it took me some time to tackle this book. It’s the saddest story that I’ve ever heard in my life. As I’m writing this, I’m still surprised that I did it.

Neil Peart is one of the greatest drummers of all time. But this book isn’t about drumming. It’s about the deepest grief imaginable, and choosing to keep going and finding a way forward when the absolute worst happens to you.

Neil lost his only daughter and his wife within a span of about 10 months. His daughter lost her life in a car accident. His wife died of cancer, but he believes that she ultimately lost her life due to a broken heart. She was just never able to recover from the loss of her child.

What happened to him is my absolute greatest fear, and I would rather die myself than have to go through it. I would willingly sign up for someone to take my life rather than to lose a child or my wife.

I think I ended up tackling this book because I like and admire Neil Peart. He reminds me a lot of myself. A musician. Lover of music and art. Businessman. Yet he’s quiet, introverted, nerdy. Despite being wealthy and famous, he loved the simple things in life. Friends, family, nature, travel, art, cars, and motorcycles.

This book is about how he made it through something so utterly devastating that it would kill most people. It would probably kill me. Yet, he made it through losing both of the most important people in his life and came out the other side somehow.

Why did I read this book, and also enjoy it? As I mentioned, I like Neil Peart as a person. So there’s that. But, if I had to decide, I would say that I wanted to face my own fears. I really don’t know, honestly. But, somehow, reading this book helped me to continually remember that what we feel is “bad” in life, really isn’t that bad. “Bad” is when you lose your entire family within the span of a single year. On our worst days, we really are blessed. But we have to remember, in the end, when bad things happen, life can go on.

Image credit: Clayton Call

11. Sedona + Hike
For more than fifty years, I’d seen pictures of Sedona. Postcards, books, screens. Still, being there in person was almost too much to process. The landscape feels prehistoric, vast, and impossibly beautiful. My brain kept resisting the idea that it was real. I’m so used to experiencing places through a screen that standing inside something this massive and unfiltered felt disorienting in the best way.

There was a strange moment of mental lag, like my senses were ahead of my understanding. I was surrounded by something undeniable, yet part of me struggled to fully accept it. Seeing the world through screens for so long has quietly trained me to doubt reality, even when it’s right in front of me. It reminded me how much different it feels to encounter something in real life with no filter between you and the world.

I should also mention that we ended up there in July. You’ve heard about the Arizona heat in summer, and it’s no joke. If you’re not somewhat fit and fully loaded with enough water, you could lose your life. It’s real. 115-degree heat on a sunny day is something that I’ve never experienced before. I quickly became thankful for the park rangers who were stationed at the trailhead to ensure that everyone was taking enough water. In the end, it was an exerating combination of incredible beauty and potential death.

We experienced some of the most amazing things we’ve ever seen with our eyes. At the same time, if we weren’t properly prepared, death (or at least hospitalization) could have been waiting around the corner. Maybe this is why people risk their lives to climb mountains, explore the seas, and outer space. It helped us to appreciate the world around us and our fragile place within it.

Plus, the air conditioning, the ice water, the awesome wood-fired pizza, and cold, frosty beer that we found after our hike were literally the best things I’ve consumed in my life because of it. The fact that I got to experience this all with my entire family was something I’ll never forget.

Sedona 2025 Selfie.

12. Quality, Comfortable Socks
This seems small and really silly, but I’m serious… Comfortable socks improve the baseline of everyday life. Especially in winter.

They don’t fix big problems. They just add that little bit of extra comfort in your day. Sometimes that’s exactly what you need. It’s cliché, but it’s the little things that matter in life most of the time. You could be the richest person in the world, but all it takes is a pair of good socks to make your day enjoyable.

I’ve made it through most of my life without caring about socks. Most of the time in the summer, I don’t really ever wear anything on my feet if I can help it. But, going forward, whenever I have to put on socks, they’re going to be good ones. You’re probably rolling your eyes right now. Go ahead. But my steps will be just a little more enjoyable than yours in the future.

13. New York Wine Country

When I was a kid, my parents took us camping in New York wine country. The trip was about family, food, wine, and enjoying the outdoors and the beautiful scenery. When my wife and I got married, we continued the tradition and even brought friends along.

We’ve been back over the years with our own family and had a lot of fun when the kids were younger. Fast forward to today, and our kids are grown and now of legal drinking age. It was a full-circle moment that everyone thoroughly enjoyed and genuinely appreciated.

Some notable memories and recommendations if you’re looking to plan a long weekend trip in the fall.

Wine tastings: Bully Hill was the standout. We had a great lunch and an awesome (and very affordable and educational) wine tasting overlooking the lake. It was our son’s first real introduction to tasting, comparing, and learning about different wines. We visited several wineries over the weekend, but everyone unanimously agreed that the first stop was the best wine tasting. Everyone learned a lot about wine and what they liked. Plus, at $1 per tasting, it was one of the cheapest options to experience a wide variety of wines on the lakes.

Big breakfasts were a must as we prepared for full days of winery hopping. We tried three hole-in-the-wall spots and enjoyed all of them for different reasons. Each had its own rustic ambiance. I think our favorite was called Trail’s End. Cozy, big portions, attentive service, family-owned, great prices.

Pizza, live music, and sunsets at the breweries rounded things out. Wine may be the focus in this region, but over the years, breweries and distilleries have popped up. We visited Grist Iron Brewing and enjoyed pizza and beers out on the deck in the sun. The highlight was Scale House Brewery, where we had dinner, incredible live music, and the most amazing sunset over the lake. One of the best meals I’ve ever had, and a perfect family memory.

We’ve visited 3 Brothers Winery in the past, and for some reason, our memories weren’t great. I can’t quite pin down why. Maybe because we tend to end up at this location at the end of the day every time, and we’re a little tired and ready to wrap up the day. This time was different. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we were literally the last people there after hundreds had come and gone. We sat watching the sunset, finishing our beers, and waving as employees packed up and left. We just didn’t want to leave.

We were also celebrating the engagement of our oldest son this year and discovered an incredible sunflower field next to 3 Brothers Winery. I’ve never seen anything like it. Engagement photos followed, led by our son Matthew, who captured some amazing moments.

There were too many memories to list here, including an unforgettable hike through Watkins Glen, quiet time on the dock by the lake, card games in the evenings, and perfect weather with cloudless skies all weekend.

Photo Credit: Chris Auman

14. New Drum Set
I’ve played drums since I was 7 years old. My parents, for some reason, decided to buy me a drumset without me even asking. Music has been an important part of my life ever since.

I’ve had many drumsets over the years. I’ve only had one, really nice drumset in my life, and I ended up selling it years ago because I didn’t have space for it in my house, and my family didn’t have space for the noise in their life.

I’ve been playing on a small Roland electric practice kit for years to solve these two problems. But this year, I was able to upgrade to a full-sized electric drum set. It’s almost the best electronic set that you can buy at the moment, and I love it. After playing now for almost 48 years, I can’t imagine anything much better.

I don’t plan on joining a band because the thought of transporting my drums around town isn’t appealing to me. Just getting these babies set up properly in one spot has been a challenge. My plan is to actually produce and record music in collaboration with AI in my basement, where these new drums will provide that all-important human element. Stay tuned.

15: Sailing down the coast of Cabo San Lucas

For the longest time, I’ve wanted to visit Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Why? Follow me on this…. Since I was a kid, I’ve been a fan of the band Van Halen. Specifically, the version of Van Halen with Sammy Hagar. Sammy owns a bar in Cabo called Cabo Wabo Cantina. There’s also a Van Halen song called Cabo Wabo.

Anyway, I’ve always wanted to go. I wanted to do the “Cabo Wabo”, as Sammy sang in the song. Unfortunately, we never made it to the bar. Cabo, as a town, was generally disappointing as well. But the highlight was a sailing trip that we chartered and all the beautiful sights along the way.

We left the marina and sailed past The Arch of Cabo San Lucas or Land’s End, then casually cruised down the coast into the open water. Snacks of grilled shrimp and margaritas were served as we soaked up the warm sun. We eventually anchored and swam and snorkeled with the fish in the Pacific and were served dinner of Ceviche and salad in the late afternoon sun. Then we cruised back up the coast amongst flying fish and a fun, but odd, 1970’s soundtrack over the speakers. The highlight was sailing back into port as the sun set over Cabo in a brilliant explosion. I believe ABBA was playing. It was great to be there and experience it together as a family.

It’s sitting in the basement right now, waiting for me. It’s an electric drum set, and I finally have everything hooked up and working right. I’ve played a little, shifted things an inch this way or that, but the real playing hasn’t started yet. There are random wires everywhere. I still need to get comfortable with it. I have a lot to learn about all the settings and options. I need to make it my own, and I’m really excited about it. I haven’t felt this energized about something new in a long time.

I know this is going to pull some of my attention away from my art for a bit. I’m not going to pause my art practice. I’m just making room for something else to pull focus for a bit and seeing how the balance shakes out.

I’ve always been this way. Too many interests, not enough hours, and somehow trying to hold all of it together. It makes focus a challenge. It makes progress difficult. But it also makes life feel full. I used to think that was a flaw. Now I’m not so sure.

When I was younger, that was the dream — be a musician, somehow make a life out of it. I probably would’ve gone to college to be an actual musician if things had lined up differently. Music runs through my veins 24/7.

My parents weren’t exactly discouraging, but they wanted me to have something “safer.” I can’t blame them for that. They were doing what parents do, and I ended up with a completely different life.

What’s great is that it worked out for the best. Most things usually do with time. I love my wife, my kids, and the life we’ve built together. I have a rich life as a business owner now, too. I still get to experience making music, making art, and living a life that is, at the end of the day, much more enjoyable and rewarding than being on the road as a musician.

Still, that musician in me wants to see the light of day.

Now I’m giving it some.

Am I struggling with this just a little? Yes.

I’m trying to give myself some grace, though. You don’t have to treat every shift in interest like you’re abandoning everything else. Sometimes you just need to follow whatever’s lighting up your brain for a while. All of your other interests will still be there, and you can still move the other things forward in small ways.

And honestly, doing both might end up helping both. That happens to me all the time. In the end, I don’t want to regret not pursuing all the things that I enjoy in life.

Right now, I happen to be listening to a song by Jackson Browne on my playlist. The song lyric is below. I never want to feel this way.

“These days I seem to think a lot about the things that I forgot to do.” - Jackson Browne (These Days)

This is a recent seascape collage I created while hanging out with the family and watching football. True multi-tasking to achieve multiple goals! (Approx 8x10 - painted paper collage on paper - Christopher Auman)

Anyway — different topic, but connected in a strange way…

I saw a post on Substack about Green Sea Turtles no longer being endangered. At first, I thought it was one of those hopeful-but-not-quite-true claims people pass around. So I checked. And it turns out, yes — the major conservation groups really did update their status. After decades of protection and slow, steady work, the turtle populations finally rebounded enough to move off the endangered list.

Photo Credit: Shutterstock

That’s wild to think about.

We actually did something right long enough for it to matter.

It’s rare to get good news like this these days.

But it took time.

And that’s the part I keep circling back to. How much can change if we give things time? If we let ourselves trust the process without worrying that we’ve lost our way.

Maybe the real work is just showing up, even in uneven stretches. Even when we’re exploring something new. Letting the small steps and stumbles add up. Trusting that the things we love, our goals, our dreams, don’t fall apart the moment we wander a little.

The turtles rebounded because enough small efforts added up.

Graphic Credit: Chris Auman

I think we get to do the same with our own hopes and dreams — the art, the music, whatever we’re exploring. We get there by staying patient, giving ourselves grace, and letting the process take the time it needs.

That feels like a good place to land this week.

P.S. It’s Christmas time. Officially. My family has started to return our Elf on the Shelf after years of being missing. Now that all my kids are adults (speaking of things changing), our Elf has become a bit of a bad boy. ;-) Life is good.

But winter has its own rhythm that’s unavoidable. If we work with it instead of fighting it, the season can become one of the most restorative and creatively meaningful stretches of the year.

But, man, it is not easy.

The truth is, our biology naturally leans toward something close to hibernation during the winter months. It’s a natural slowing. A turning inward. Shorter days change our chemistry. Cold temperatures shift how, and how much, we move. If we let ourselves listen, winter can become an invitation to reset both our creative practice and our actual body and mind.

For people who need creative pursuits in their lives, this pause matters. Creativity isn’t a machine you can program to run at the same speed all the time. It has seasons. It changes. It needs time to breathe and reorganize. Winter is the perfect moment for that.

Instead of treating this season as a slump, we look at it as a recalibration.

This old photo that I took about 20 years ago feels a lot like how I feel at the end of the year when I’m ready to hybernate. A little weathered, a little scarred, wanting to just sit quietly under a blanket of snow and prepare for the next season of growth. (Photo Credit: Chris Auman)

Start with pacing.

Give yourself permission to work a little slower. Let projects simmer. Let new ideas take their time. Winter is often when you make the small discoveries that shape everything you’ll do next. I know you might think that this is just an excuse to be lazy. If I’m honest, I tend to use this excuse on a regular basis to justify not getting stressed out throughout the year. But this is the time of year that it’s really not an excuse. Moving more slowly is a necessity, and we need to let it happen for our own well-being long term.

Build in more moments of stillness.

Even a few minutes each day where nothing is expected of you can make your creative mind feel less cramped. That quiet space is where new ideas start to form on their own. Not forced. This is actually something we should all work to do more of throughout the entire year. The end of the year is especially important, though, and we can embrace these moments as short, powerful bursts of hibernation that are incredibly energizing and restorative.

Take care of your body like it’s part of your creative practice.

Sleep more than you think you “should.”

Our bodies are designed to rest more in the darker months. When you give yourself that extra sleep, something shifts. Your thinking sharpens. Your instincts align. Your work gets better simply because you aren’t running on fumes. I try to stay on a sleep schedule, but today, even though I slept a normal amount of time, it was hard to get up. My body just seems to want more sleep.

This small little gallery of photos I found feels like hybernation to me. (Photo credits: Chris Auman)

Eat warm, grounding foods.

It sounds simple, but it matters. Soup, roasted vegetables, slow-cooked meals. This type of food calms your nervous system and gives you steady energy instead of spikes and crashes. Plus, it’s just more satisfying and comforting. Your creativity will always reflect how well your body is supported. You’ll literally be happier because I can’t think of anything more enjoyable than a warm bowl of nourishing food on a cold winter’s day.

This isn’t an excuse to eat junk food or unhealthy food, though. You’ll come out of hibernation feeling bad about yourself if you gain 10 pounds over the winter, and that will only add another layer of stress. I say this for myself more than anyone: Resist this! It’s counterproductive. It will feel great in the moment. But I know from experience that a long list of “moments” will add up to long-term stress and disappointment. (Here is a list of semi-healthy comfort foods that’ll give you an idea of what’s possible instead of eating fried cheese doughnuts every day.)

And for me, winter can’t be discussed without discussing alcohol.

I’ve grown up with a family and friends who enjoy a few good cocktails. So, naturally, it’s around all the time when we have get-togethers, good meals, holidays, and occasionally “just because” on a cold winter’s night.

For me, this is part of the hibernation process, and it’s really enjoyable. But, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become aware of the effects of alcohol on my body. Just like a lack of sleep, making poor food choices, not exercising, or simply pushing yourself too hard, your body will revolt. You will simply not be happy. If you’ve followed me this far, you know that this is not what you want. So, practice moderation.

For me, it’s hard, but at least I’m aware and try to intentionally moderate my consumption. I just know at this point that overdoing it is not worth it. I’ll be tired. I’m unmotivated to do anything but lie on the couch. I get lazy with almost everything, including my relationships, eating good food, hydration, and, of course, my art. My projects end up sitting quietly, untouched for days, because of my lack of discipline and the effects of alcohol. This makes me feel even more like shit, and that certainly is not the goal here.

Move your body, but gently.

Winter isn’t the time for all-out intensity. A walk, a stretch session, a bit of regular strength work. These activities keep your creative energy from feeling stuck. You’re not training for anything. You’re just moving. You’re just maintaining. You’re strengthening your foundation for what’s next. Personally, I love walking. Even when it’s cold and dark out, so there’s no excuse for me. There’s nothing better than a cold, quiet winter’s night walk with Christmas lights throughout the neighborhood. Bundle up and give it a try sometime if you live in a cold region.

Then there’s the benefits to your practice.

Winter naturally encourages a shift inward. Instead of fighting that, let it shape your creative practice. This is the perfect time for sketchbooks full of half-ideas, messy studies, and experiments that aren’t meant to impress anyone. Give yourself room to play without expectation. Let this season be your creative lab, and let yourself feel good about just exploring. It may seem like you’re wasting time in the moment and letting yourself get distracted. But this is still progress. Magic can be found in these moments if you let them happen.

Winter landscape abstract sketch - approx 12×14 - Chris Auman

It’s also a good time to pay attention to what’s working and what isn’t.

When you’re settling into that winter hibernation mode, it’s the perfect moment to take a real, honest look back at your year. Just a thoughtful review of what you did, what you enjoyed, what you created, what felt good, what drained you, and where your curiosity is pulling you next. A full year-end check-in gives you perspective you can’t get while you’re moving at full speed.

Then consider where you want to go next. Set some goals. What do you want more of? What do you want less of? What goals feel exciting instead of obligatory? What do you want to say “hell yes” to, and what else do you want to say “hell no” to? Do this for all areas of your life.

This kind of reflection isn’t about building a perfect practice. It’s about understanding the arc you’ve been on, so you can choose the next step instead of stumbling or missing it entirely. (Yes, I love a good metaphor.)

Maybe the most important thing: don’t judge your output. Winter isn’t built for polished masterpieces. It’s a season for rebuilding, listening, experimenting, resting, absorbing. When you treat it that way, by the time you emerge, you’re not running on empty. You’re ready. You’re clear. You’re genuinely excited again.

Creative people aren’t meant to grind straight through the cold months pretending nothing has changed. The fact is, many of us are introverts on top of it all, and that demands that we pull away to recharge. We’re not meant to respond to the world the same way everything else does. We need to respond by slowing, recalibrating, absorbing, and building up our energy for what comes next. Winter is the perfect time for this.

Let winter be your quiet season. I know it can be hard. Especially for someone like me who loves to be productive and to feel accomplished. But hibernation is important. It’ll reset your body, deepen your work, and send you into the next phase with a full tank instead of fumes.

Honestly, it didn’t feel like much at first. Just a little blocky collage experiment I started because I wanted to keep my hands moving and relax with my art. But the funny thing is that this small piece in my sketchbook reminded me of something important that not only applies to art, but to life in general.

It started off fine. Not great. Just fine. It was the kind of composition that felt safe enough to leave alone and say, “It’s done.” I’ve made plenty of those. We all have boxes full of “good” art that never made it any further because we were afraid to mess it up. But, for me, this art is stored in a box in the dark. Most will never actually see the light of day, even though they’re “good”.

At one point, I could feel myself freezing up a bit as usual, trying to protect what was already there. I even walked away for a while and considered the piece finished. But “good” wasn’t what I actually wanted.

So I stopped thinking and just started moving again.

I grabbed the scissors, cut a few pieces without a plan, and started gluing them down before I could talk myself out of it. I let instinct take over for a few minutes. No overthinking. No careful strategy. Just forward motion.

That’s when the whole thing came together. It shifted from something predictable and average to something that actually felt better and more alive. And it reminded me how much harder it is to push a piece forward when it already looks “good.”

You have to be willing to risk ruining everything for your work to be great.

That’s the uncomfortable place where the best work usually happens. But it’s hard to move it forward. It almost creates stress, and that goes against everything we’re trying to do with our art practice. But a little stress, a little fear might be exactly what we need to create our best work. No different than a professional athlete who loves the game, but they have this pressure to perform at the highest level.

We too need to face that fear and take the next step.

Hopefully, when we do this on a regular basis, it will become easier and the work will elevate beyond just “good” and become great more often.

Some works will fail, and we should be prepared and “ok” with this inevitability. It’s part of the process and something we need to learn to be at peace with. When we do, then it becomes easier to do it the next time. The worst outcome, where you feel a piece has failed, isn’t any different than the average work that was there already. It’s just going to end up in a box with all the rest. So why not push it forward?

This week wasn’t flashy. But it moved me forward again. And that’s the whole point.

She opened with a simple idea. Engaging with the arts is a health behavior.

It’s an actual measurable behavior that affects well-being. Creative activity helps reduce stress and anxiety. It supports emotional regulation. It helps with memory, focus, connection, and even certain physical outcomes. She listed the benefits in a straightforward way, and I appreciated that.

Then she went into brain science.

Music activates both hemispheres of the brain. It reaches across different systems at once. If part of the brain is injured or diseased, musical engagement can help build new pathways. That alone is fascinating. She also shared research showing that people who attend arts events have a lower mortality risk. Even attending once in a while makes a difference. Those numbers made me think about how we talk about the arts in general. We all know it feels good to experience them. We know that the arts are extremely important in society at many levels. We just don’t always consider the real, tangible impact on our health.

Dr. Boyle talked through her own path. She started in vocal performance, shifted into music education, and eventually stepped into music therapy. She has worked in places most of us never see behind the scenes. High-risk prenatal programs. Schools. Memory care. Psychiatric units. Hospitals. Hospice. That range gave her a perspective that felt grounded. Music therapy is not just playing songs to lift someone’s spirits. It is a clinical field with a full training process, supervised hours, and board certification. It’s a world that many of us don’t even know exists.

One thing she explained clearly was the difference between “Arts and Health” and “Creative Arts Therapies.”

Arts and Health is everyday creative engagement. Non-clinical. The natural benefits of showing up for the arts. It’s about going to a concert or compiling and pasting collage scraps in a sketchbook like I did last night. It’s therapy.

Collage on paper, approx: 8x10 - Chris Auman

Creative Arts Therapies involve working with an actual therapist with specialized training and a treatment plan. Surrounding both are fields that blend creativity and care. Artists inside medical settings. Arts-based community health programs. Medical humanities courses that help future healthcare workers communicate and observe more effectively. And something called social prescribing, where providers refer patients to arts activities just like they refer them to exercise programs or community resources. I think this is awesome!

She shared examples of places already trying this. Stanford built a system where link workers connect people to arts experiences. Ohio University has its ArtsCare program to help students manage stress or express themselves creatively. The University of Michigan is building collaborations between campus arts programs and community health groups. She showed creative placemaking projects happening in rural towns and city neighborhoods. These weren’t feel-good stories. They were structured programs producing measurable outcomes.

When she brought the conversation back to Stark County, it felt surprisingly relevant. Her slide listed local organizations: ArtsInStark, the Canton Museum of Art, the Canton Symphony Orchestra, the Ballet, the Palace Theatre, art galleries, libraries, hospitals, and colleges. She even mentioned the arts and culture group that I’m in here in our county, and that felt rewarding. Seeing this all in one place made something clear. We already have the ingredients to do this work in our region. We just need to connect the people.

Her takeaway was to start small. One collaboration. One pilot. Track it. Learn from it. Build from there. Over time, you create momentum for bigger things. Even things that feel far away right now, like insurance recognizing arts engagement as preventive care. After hearing the research, that idea does not sound far-fetched. I love this idea.

Somewhere in the middle of the talk, I found myself remembering my own art. I never paint with the intention of improving someone’s health, but the way Dr. Boyle described the impact of aesthetics made the connection hard to ignore. My work tends to lean toward calm. Ocean textures. Gentle movement. Space to breathe. I create that way because I enjoy it, but people often tell me the work has the same effect on them, too.

Dr. Boyle talked about how even passive engagement with the arts has real effects. Looking at a painting. Listening to your favorite music. Being present with something creative, like writing or cooking. If it gives you a moment to feel grounded and that moment matters. It’s like how stepping outside for fresh air matters.

It made me think about why certain people connect so strongly with ocean-inspired work. Water already signals restoration. Maybe the textures, colors, and movement tap into something deeper. I’m not trying to position my art as therapy. But it was interesting to hear a researcher confirm that everyday creative engagement shifts us, even at a small scale. If a painting creates a few seconds of calm in someone’s day, maybe that helps more than I realized.

Firey Horizons - Chris Auman

I walked out with that thought still in my head. Engaging with the arts is a health behavior. It reframes what it means to pay to attend a concert or support a local art gallery, or hang art on your wall.

It reframes what it means to make art, too. It is part of how we take care of ourselves and each other. We need to remember that.

There was one moment during the Q&A that stood out for a different reason. This doesn’t directly connect to what I’ve been talking about. So, please indulge me for a moment because this is important to me.

During the Q&A, a man in the audience stood up and asked a question that quickly drifted into a rant about how terrible today’s music is and a few unrelated comments that didn’t land well. He even mentioned trans people, and you could tell he was a little angry at the world. It was uncomfortable.

But Dr. Boyle, to her great credit, handled it in a way that made the whole room take a breath. She didn’t argue with him. She didn’t shut him down. She simply said that it is completely fine not to like certain kinds of art. None of us is expected to enjoy everything. The idea of “art” is wide and messy and made for all kinds of people and things.

What misses the mark for one person might have a deep impact on someone else.

I believe in this deeply. Be cautious about calling any art “bad.” Most of the time, it’s just not for you, and that’s normal and expected. Art doesn’t need universal approval to matter.

Now, I should say, there are limits. The man did mention a few specific things, like the degradation of women in some music these days. I don’t support this either. But, Dr. Boyle made the point that culture plays a big part in art, and many times this will feel like a foreign world that you don’t understand. These are my words, not hers, but you get my point. I’m not the person to make an argument around whether this music is either good or bad. But the point is, you simply may not understand the art and the culture it comes from. Be aware of this important point when judging what is good and bad. It’s exactly like cooking. Just because you don’t like spicy, painful Mexican food that burns your mouth doesn’t mean that it’s “bad” food. It’s just “bad” for you, and that’s “ok”.

When I had the chance to ask a question, I mentioned that I agreed with her.

A lot of people in my own life look at my art, and they don’t “get it”. Abstract art can land that way. My wife and family have looked at pieces and wondered what they’re supposed to be seeing. Last night, when I was sticking pieces of random paper in a sketchbook, my son was walking through the kitchen, and I know he was saying, “What the hell”?

And that’s fine.

Because plenty of other people see and feel something in those same pieces. They feel calm or curious or grounded in a way that matters to them. I’ve started to recognize that it might even be therapeutic for some people to look at. I know it is therapeutic for me to make.

This talk from Dr. Boyle reminded me how personal art is. What feels meaningless to one person can have deep meaning and benefits for someone else. That is the whole point. Art is not supposed to line up neatly with everyone’s taste. It only needs to meet someone where they are. And that alone gives it value.