I’ve lived here in the Sonoran Desert for a long time, long enough to know we’re not alone and we’re not in charge. We’ve seen snakes, owls, bobcats, javelinas, scorpions, and even the rare tarantula in our backyard. But the Gambel’s Quail never let you forget whose place this really is.

They fly but mostly live on the ground, always rushing around and about in large coveys, and their birdsong sounds like steady chatter. Scientists say birdsong, including the quail’s animated sounds, soothes the nervous system. But once you start to pay attention, you realize there is more to it than what you hear. It’s communication and community.

There seems to be a rhythm and purpose to their calls: saying all’s well, carry on, until something changes. The tone shifts, and the pace quickens when something’s up. Ask any desert golfer, and they can attest that their chuckle call seems perfectly timed for errant shots.

Even if you don’t know exactly what they’re saying, you know they’re saying something. And more than that, they’re saying it to each other.

It’s not just the quail, either. When they sound the alarm, it travels. Other species pick it up. Even the rabbits, ground squirrels, and mice respond. A hawk overhead, a horned owl nearby, a coyote passing through the wash…and suddenly the whole place knows.

I started noticing this after learning that listening to bird calls can lower stress, slow your heart rate, and settle your system. It makes sense. Our ancestors relied on birdsong as a form of environmental intel. When the birds were singing, the surroundings were safe. When they went on high alert or dead quiet, it was time to pay attention.

Sitting peacefully in my backyard, I gained a new awareness. I was hearing a complex communication that an entire living community depended on. These living things may compete for food and space, like humans, but they also rely on one another.

We like to think we’re more complicated than that, and in many ways, we are. But in other ways, not so much.

I think it is natural and helpful for older artists to form their own kind of community. We can be there for each other. Like the wildlife community in my backyard, we don’t need to face everything alone. There is reciprocal value in checking in with others, offering a word, or being there. Grand gestures aren’t necessary; just offering the pleasure of your company with good intentions is more than enough.

Why not take an older artist to lunch, give one a call, or, like me, start an informal meetup? Make it simple, with no agenda. Just find a convenient spot to sit, talk, and listen a little more closely than usual. Grab a bite if that works.

It’s sure to be good for all.

Like all those species around my home here in the desert, we older artists are part of a larger, loose-knit community. And we’d do well to look out for and listen to one another.

I’ll see you next week.

— Barney

PS: I’m launching the inaugural Older Artists Get Together in the Phoenix area. It will be on Thursday, September 24, at 11:00 in central Phoenix. If you’d like to join us, please reply and let me know. And don’t be shy. Invite your friends, too. Since this is the first, I don’t know how many will show. If you can come, please reply so I can get a count and then find a place. I’m thinking of O.S.H.O Brewery - Paradise Valley on Tatum & Shea, near the 51.

Once I have a sense of how many are coming, I can find a spot that fits the group. I don’t like rules, so it will be a chance to sit, talk, and get acquainted. Bring a digital portfolio or a small piece to share. I’ll report back with details you can use to start an Older Artists Get Together where you live.

Back in 1999, life was good, and I was riding high. I bought my dream machine, a top-of-the-line Porsche Boxster. It was a sleek, aerodynamic, perfectly balanced mid-engine roadster that felt glued to the road. I used to say it could corner faster than I could drive it — and that was true.

It had six forward gears. The salesman half-jokingly told me never to use sixth. I asked why. He meant it was more fun to drive in lower gears, and that sixth gear was mostly for speeds that could get me into trouble. I got what he meant because, as I said, it had more capability than I had competence to use it.

I drove that car for over a decade and still think about it. Driving it was a blast, and I won’t lie—there’s a cool factor to owning a rocket ship like that. I challenged myself to improve my driving skills and eventually understood what the salesman meant about using sixth gear—it was a whole different level of driving.

When I was younger, I couldn’t have imagined staying creative into my late seventies, but apparently that’s exactly what’s happened. It’s like finding another gear. Don’t get me wrong, this gear is not about speed; it’s about experience. At this point, I like to joke that I’m built for comfort, not for speed.

That’s where AI comes into play. I can fire it up anytime to discuss an idea, review a potential ad campaign, or ask it to research or give feedback on something that has caught my eye. Not in every conversation, but often enough that I can see a pattern of free-associating into a topic unexpectedly. And the best ones are too good to let go.

I think that’s why many artists keep sketchbooks nearby. An idea for a painting, or a component of a work in progress, appears and demands to be brought to life. Committing the basic concept to paper captures it, even if the time to do more is not now.

These ideas are somewhat surprising because they are sparked by conversation, much like a long drive, a good debate, or even a song that arrives at exactly the right moment. I find working with AI gives me a thinking space that’s available at any hour; it doesn’t run out of patience and occasionally leads me somewhere I had no intention of going.

I’m discovering topics worth exploring that I didn’t realize I needed to until I was already in the middle of something else. A recent example is “The Thing Beneath the Thing.” It came out of nowhere and practically wrote itself into an essay in my head.

That’s the gear I’ve found and what it feels like to be in it. I’m cruising in sixth gear, and it’s even more fun having you along for the ride.

See you next week.

— Barney

It’s human nature to sort our lives into neat boxes: generations, life stages, and seasons are good examples. We sometimes use a vivid phrase like the runway is shorter as we get older.

While it’s true that with aging comes the realization that our years ahead are fewer than those behind us, there’s more to the story. And even though that simple bit of math about getting older is accurate, it felt unsettling to hear that thought for the first time when I was around 50. But now that I’ve grown older, I’ve learned to accept it.

On the other side of the equation, I’ve come to realize this stage of life often brings more freedom to choose how we spend our time. When we’re younger, we have more time, but life demands more of it. As we build careers, raise families, pay mortgages, and work hard to find our place, we find that the same runway may be longer, but the days are packed.

Then things keep changing, and as our children grow up and careers slow down, we settle into a life that often takes less effort to maintain. Of course, aging also brings new realities regarding our health and where we live, along with the reminder that our bodies have their own plans.

Amid these changes, another aspect comes clear. We find an unexpected gift that shows us, despite fewer years, we have more freedom to choose what matters most.

I’ve discovered that truth in my own life as I began letting go of systems that no longer fit. I simplified my business and, in return, got more time for writing and for the things I enjoy. And I don’t miss anything left behind.

Fewer complications and costs allow me to be more generous. By design, I give most of what I offer freely and have a single low-price paid option with no tiers. It lets me fulfill my goal of measuring more by what I give than what I get.

Today, I still care about reaching people. And I still want to make a profit, so I’m deeply grateful for every paid subscriber who supports this work. At the same time, I find that how I run my business and do my work is less demanding and more fulfilling.

Now is the time to ask if the balance between making and marketing still fits the life you want. I’ve found that my life as an aging artist means I don’t have to prove anything to anyone but me. I am finally free to choose, and that is the gift that defines the time paradox of all older artists. The runway may be shorter, but with new freedom, we get to set our own direction.

These days, I aim to need less, choose well, and enjoy more. Your choices don’t have to match mine. Whether you aim to build your career or simply create for joy, you’ve earned the right to define your own success—that’s the paradox’s true message.

I’ll see you next week.

— Barney

Not long ago, I mentioned that an eight-color serigraph Mary and I bought 35 years ago inspires my writing. I hope my essays leave readers with the same feeling that the artwork continues to give us. It’s a cheerful work of art that evokes a smile. It wasn’t created to hang in a museum. It’s handcrafted, whimsical, and was made to enrich everyday life. You feel like you know the artist just by seeing it.

That’s how I think of Older Artists: words about everyday life for everyday artists.

Lately, another kitchen analogy has come to mind, this one about the process of writing Older Artists rather than the finished work. It’s about making sauce.

Whether for side dishes or entrées, the best sauces are made in small amounts. They can’t be rushed over a rolling boil. They need time and just the right temperature to simmer. They coalesce through reduction. Because there aren’t many ingredients, each one matters. A little cream. A splash of red wine. A sprig of basil. A pinch of paprika. Sometimes something unexpected. Every addition changes the character of the finished sauce.

I love the contrast of knowing that the tastiest sauces are understated, enhancing the meal rather than competing with it. Keeping it simple with a notable, memorable touch is the key. That’s how many of my essays begin and what I aim for them to do.

I also like to improvise and trust my experience to uncover ideas that are worthy of your attention. They often arrive in unexpected ways, and when they do, they come with a welcome sense of belonging.

I sketch ideas into a rough draft, then I let it sit for days or weeks. Even then, some ideas never make the cut. Others insist on moving to the front of the line. Like all good sauces, they require patience and reduction to perfect.

A common theme for me in recent years has been to do less, better. Although I didn’t make that connection when this sauce analogy came to me, I see it now.

Learning to write with restraint is a significant change for someone who spent decades crafting weekly articles that routinely ran to 2,000 words.

Today, I seek a single thoughtful idea, edit it to around 500 words, and narrate it in five minutes or less.

Making sauce is how I think of Older Artists these days: a small pan, a low flame, carefully chosen ingredients, and enough time for the sauce to become itself. Made with love and care, then served in the hope that you’ll find delight and want to come back for more.

Analogies like this help me understand my own process. I’m guessing you have metaphors that help you understand yours—ways of describing your art, process, or creative life that make perfect sense to you, even if they sound a little unusual to others. Like the best sauces, their nuance reveals another side of your work.

I’d love to hear about yours.

See you next week.

— Barney

Nobody stares at a blank canvas and thinks, “This could really move the needle.” The point is making, not monetizing.

Artists come to their work for deeply personal reasons. There’s the urge to create, the need to express what they see or feel, and the satisfaction that comes from turning raw material into something meaningful.

The business side tends to arrive later, often uninvited and carrying its own set of challenges.

Once you start sharing your work, you discover the world of markets—galleries, collectors, licensing, art fairs, and online platforms. It’s useful to understand how these systems operate, but it’s important not to confuse them with the real purpose. The work itself remains at the center.

This is where many get tripped up: money can support your creative life, but it can’t define it.

In my forty years working with artists, I’ve seen that most weren’t chasing wealth when they began. If money or recognition came along, they welcomed it, but that wasn’t the reason they started. What drew them in was the act of making—the quiet focus that comes from being absorbed in the work.

I’ve known a few who built real businesses around their art, and a rare handful who built million-dollar ones. Good for them. Nothing wrong with learning the tools and using them well.

But many artists, if not most, I’ve worked with want something simpler—a creative life that feels balanced, enough income to support their practice and daily life, and no desire to turn their art into a nonstop marketing effort.

This isn’t a lesser ambition. It’s simply a different path.

The drive to reach your full potential doesn’t just disappear. Sometimes life changes your direction. Sometimes you realize the cost of chasing that kind of success is higher than you’re willing to pay.

I count myself among those who chose a different pace. I slowed down before my marketing instincts did. There was a period of confusion, then a realization: we’re not bringing in big numbers anymore, and that’s okay. In time, I found a better balance, regained my peace of mind, and rediscovered the joy in helping artists market their work.

In a culture that celebrates constant hustle, choosing a quieter path can raise eyebrows. People may question why you’re not pushing harder, promoting more, or chasing bigger numbers.

The simple truth is money for its own sake isn’t what drives you.

And that’s perfectly fine. A creative life doesn’t need to be measured by the biggest possible outcomes. It can be measured by something simpler: having enough—enough income, enough security, enough time, enough space to breathe.

Enough joy in the work and the freedom to keep creating.

Works for me.

See you next week.

— Barney

We are just a few months into the Older Artists experience, and I’m finding it humbling and energizing in ways I didn’t expect. That this is happening at age 78 brings to mind that memorable Grateful Dead line about being on a long, strange trip more than ever. It reminds me I’m not done growing older and that the journey ahead is still very much on.

My age doesn’t surprise me, but I find the memories from decades ago that drift through my mind in that loose, half-dreaming state just before sleep do. Fleeting moments from decades past suddenly return—a split second as a twenty-something firefighter, a young draftee, a riveting moment at a concert that still fills me with wonder, drinks with friends at a trade show hotel bar, a horse-drawn sleigh ride through light snow under a Breckenridge moon with Mary, or an intimate memory that still glows around the edges.

It doesn’t feel like nostalgia or longing. My mind seems to conduct its own inventory, pulling out random scenes without permission. I never know what will appear or why some memories surface while others stay buried. I’ve stopped trying to figure it out.

Music has been my lifelong companion, accompanying me like a soundtrack. Songs like the Grateful Dead’s “Truckin’” with the line that inspired this post are examples. Even as a casual fan, I find its lyrics stay with me; once heard, they linger, transforming from a song into a metaphor for my life.

My own coming of age in the seventies had its share of wild moments, though nothing compared to life on the road with the Grateful Dead. That’s probably why those lyrics have endured. They stopped being about the Dead years ago. And somewhere along the way, they became about all of us.

That’s what time and memory do. They loop and resurface, tapping you on the shoulder with scenes you didn’t know you still carried. And if you’ve lived long enough, those scenes become more than memories. They’re markers—sometimes with soundtracks. They become proof you traveled. Proof you survived. Proof you’re still here.

At this age, I’m not trying to reinvent anything. I’m simply staying awake to what’s stirring—the work, the questions, the echoes. Older Artists has become the place where I notice these things and share them with others walking their own long path through time.

If you’re reading this, you probably know the feeling. Something you thought was long forgotten returns suddenly, and for a moment you’re back there. You realize your life has been larger, richer, stranger, and more meaningful than you remembered. Those memories aren’t pulling us backward. They’re reminding us of the road we’ve already traveled and, perhaps, preparing us for the one still ahead.

We may be closer to the clubhouse turn than the starting line, but we’re not finished. Not even close. There’s still more road ahead for us.

It’s comforting that you’re walking a little of it with me.

See you next week,

— Barney

I came to this realization about winning from observing my habits while nurturing Older Artists in its early days. Now, I’m narrating this 20th weekly essay, and I’m grateful for how well it’s done.

Honestly, it’s meeting every reasonable expectation, especially since I’ve chosen not to pursue growth in the typical ways. I’m consciously letting this project develop at a natural pace.

Most days, that feels just right. Still, now and then, I notice an old instinct nudging me. The one that says do more, act faster, be bold.

There is no shortage of advice on how to succeed on Substack. Much of it is valid. Experts have studied fast-growing newsletters and found the patterns. If rapid growth is your aim, their guidance is likely helpful. I’m not following it.

My goal is different: I want the work itself to matter more than growth. At the outset, when I wrote the About page for Older Artists, I described myself with three simple sentences.

I am an artist. Words are my medium. Artists are my audience.

I meant those words then, even though I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to live up to them. I knew they were the only terms under which I would publish this blog. Over time, I’ve come to see that Older Artists is both a newsletter and an art project expressed through words.

This insight is the essence, and it changes the question I ask. Instead of focusing on what attracts subscribers, I ask whether the essay truly conveys what I mean. Is this piece the best I can offer right now?

Growth still matters, but it no longer gets the final say. The work does.

The desire for quick success never fully disappears. But for me, it is no longer the only thing. It is not even the main thing. I still know how to play the attention game. I could chase momentum if I chose to. Instead, I am committed to making something meaningful, hoping it touches readers the way a favorite artwork has touched Mary and me.

That piece is a limited-edition, eight-color serigraph featuring three colorful cats in sunglasses, a pink Cadillac, and a crescent moon. We bought it at an outdoor art fair more than thirty-five years ago. It has hung in our kitchen ever since, traveling with us from St. Louis to Orange County, to Sedona, and now Phoenix.

Although it is exquisitely crafted, it was never meant to be museum-bound. It found its place with us. Over the years, it has simply become part of our lives, and its playful spirit still brings a smile to our faces every time we see it.

That is the kind of artwork I strive to create with words. I don’t aim for literary acclaim. I hope that, once in a while, a weekly essay has a lasting place in someone’s life, much like those cats in the kitchen have in ours.

That is my standard for making Older Artists as an art project in words: let the work lead.

When I feel it working, it is a different kind of win. One that feels right and puts wind in my sails.

I can feel a little of it as I write these words. If I’m lucky, maybe you can too.

I’ll see you next week.

I read one of those listicles the other day — the kind that promises to reveal a dozen things that Boomers are “done tolerating.” Clickbait, sure, but good enough to get me to tap. As I scrolled through it, I recognized almost every point, not with surprise but with the quiet familiarity of someone being told what he already knows.

When I tried to see if there was anything in it that might spark an Older Artists post, the ideas slipped through my fingers like sand. I found it momentarily interesting, but there was nothing to grasp, build on, or develop further.

It wasn’t that the article was shallow or completely unoriginal. It was that I’m no longer fed by ideas, because I’ve moved past them and toward what lies beneath them.

That’s one of the quiet advantages of aging — one noone puts in a listicle: you stop working from ideas and start searching for the thing beneath the thing.

And that kind of work doesn’t arrive fully formed. It doesn’t show up because a listicle handed you a talking point. It doesn’t respond to urgency or novelty; it asks for depth.

That truth has to be uncovered.

Sometimes that means writing something and discarding it. Sometimes it means painting over a canvas you spent days on. Sometimes it means circling the same thought for weeks until it finally gives up its center.

Each iteration gets you closer — not to the idea, but to the truth inside it.

I think that’s why younger artists can’t reach it easily. Not because they lack talent, but because they lack time and stillness. They’re pulled in too many directions, pressured by too many demands, driven by too many needs.

But later in life, the pressure shifts, and with it, the work changes. You can wait. You can listen. You can follow the thread past the obvious layer and into the one that matters.

There may be a piece in you — a painting, a story, a song, a way of seeing that you dismissed earlier in life because you didn’t have the time or stillness to sit with it. Now, at this age, you can finally meet it with patient, uninterrupted attention, allowing it to reveal what it truly is.

Maybe you once abandoned an idea or project because it felt too vague or unfamiliar. With time, you gain the patience and perspective to return, to discover the deeper shape or truer form that was inaccessible when you were younger and rushing ahead.

And there’s another advantage of aging; one nobody talks about: you can make this thing — whatever it is — without worrying about whether it sells or earns applause. You’re not creating to meet a market. You’re not creating to win approval. You’re creating because something in you finally has the time and steadiness to surface.

There’s a kind of satisfaction in that — not pride, not achievement, but recognition. The recognition that you allowed yourself to go somewhere you couldn’t go earlier in life.

That’s the gift of this stage of life: the ability to stay with something long enough for it to become what it was always trying to be. That’s the thing beneath the thing, and you can feel its depth even if you can’t name it.

I’ll see you next week.

— Barney

When I started Older Artists, I thought I was starting a new blog. Looking back, I realize I was beginning to think in a new way about my life.

At first, I was simply trying to solve a practical problem. Income from my books and courses had declined, and I could no longer justify the expense and complexity of all my old publishing tools. I needed a simpler way to keep writing and helping artists. And earn some income, even if not on the same scale as before.

I was also tired.

Tired of the marketing machinery: lead magnets, funnels, automation, and everything that seemed necessary to keep a modern publishing business moving. Judging by the response I was getting from readers, I wasn’t the only one. They seemed just as weary of being marketed to as I was of doing the marketing.

So I simplified.

I started a new blog for artists my age on a platform that asked less of me and cost a lot less to maintain.

Then something unexpected happened.

Over time, I realized I was doing far more than learning a new platform. I was changing how I approached my work, my creativity, and this stage of life. Instead of asking how to do more, I started asking what actually deserved my attention.

Instead of trying to optimize everything, I focused on what mattered most. The writing, the homepage, my relationship with readers, and even paid subscriptions all became simpler.

Without planning it, I created more than a publication. I created a framework for how I wanted to live and use my creativity. That was a welcome surprise.

I don’t know where Older Artists will lead. Maybe it will grow beyond my hopes. Maybe it won’t. That’s no longer what occupies my thoughts.

I write for the same reason you make your art. The work itself has become part of the reward.

Publishing every Wednesday feels right. After forty years of writing on deadlines, the rhythm is simply part of my DNA.

These days, I wake up looking forward to becoming a better writer and a better companion to others walking a similar path. One thoughtful essay each Wednesday, narrated if you’d rather listen, and brief enough to fit comfortably into your life. I trust that rhythm. It feels like a meaningful way to spend the years I have left.

I think many older artists discover something new in their practice. Think of Hockney creating on an iPad. Life changes our perspective whether we invite it or not—our energy changes. Our priorities change. Sometimes our finances change. Much of that is beyond our control.

What we can choose is how we respond. When I stopped resisting those changes, embraced them, and allowed both my life and myself to become something different, the results were life-altering in ways as unexpected as they were welcome.

We can spend our later years trying to recreate the life we once had, or we can become curious about the life that’s here for us now.

For me, that’s been the unanticipated gift of Older Artists.

I thought I was creating a publication. Instead, it helped me create a framework for the life I want to live.

I’m grateful for that every Wednesday. It reminds me that some of life’s biggest changes don’t come from choosing a new path. Sometimes they come from choosing a different lens.

See you next week.

— Barney

With a wink and an apology to Pink Floyd, the question of whether anybody is out there tends to show up at unexpected times. After you finish a piece you’re quietly proud of in the studio. Or late at night, scrolling through other artists’ work, wondering if anyone ever pauses on yours. Sometimes it’s just a quiet Tuesday, and no gallery, collector, or friend has reminded you lately that what you make still matters.

You might not say it out loud. More often, it’s a feeling that lingers, leaving you a bit unsettled. That’s the quiet tension that comes with sharing your work with the world.

For many older artists, reaching a market still matters. Sharing your work, meeting collectors, exhibiting, and looking for new opportunities can be important. For others, marketing has quietly moved to the background. Priorities shift as life changes, and what matters most changes. There’s no right or wrong here. Your decisions are as personal and unique as your art.

No matter which path you’re on, there’s a question that goes beyond marketing.

That’s “What gives the work its deepest meaning for you now?”

The art world doesn’t spend much time there. Most of the conversation is about visibility, collectors, sales, audience. Those things matter. We want to know our work has been seen, and there’s real satisfaction in watching it find a home in someone else’s life.

But that’s only part of the story. For every artist I’ve known, even those with unusual careers, the joy of creating comes first. Art is about making something new, following your curiosity, and working through the many small challenges between an idea and a finished piece. Every artist understands that connection.

Wanting an audience is still real. But there’s another relationship that grows over time: the one between you and your work. That’s where the deeper questions start, and where the greatest satisfaction can be found.

Over time, I’ve come to believe that the relationship between artist and art is what matters. It’s not that the audience is unimportant, but the work itself has to sustain us, whether the audience is small, large, or absent.

I feel this every week publishing Older Artists. I trust it will find the audience it’s meant to find, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want that audience to grow. I appreciate every free and paid subscriber.

I won’t publish to grow. I don’t write to attract subscribers or chase revenue. I write because I enjoy it and hope my words matter to someone. I’d rather grow slowly and stay true to the work than try to grow quickly by guessing what the algorithm or even the audience wants.

That’s what I’ve learned, and I’m determined not to lose sight of it.

I still care whether anybody is out there. I suspect I always will. But these days I ask another question just as often.

What gives the work its deepest meaning?

There’s no single answer. It changes as we do. It’s personal to you, as it is to me.

See you next week.

— Barney

I’ve written more than 1,000 posts for Art Marketing News. That number used to feel like proof of something — of showing up, of commitment, of a body of work worth pointing out. Then Google Search Console quietly told me the truth. Only a couple of hundred of those posts had any afterlife at all. And among those, only a handful stood up as genuinely evergreen.

The rest? Written, published, and returned to silence.

I started culling them. First down to 277. Then, when I moved Art Marketing News to Substack, I reached for the scalpel again and brought only 34 posts with me. Thirty-four, out of more than a thousand. That was difficult. Slightly emotional, if I’m being honest. Some of those pieces may come back someday, revived for the right moment. But letting them go was at once freeing and also a small, quiet source of loss.

There’s something humbling in the realization that not everything we create is meant for the ages. But I think that’s the truth of any prolific creative life: the more you make, the fewer keepers there are than you want to admit. That’s not a failure. That’s the math of making.

I suspect you know this about your own work. Some of it isn’t your best — and you may not have known it when you made it, but you can see it now, looking back with different eyes. You’ve grown. Your hand has changed.

The work you’re making now likely has a depth and confidence that your earlier work was still reaching for. That’s not something to be ashamed of. That’s what a long creative life looks like.

The question of what to do with all of it — what to keep, what to retire, what to quietly let go — is one I don’t think anyone else can answer for you. Your reasons for keeping something or releasing it will be different from mine.

What mattered to you at forty may feel like a different self’s work at sixty-five. Or it may feel like the truest thing you’ve ever made. Only you can tell.

What I can say is that the act of curation, whenever I’ve done it honestly, has always felt like a form of respect — for the work that remains, and for the audience asked to find their way through it. A room with a hundred paintings demands a different kind of attention than a room with twelve.

Saying goodbye is always the hardest thing. In life, and in a creative life, it doesn’t seem to get easier with practice. But I’ve come to think of it less as loss and more as editing — the same instinct that makes a good paragraph, applied to a whole body of work. You cut so the best of it can breathe.

See you next week.

— Barney

A recent nostalgic pull sent me down the rabbit hole on the Internet Archive, aka the Wayback Machine. I went to look at my Art Print Issues newsletter from 2006.

This was near the beginning, before WordPress, before Art Marketing News, before any of the things that came later. I made it in Microsoft Publisher, in that old print-newsletter format that feels like another lifetime now. I emailed it as a PDF and published it online as an HTML document.

I had forgotten about the lyrics tucked into the margin of the first issue. What struck me is how prescient they were — that I’d put them there twenty years before launching Older Artists.

John Gorka. Morningside. The lyrics start with:

“Am I a fool at this late date / To heed a voice that says, You can be great.”

He goes on to say he heard that same question when he was young, and now he’s hearing it again. The message hasn’t changed. It’s telling him he can still be the best he’s ever been.

If that isn’t right up the OA alley, I don’t know what is.

It kind of blew me away to be reminded that I’ve been carrying the same feelings about aging creatively for decades. That can happen when you’re almost 80. You think you’re discovering something new, but really, you’re circling back to something that’s been with you all along.

Seeing that page also reminded me of the friend who gave me the Gorka CD twenty years ago. We’ve been out of touch — time and distance do that. We’re both long retired from magazine publishing, our shared world — but without him, I wouldn’t have known the song.

And there was something about those lyrics that spoke to me so much that I put them on the first page of that newsletter. They contain a core sentiment that inspires me in my life and in writing OA each week. I’m sending him a link to this post. Just to say thanks again. And to let him know I’m thinking of him.

And let’s give John Gorka a little love while we’re here. At 67, he’s still out there — a touring musician finding coffee houses, small theaters, college campuses, the kinds of rooms where people actually listen.

He was never destined for anything other than what he is: an artist with integrity, talent, and passion. A lifer. A craftsman. Someone who keeps going because the work is the point. I relate to his version of living the artist’s life. Still there, still caring, still creating. It’s admirable, and I see it in so many artists I know or know about — aging creatively, quietly, and with joy for the work.

That’s the real message he was giving us then and still gives us now.

It’s not too late to be great — or even great for the first time. Not great in the way the world measures it, with stats and charts and spotlights. But great in the way John Gorka is great: steady, honest, exceptional to the people who know and love his work — and that includes me.

And in the end, isn’t that all that matters?

See you next week.

— Barney

I want to let you know about the Best of Barney. You may have noticed it mentioned on the subscriber page as a benefit for paid members. When I first wrote those words, I wasn’t entirely sure what they meant. I just knew they felt genuine and inspired. And as it turns out, that instinct was right.

But I needed a few months for it to become clear exactly what the Best of Barney is. Now I know.

It’s me.

The Best of Barney is my way of saying thank you for choosing to support me and the Older Artists blog. Frankly, that’s because there’s nothing better I can do for you.

It works like this.

If you’re a paid member, send me an email and let me know how I can help. You can tell me what you’re working on, where you’re stuck, or what decision you’re trying to make. I’ll answer.

I don’t like rules, so it’s an open-ended offer that I trust you won’t abuse. If we need to continue the conversation, we’ll continue the conversation. We’ll keep going until you get what you need, or I’ve given you everything I can.

You’ve probably heard me talk about “do less, better.”

That’s exactly what’s happening here. The last thing we need at this point is homework. The world is already flush with too much information. PDFs, workshops, and courses that don’t fix things. What is more useful is a real conversation about you and your specific situation.

I know stuff because I’ve spent a lifetime paying attention to how everyday Main Street artists get their work to market. I don’t have all the answers. Nobody does.

One advantage of simplifying my life and business as I age is that I have nothing else to sell you. There is no next thing.

The Best of Barney is me telling you what I see. You’ll get my honest opinion, offered with respect, and compassion, and a genuine desire to help.

There’s one thing I learned from spending my life around artists: most aren’t motivated primarily by money. They appreciate the income and the validation, but embracing the creative process is the main thing. Eventually, I realized I felt the same way.

I like making money. We all do. Your support keeps the porch light on, helps pay a few bills, and the occasional night out with Mary, where we always toast our supporters.

Looking back, whether I was a firefighter, a sales rep, an artist advocate, or a blog writer, helping people has been every bit as rewarding to me as making money.

That’s why Older Artist exists: it aims to help, to share, and to be a digital companion.

The Best of Barney allows me to put forty years of my experience, perspective, and hard-earned lessons to work for people who choose to support my work.

I can’t do better than to give you the best of me.

So if you’re a paid member and you think I can help, send me an email. I’ll help you. Whether you get peace of mind or it saves your bacon, my inbox is open.

As I’ve been saying for years, everything good that happens in an art career begins with a conversation.

I look forward to having one with you.

Start the Conversation

Regrets come in all shapes and sizes.

I still feel a sharp pang of guilt when I remember being rude to my sweet Mary because I was grumpy about something at work. It was hurtful, and I can’t take it back. All I can do is try to be more present, aware, and kind.

But when I look back on the long life I’ve been blessed to live, the things that once seemed so important—even monumental in the moment—have mostly drifted away. And honestly, things could just as easily have turned out worse.

Some things we once called regrets were simply chapters that never quite finished. Plans that never quite came together. Paths we thought we might take but didn’t. At the time, those unfinished chapters can feel disappointing, even unfair. Later on, they often look more like the natural shape of a life unfolding.

I opposed the war in Vietnam and was angry about being drafted. At the time, it felt deeply wrong. I could still be angry about losing my deferment because I didn’t stay in school. But I’ve let it go. It was a long time ago, and nothing about it will ever change.

What I see more clearly now is that my military experience helped a rebellious kid whose father died too early learn something about becoming a man. I met people I never would have met otherwise and had experiences I’ll never forget.

Just as you can love someone without approving of everything they do, I can love my country while disagreeing with some of its actions, and still honor those who served then and those who serve now.

Life rarely gives us neat endings. Sometimes the story just moves on.

I suspect you have a few stories like that too.

Regrets that once carried real weight. Decisions you wish you’d made differently. Roads not taken. And maybe, with enough time and perspective, you’ve discovered that some of those regrets no longer deserve as much space in your life as they once occupied.

Overall, life turned out pretty damn good.

There were twists and turns, decisions left unmade, and a few that were downright boneheaded. And yet somehow, they all led here. For that, I’m grateful, just as I am for having you in my life.

I’ll close with the soulful wisdom of Keb’ Mo’, from his song “I’m Telling You Now”:

“Let bygones be bygones
Trouble be long gone
If I never told you how I feel about you
I’m telling you now”

[Listen here.]

See you next week

— Barney

When it comes to energy, I don’t have the same reserves I had when I was younger. That’s just true. And because it’s true, I’ve become more deliberate about managing it.

It started with noticing. What drains me? What doesn’t? What I keep doing out of habit or obligation that costs more than it returns? Once you start paying attention, you can’t really stop. The noticing becomes its own habit.

I’ve come to think of it as the Energy Hound — my name for that quiet, watchful awareness that keeps an eye on where my energy is going. It’s not a voice, more like an instinct that developed over time. It doesn’t tell me to avoid hard work or skip difficult things. It just keeps me honest about what is worth the effort and what isn’t.

Here’s a concrete example. When I decided to launch Older Artists, I had options. I know WordPress inside and out — hosting, themes, plugins, email systems, payment setups, all of it. I’ve done it for years. But every one of those things takes energy. A little here, a little there. It adds up.

I didn’t want to take all that on again. So, I chose Substack. Not because it’s perfect, but because it lets me leave a lot of that behind. That decision saved me money. More importantly, it saved me energy — and that energy goes straight into the work.

When I protect my energy, I write better, think more clearly, and enjoy the work more. And somewhere along the way, the choices started happening without much thought. I’d decide something and only later realize it was the more energy-efficient way to go. That’s the Energy Hound doing its job — quietly, in the background, without drama.

You notice it in small ways at first. A decision here. Something you let go of that you didn’t need to carry. And when you do, you feel it. That feeling stacks.

I suspect I’m not alone in this. The older I get, the more energy feels like the real currency.

See you next week.

— Barney

The banner I use for Older Artists carries three words beneath the title: grace, gratitude, and celebration. I chose them years ago for the Older Artists Facebook group I started, and they still mean enough to me that I carried them into this project. They still speak to me. So does the order.

I put grace first.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about why.

Turning 78 — just two years from 80 — changes things. I mentioned to my younger brother, who turned 77 this year, that he was now in his late 70s. He balked. Didn’t like the sound of that one bit.

I understood completely.

It’s remarkable how small increments carry so much more weight at this end of the calendar.

Not surprisingly, he’s also the one who called me after learning about Clint Eastwood’s personal mantra — the one that inspired Toby Keith’s song — to extract a solemn brotherly promise from me:

Don’t let the old man in.

We’re trying.

The questions that come with aging are real and present. How long will my health hold? How long can I keep producing at the level I’m enjoying? How long will my money last, my friends, my family?

These aren’t abstract worries I can file away for another day. They stick with me.

And yet despite all of that, I feel something I can only call grace.

Becoming and Receiving

I’ve come to believe there’s a difference between becoming and receiving.

I first understood becoming in my 40s while working my way through Stephen Covey’s The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. It took me three passes before it finally landed, but when it did, I could feel myself changing in ways I couldn’t reverse. I was reaching toward something — a better version of myself — and slowly becoming it.

That’s becoming.

Receiving is different.

It isn’t something you achieve or earn. It arrives.

Presently, I feel like I’m receiving grace. Not in a religious sense — these days, I lean more toward being agnostic — and Catholic when flying.

What I mean is that I feel more settled, more content, and somehow more creative than I’ve ever been.

I think I’m doing my best work right now.

Part of that comes from freedom. I no longer feel tethered to whether something will grow my audience or make me more money. I do things because I feel them deeply enough to do them. That kind of freedom took me a long time to find.

I think of human connection as strands. Some are wide pipelines. Some are as thin as a thread. Grace feels like that, too. It arrives differently depending on the day, the person, the moment — but it keeps arriving. More of it than before.

Mary, my wife, is part of this. As we’ve grown older together, she’s become more important to me than ever — my partner in the fullest sense, the most important person in my life. She gives me grace, and I try to do the same for her.

And this — Older Artists, you, this ongoing conversation we’re having — is part of it too.

I put something out from within me, and what comes back is warmth. But more than warmth, really. Your presence here, your support, and the spoken and unspoken sentiment you carry toward this project have become one of the deepest sources of grace in my life.

Even if you’ve never said it outright, I know you’re here with me.

And I believe you’re receiving your share of grace too.

The grace of being an older artist. Of having made it this far with your creativity intact and your eyes still open.

That’s why I do this.

I’ll see you soon.

— Barney

I saw my cardiologist today for my annual review. He’d run a full battery of tests, including an echocardiogram, and the news was great — everything looked good. It just happened to come on the same day as the follow-up to my second ablation, that’s a treatment to help get rid of Afib, which also went very well.

My Afib is gone, and the Watchman in my heart (another recent procedure) is doing its job, and so he said there isn’t much left for him to fix. That’s the blessing of modern medicine: sometimes they give you back a future you weren’t sure you’d get.

Then he told me the part I already knew was coming: lose some weight, start exercising, take the gift seriously.

I told him I’ve been thinking the same thing and that it would be a waste not to do that. After everything medical science has done for me, squandering it feels like an insult to the people and medical science advances that have helped keep me alive. He tried to wave it off, but I stopped him. “No, really, Doc, I feel this. I’m using it as motivation.”

That’s when he said the line that stopped me cold:

“We cannot be any more invested in you than you are in yourself.”

It was so clean, so true, so universal that I told him I was stealing it for a post. He asked, “A post for what?”

So, I told him: I’ve been writing a weekly blog for artists for 20 years, and recently I started a second publication for older artists. I joked that I was imagining what it would be like to publish OA700, and I’d be 91 by then.

He shook his head. “I can’t imagine I’d have anything worth saying at 91.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m a writer. It’s come naturally for me. And I’m already finished with posts scheduled through the end of October. So, I don’t think it will be a problem for me—not when I keep finding ideas like you just gave me.”

He laughed and said, “You don’t have to make me feel bad about myself.”

And I told him: “Doc, you’re saving lives. I’m just writing words.”

But the words matter. The investment matters—the choice to care about your own future matters.

His line wasn’t medical advice. It was life advice. Career advice. Aging advice. It wasn’t just for me. It’s for you, too.

No one can be more invested in your life than you are. No one can be more invested in your art than you are. No one can be more invested in your future than you are.

At this age, that’s not a burden. It’s a kind of freedom. It’s another gift you give yourself.

See you next week.

I noticed a new number the other day—696. It was the number of weeks I’ve been posting my Art Marketing News on Fine Art America. I hadn’t given it much thought, even though I see the tabulation weekly - 1 of 696, and so forth. But something about seeing that number stopped me for a second.

With this new Older Artists project, I’ve been keeping things simple. Just a banner that reads OA: post number. No graphics. No extras. Just the words.

But when I saw 696, I had a different thought.

What would it be like to post OA: 700?

Then I did the math. Seven hundred weeks is about 13 years. I’d be 91. The year would be 2039.

I was surprised that it didn’t feel distant. It felt possible. Even inviting. Something shifted a little when I saw that. Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to notice.

Having something out there—something I’d like to arrive at—changes the way the days in between feel. Things I’ve known about for years start to land differently.

Taking care of myself doesn’t feel like something I’m supposed to do. It feels more like part of the path toward something I’m already moving toward.

There’s also something about the rhythm of it. A weekly marker. I’ve had that for years without thinking much about it—695, 696, 697. Now I’ll have it here, too. Something to return to. Something I don’t have to push.

This has quietly become one of the most rewarding things I do. There’s no pressure around writing Older Artists. I’m not trying to sell anything or convince anyone. I’m just noticing things about my life, about getting older, about the artists around me, and putting that into words.

My sister has something similar. She wants to see her grandson graduate from high school. Coincidentally, that’s about 13 years away, too. It gives her something to look forward to.

Not a big, abstract goal. Just something out there that matters to her. Something that changes your brain waves and thought patterns, and if it truly sinks in, your behavior alters to align with the goal.

I feel a tinge of it. A desire to be more active and eat healthier, just those things, and being mindful and grateful for my blessings are enough. Small steps. Little wins that don’t jar the system.

I don’t know what that would be for you. It might be small. A sketch each week. Writing. An event you don’t want to miss. Something you return to without much fuss.

Something that makes the future feel like a place you’d like to get to.

As for me, I’ll keep publishing OA. I appreciate your free and paid support, but how many people read it doesn’t really change anything. I still find myself wanting to sit down and write it each week.

I don’t know if I’ll make it to OA: 700, but it feels good to have a reason to try.

If I do, I hope to see you there, but for sure…

I’ll see you next week.

— Barney

David Randall left a comment on my recent “What If It’s Not the End of the Line?” Facebook post that stopped me in my tracks.

I publish the full text of Older Artists on Facebook. That runs contrary to how many publishers and marketers operate, especially on Substack. But my philosophy is simple: I want as many people as possible to read it without barriers or friction — and let those who are inspired support it without pressure.

I do it for moments like the one David shared.

David and I are the same age. He recently stepped away from over fifty years in custom framing and galleries. But then he wrote this:

My mantra has been, “Die with a brush in my hand.”

I loved that immediately. Somehow, his words captured something I think many older artists feel but rarely say out loud.

There comes a point when creating is no longer mainly about career-building, recognition, or arriving somewhere. It becomes part of how you live.

I think many older artists wrestle with a version of the same question: Am I winding down? Or am I simply entering another chapter?

The world often treats creativity as if it belongs mostly to the young. Early promise. Early success. Early momentum. I get that.

But many of us know better by now. Art is not only an ambition. It is companionship. Identity. Curiosity. A way of paying attention to life.

For some artists, the drive to create actually becomes clearer with age. Less noise. Less proving. Less concern about who is watching. More honesty.

David’s phrase struck me because it says all of that in eight simple words.

Not: “Die famous.”
Not: “Die successful.”
Not even: “Die selling paintings.”

“Die with a brush in my hand.”

Still engaged. Still participating. Still making something.

I understand that feeling.

At 78, I do not spend much time thinking about retirement anymore. I think more about continuity. About staying mentally alive. Curious. Connected. Useful. Present.

I joke sometimes about reaching “OA 700” someday. If my math is right, that would put me somewhere around 91 years old.

Who knows.

And if we do make it there, I’ll be thrilled that we did. But, in any case, I can say this for sure — I’ll see you next week.

I reposted this just as COVID was beginning to overtake our world, literally. It was a scary and dark time. It was originally published the year before on my mom’s birthday. Without fanfare or sending it as a weekly OA post, I wanted to include it here for you and posterity.

No Better Time Than Now to Give Your Love

Don’t send me flowers when I’m gone. Send ‘em to me now!
— Solomon Burke

Here’s how much it meant to know how much my Momma loved me. Thanks for reading my blog. I love you for it and for the artist you are. She would have too!

Insights into an Artist’s Advocate Motivation

It’s February 2, 2019. Precisely 112 years ago, my mother, Mary Glynn O’Neill, was born on this day. I’ve never needed the mnemonic device of associating Groundhog Day with her birth date to remember it. That’s because she left me with a permanent memory of one of the gentlest, kindest, and most remarkable humans I’ve ever met. She also proved later in life to be incredibly strong and resilient, as you will learn.

I realize most people, if they are lucky, have fond and revered memories of their mothers. It’s the natural order of things. How can you not have such thoughts and feelings for the person who carried you in her womb, birthed you, nourished you, and nurtured you throughout her natural life? Thanks, Mom, for all you did for my siblings and me.

Mary O’Neill was a mama’s girl who lived at home and taught school well past the time when her siblings and contemporaries had married and started a family. I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing that when she met Paul Daniel Davey, they both knew they had found their soul mate. They dated until Dad finished law school and then got married.

For reasons never explained, the newlyweds lived with my namesake grandpa, Bernard J. (Barney) O’Neill, and Margaret Schaeffer O’Neill. It might have been money, or maybe grandma insisted. I grew up in the same house and can’t imagine how adult couples lived there in harmony.

Grandpa Barney died before any of his Davey grandchildren were born. By that time, Paul and Mary had moved out to a home of their own, only to be pulled back to the O’Neill family home, which B.J. and Maggie had built. They resettled there so they could take care of grandma, who was in declining health. I have very vague memories, as a toddler, of helping her button the bottom buttons of her long dress. That’s about it.

Even though Mary O’Neill was a pint-sized five-foot-one-half-inches, she was a gifted athlete. She was the women’s tennis champion of her hometown of Alton, Illinois, who took on and defeated men and women on the court. She swam the backstroke on the University of Illinois swim team.

Besides her athletic prowess, Mary was a gifted artist and musician. She was equally adept at painting in oils, pastels, and watercolors. One of her works hung in the St. Louis Art Museum for a spell.

She could play the piano by ear. Hum a few notes, and she’d start playing the melody of a tune she had never heard. I saw her do it many times in our parlor and at Scout meetings, school, and church functions at St. Mary’s, where we worshiped and learned.

Her greatest attribute and gift to her children was unconditional love. She had that in abundance and gave it freely to her offspring and to many of the grade school kids (mostly second-graders) she taught for years. While most of her teacher colleagues did all they could to avoid a turn at schooling, a class of students inappropriately termed as EMH (educable mentally handicapped), she volunteered.

She knew those early-year kids needed love. It broke her heart to see some of the poorest come to school having eaten popcorn or nothing for breakfast.

That’s who she was — a gentle spirit with an enormous capacity for giving love unconditionally. I’m not saying she didn’t have her faults because I know she did. But whatever they were, her kindness and generosity and loving temperament outshone her shortcomings. It was apparent among my friends and cousins (of whom I have many of both) that they saw and felt the same thing from her. Some were amazed and nearly craved it.

In some cases, I can now see that what I had taken for granted was treated as special by others. Looking back, I understand how those who never experienced love and acceptance, given subtly with nothing expected in return, liked being in her presence. That was her gift. I am sure because she was so humble and unassuming, she was never aware of the gift she was giving. It’s just part of who she was and perhaps why what she gave was so powerful.

After marriage, Mary retired from school teaching to raise a family. Although she and Paul got a late start, it did not stop them from having a bunch of kids. Including an older sister who only lived a few days after birth, they had seven kids in nine years. Imagine spending a decade pregnant and up to your eyeballs in diapers and formula.

What’s remarkable is that she was 41 years old when I was born, and I have two younger brothers. Who do you know these days who has a family of six or more kids, much less all packed into only nine years between the oldest and youngest?

Here’s where the strength and resilience of Mary Davey come into the picture. Her beloved husband, Paul, it turns out, had skin cancer. With today’s medical advancements, he might have had a chance to beat it. But in 1956, odds were against them. So, with heavy hearts, these two did what they could for two years to treat him and hide from the kids what was going on.

Dad’s law practice, which was the family’s sole source of income, took a big hit when he was too sick to finish available work or scout for new business. He’d gone from making interest-only payments to skipping payments on our house without telling her. The realization of the dire circumstances beyond his control that he was leaving her and his family was devastating. I cannot fathom the grief and angst he felt leaving her and all of us to fend for ourselves. He didn’t bring the dire circumstance of his dying too soon on us any more than the ravages of cancer brought upon him. It’s unimaginable.

On December 28, 1958, Paul succumbed to cancer. I was only ten; my youngest brother was just eight. It was a thundering, life-changing, shock-you-to-the-core event for my siblings and me. None of us younger kids had any idea it was coming. For sure, none of us had any idea of what would happen next or how to cope with our loss. I think back about her and wonder how one balances and compartmentalizes raising six kids while helping your life and soul mate slip off the mortal coil? That’s freaking incredibly, impossibly hard for me to imagine, much less think it was my mom’s reality.

And what the eff do you do now? Her worry about how to keep the house and feed her kids must have been off the charts! Although she hadn’t taught a day in nearly two decades, Mary found a job opening to teach school again. With her Paul in the grave only a week or so, she started teaching school in the second semester that began right after Christmas. Whatever a giant shock to the system, all this was for us kids; it must have been multiplied ten times for her.

I can only imagine how much unbelievable courage, grit, and determination it took for her to manage all this — remembering how to teach again — and to suddenly worry about six latch-key kids. How did she deal with waking to the reality that there was no money, no life insurance, and the irony of a deceased lawyer husband without a will? Despite it all and through the grace of others, especially family members, we stayed together and kept living in our house. To her credit, and with a grit of our own, she managed to get us all grown and successful.

How did you do it, Momma? You amaze me to this day with the reserves you had to get through tough, challenging situations that few people ever face. Despite it all, you never lost your wellspring of love and your enormous capacity to share it with your children and their friends, your family, and your students.

You gave me a love of art, nature, music, science, and words. You made me curious about almost everything. Most of all, you gave me unconditional love. I am forever grateful for these beautiful gifts. No amount of money or prestige could ever come close to them in terms of real value. And so, on this day of your birth, I honor and remember you. As you told us every night, “Sleep with the angels,” dear Momma.

PS. My nephew’s kids text “SWA” to their parents. They’ve absorbed Mary’s spirit, telling their parents to sleep with angels. SWA to all, and thanks for reading this tribute to the end. Now go and spread a lot of love and SWA around.