it took less time for noah to build the ark, but i finally have a wayfair shop that i manage and offer a few current paintings as canvas prints.

so, in a way, i do.

they may not my mostest favorite things everer, but they can be a great introduction to poetry and painting, or a way to stage a home, enhance a gallery wall or gift to someone who needs to be reminded that they are worth it.

click, press, or maybe finger (bad word choice) here

and find similar links for

home goods

and wallpaper

send me a note and let me know which current paintings you would love to see as a print?

i’m a thinker and an over painter. and that is all i want to be.

i paint permission to believe in jesus’ love, just maybe not the church version.

i paint permission to risk and believe in yourself.

and i paint the unexpected beautiful moments in life we find while chasing fall down, crazy stupid love.

but for the platform pulpits of instayou, facetube and the tacky clock, i’m out.

i spend sleepless nights trying to make work that matters.

i think i do a decent job of that. i’d like to do even better.

on the grams, the work does not matter.

i spend more time juxtaposing schematic ways to show authenticity, show behind the scenes, show the work, sell the work, make you feel something and let you know what’s happening at the barn.

and the work suffers.

and most importantly, i suffer.

so, i’m out.

i’d write more, but your thumb is already twitching.

i’ve left ways to find me in the bio.

pro tips… use email, not dm. and text before you call, but i do want to chat.

the barn … also known as the gallery off site date night studio wedding venue meet up writer’s camp yoga + sound bath wood shop is yours to use and visit.

it is designed is a haven for you to be you. no labels. no politics no judgments. promise. please stop by.

hours are…

monday - maybe

tuesday - saturday 11 to ?

sunday - also maybe.

text 704.533.1831 to turn maybe into yesbe or to inquire about using the space for a meet up, yoga studio or to host your next small event. it’s magical.

i’d love for you to remain my friend and sign up for my substack newsletter (if you have not ) where i will launch new work, announce events and let you all know how i am still still on a mission to make the walls or your home, office and hopefully your secret lair as f’ing fantastic as you are.

my website will be where to find me. find the work.

i feel better already. thank you. i love you.

see you on the other side.

oh, new work is on the site ands more coming soon.

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i have a lot to say about the new work. but i need to get it all on the site first.

each piece comes with a story.

many celebrating the hurdles we jump over. especially the ladies. they for sure have way more obstacles in their line than i do.

if it helps you get the front leg over the hurdle before you swing the other around, use code ALLOWED at checkout for 20% off it’s value. why? i really don’t know.

but there you go.

hey, you got this.

-kent

use code PAID at checkout!

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it’s a risk.

i’m scared. i’m pretty much always scared.

yet, i’m all in.

and seemingly always close to all out.

but i will wake up every day and risk. i will write the story. i will choose the words.

i will choose which case the letters are. every day.

i will choose the color and the texture. every day.

today however, the story is somewhat sad and lonely. the disney dogs are not homeward bound.

i am trusting that this is the middle of the story, and that soon there will be a plot twist - an adrenaline shot of energy that propels frantic and chaotic progress.

i need a little help to keep me going.

the anvil is quite heavy and not easy to drag along.

i’d like to return the favor of you being part of my life by trying to be a small part of yours.

i feel like i know the rules, so begrudgingly, i’m going to break the rules (again).

so starting this saturday at 10am mt all original art work on

kentyoungstrom.com, or at the barn will be half of what i really deem its value to be. this will continue for one week.

all original art is included. i have also listed a few popular pieces that are sold out as “available” - i will paint something for you in a similar manner.

so wake up saturday with an attitude to destress with less and choose art over excess and invest in something worth way more than the even your favorite influencer might urge you to manifest.

use code ONEOFONE at checkout.

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i find myself about half in for most of those declaration decisions.

which means i am also half out.

and no - that’s not the easy way out.

i choose love. i’m attempting to widen my umbrella and love those who preach love, yer exude hate. i’m attempting to start everyone at 100% instead of zero.

my declarations are fluid and do not defined by influences or predetermined bias.

i’m already protesting. i’m just sometimes at both rallies on different days.

polls. preaching. media influence. trend reports are not the guide. bumper stickers maybe though - so powerful.

my stickers have all be goo-gone’d.

i’m putting down my affiliations, and picking up love.

i’m playing the shell game blind. i’ve exhausted my eyes looking lovingly to the left and aggressively to the right. it’s yet to end without either side being a loser every time.

i have paid the street vendor with my anger, my unfair protests and my vindictive heart. i am broken. but i am debt free.

my revival story starts now. my bank account at zero. but i will never write a check again.

i’m starting with love.

i can not. i will not have a headstone associated with anything associated with a group other than my family. wtf. i refuse to be remembered as a media projected stereotype that only exhibits phonetical portraits in the endless memory gallery.

i choose love.

i invite you to choose love too.

lets chat about what that might mean to me and what it might look like for you.

lets do that and celebrate the people you love february 13 or 14th here at the barn in kamas for valentine’s day.

its’s not an art show, its a conversation.

february 13 and 14 open 5 ’til late

1264 s state rd 32 kamas

kent@kentyoungstrom.com to rsvp.

i promise it will be the best place for a date on valentine’s or your money back. :)

you’re from chicago. “why are you all of a sudden steel faced cowboy, such a comma comma comma chameleon. “

sure, guilty as charged. but i call for a duel. high noon. town square.

see, i’ve lived the city life and loved most of every minute, been in the burbs and even in an odd industrial park. . . but i think i’m not just, “ west is best”, i am “small is besttest of all!”

i have what i need. it’s simple. slow. people use turn signals and drop off plant starters just because.

i get to see the drone view of whatever very split sides are debating - and realize, yeah, we need more - “i’m people, you’re people - lets put down or filters and create something together.

i will always be on a mission to cover the walls of your home, office or secret lair, but what i’m selling is actually self assurance that, yeah - i will find a way.

organically, my surroundings and the beauty of natures color palette has absorbed into the studio. and the studio, is really just an attempt to visually organize my brain.

so why the launch of a western line?

because i’m a sponge more than a shammy.

very similar to crossfit and canvas - when i started lifting and climbing ropes.

or the no risk. no story, line immediately after going all in on a barn i had not even stepped foot in.

i paint my life. i don’t necessarily want that to be obvious. but nothing is made up. i’ve strayed and tried to be one of the cool kids, or fit in with this club or that demographic - but that always sputters miserably. my work is what i wake thinking of, what makes sharing yourself in a relationship worth it, what someone believing in you feels like.

my work to me is nothing more than proving to myself over and over that i do not have to be beige. i root for the underdog because i am one too.

i’m a kid given no direction or encouragement that embracing a skill set not listed in the drop down menu is a. even possible, b. something you can do. c. is worth the emotional run through the gladiators “eliminator.”

i did it. and i is doing it. and i will keep doing it.

AND IF I CAN DO IT - YOU CAN DO IT.

cowboy up.

cowgirl up.

just wake up. get off the couch. show up on time, work your backside off. and surprise everyone at the rodeo with the work you have put in.

go.

-kenT

i am often asked if i sell prints. for a long while the answer has been, “not really, but you can find framed prints on sites like wayfair or randomly at homegoods.”

until now! after a bit of a struggle to get it going, i now have my own “store” on wayfair.

gallery wrapped canvas prints in various sizes can be ordered directly from me on wayfair.

my creative bucket is filled by painting new and seeing originals in the gallery -however i understand that sometimes for budget reasons, timing, or filling a short term need calls for something different.

i am excited to be able to get my work in more places to bring more smiles and encourage you to risk it for the biscuit and find out what happens when you don’t give up.

and ALSO, there will be a small line of originals available for the holidays! i will send out links and information when those go live!

and ALSO, ALSO - if you are a designer or a realtor and need to furnish a home or stage one for a sale, contact me for a bulk rate discount!

thank you for asking - i really want to make the wall of your home, office or secret lair in any way i can!

shop my store on wayfair

why the white?

when i am frustrated with a painting, i often basically just start over. i pull out the white paint and cover about 90% of what i have started. sometimes this happens more than once on a canvas. usually, those become my favorite pieces.

it was time to pull out the white paint.

i love what i have shown you over the past years. i’m not hiding any of that at all.

i just love a new canvas with and old sole.

so new white. feels right.

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this is my new friend, he goes by squirrel.

i pass his place each day driving to the gym, or really anytime i go out.

recently, i was peculiarly comfortable enough in my own skin to pull into his driveway with painted nails, short shorts and my striped van a couple of weeks ago.

“hey, i’m kent, i have the art studio and gallery up the street. if you ever wanted any of your derby cars painted, i’d love to give it a shot and do it for you - just for fun, my treat.”

it took a bit for squirrel and his son to figure out if i was real or what they were enjoying was stronger than they thought. but, two days later a very very loud car pulled into the lot.

“paint what you want, it needs to say squirrel racing and have my F2 no. on it, and it’s being run at the largest derby in the state fair next weekend.”

i asked questions, i was curious, and i think squirrel will have the most unique derby car in the dirt.

thank you to my new friend for trusting a stranger with painted nails - it’s cool to know the people you live with. squirrel lost his job as a mechanic at one of the major ski operations here - so if there are any parts of the car left that we can cut off - i will put them on here and my site - and the $$ will go to his acorn fund. :)

enjoy your day underdogs - and remember, that you never know the answer unless you ask.

borrow the cataracts of the blind.

or follow

just to follow

the path more traveled by —

the trail worn by identical soles and souls,

who bleat to the beat

of the bandwagon.

i aspire to aim higher

than those who

bow to the idols of each other,

who hum hymns

and preach platitudes

and forget

the name of their Redeemer

as they step out of their Sunday best

and the cock crows thrice.

leaving the masses

demands payment in full.

estrangement

as a ransom.

for my betrayal to

the ennui of status quo.

nah.

i see your tricks.

i won’t carry the weight

of the plaids and khakis

whose mimicry in the concrete jungle

should be photographed

by national geographic.

“nature’s copycats,”

the caption should read.

fuck that.

i am the trend.

i will paint what i want - not what will sell.

i will use words but not to explain myself.

i won’t care what you think even though i really want to.

i will strive to make new things even when the best seller is popular.

i will wear slightly torn jeans and great fitting t’s past the age i am suppose to.

i will take care of my body just as well as i do my paint brushes.

i will push the line of acceptable art for your home.

life is complicated enough. so, like slightly ripped jeans and a faded t-shirt, i keep my paintings simple. i hope they make you look. i hope it makes you smile. i hope they make you fantasize just a little bit about jumping inside a being a part of them.

i’m sorry that art thinks it is smarter than you. than us all.

i’m sorry that art dresses up her enhanced tiffany tits and barney’s, brazilian lifted, back side and rambles on about her effervescence and coincided existence of form and function while at the same time pursuing a new lane into the juxtaposition of light, balance and color.

or whatever bullshit art is trying to say.

i’m not sorry you don’t get it - because there is nothing to get. no one gets it.

the only person who gets anything is the artist. with enough backing to hire a grant writer who chooses from a selective number of hashtag words.

fuck off art. just go fuck off and deep throat that banana you duct taped to the wall a while back.

we want art that reaches out and grabs us.

we don’t want to fill out a form, attempt to talk to customer service (which is overseas and responds with “this mailbox is unmonitored”).

we want to actually be a part of it all. we want it to touch us - someway, any way.

we want art for the people. where is the peoples artist?

so here i am - trying to fill a void. . .

i can be seen on minimally-listened-to podcasts, quoted in publications, and heard discussing with show-goers that my favorite part of painting is when i’m stuck – when i step back and contemplate if i’m done or if the piece is missing something – the part when i don’t quite know what to do. there is no better creatively climactic feeling than when i try something that works.

i’ve got it, I think. i’ve figured it out.

about six months ago, i was painting a group of pieces for a show to be held during art basel week in miami. for several weeks, my art studio had been an energy drink explosion combined with an attack on paint and marking pens. sitting in my studio rolling chair, i pushed back and sighed deeply. and i decided i liked where i was at. i felt like i had pushed the line between challenging myself and challenging those who look at my work to think. just think.

it was not middle-of-the-road. what i created actually said something.

in my excitement at the canvases stacked along my wall, i said to myself in a sing-song voice, “i know someone who likes you. me. me. me me me me.” in a furious moment of synchronicity, my thoughts came together: that’s it, I thought. the work is brilliant, but add a small line of pieces that say just that: “i know someone who likes you. – me.”

a new line of work was born out of a simple thought based on weeks of involved, arduous painting. painting that sometimes pained me and my psyche and deprived me of sleep. just like that, however, this work came so easily.

it was done. and it was my best. ever. and i knew it.

here is what they don’t teach you. in life, there is no grade. there is no warning. there just is. and here is how it is.

i painted somewhere north of 100 pieces to say what had been on my mind and in my world. i packed these paintings in the back of my sprinter van and have taken these paintings over 2,800 miles to many art shows (with bulk packs of energy drinks) from chicago to miami. i have hauled, lifted, repaired, touched up, stood in front of, talked about, posted up, meditated over, sweat at showcasing, and sage-burned all of it. all of it – with little to no validation of my process.

and it is crushing me.

i will smile and talk to you about it. i’ll gently push away your “what’s your inspiration?” question with a diverted and scripted answer about the process, doubling down that inspiration is for amateurs only because it hurts too much to give the honest answer that THIS is what has been stuck inside of me for far too long.

in full disclosure, there have been small moments of reward. i have heard validating comments and remarks about how creative these pieces are or how this work is the best at the show. i’m told often that someday, a particular person will save up just enough to buy a kent youngstrom original.

of those 100+ pieces, i have sold a handful. and i love that they are where they are supposed to be.

but i don’t know what to do. i have so many that i thought would be loved enough to be taken home by someone. to have my time, thoughts, and work exchanged for currency earned by someone else’s time, thoughts, and work.

but they are still here – in fact, they still sit stacked high in my van because i can’t physically take them out of their boxes one more time.

do i paint over them all?

do i burn them?

give them away?

i cannot live with them in my space. i cannot look at my wall and see – “fuck you, i am the trend,” when all my mind does is flip the words to read: “yeah, you thought you were the trend. you should know better; you were taught to save, not to risk. you knew you weren’t capable of being that big – you are more comfortable being small.”

i cannot read “pull me through the crowd” and be put back in the exact place where i knew i needed to turn that thought into a painting. i can’t remind myself of the hurt a painting can do (so assumed by many to be happy, flirty, and fun) that caused me to spray the words and stand in front of them.

i cannot lower the personal value of each piece and create some illusion that i’m not having a sale by having a sale. i sold a piece or two for below the numbers on the price tag, and to be honest, all i did was lower the value of the words on the painting as to the experience it was for me.

my work is my life.

yes – “all he does is paint words.” words are intimate parts of my life, and i’m guessing in yours too.

i paint stories in short verse form; i attempt to transfer the energy of my experience to you. perhaps i value that more than others – or more than others are willing to pay.

i don’t know what to do.

i might give them away.

and that’s where my painting brain has stopped for now.

so i’m pushing back in my vermilion orange, vintage herman miller office chair, the one a bit cantilevered and covered in paint, thinking – this is my favorite part, when i’m stuck – because on the other side of this is “i got it.”

i’m just not so sure this time. and that was over two years ago.

i have spent eight seasons of change since, flirting with canvas, dating various mediums and trying out all the tips and tricks i could find.

i have spent time perceiving the influence of social media and influx of artists all doing the same things, specifically at the time - established cartoon characters combining with easily accessible high end fashion logos.

my 7-11 brain was indeed always open - and most of the time it was angrily writing papers to submit to anyone who cared - that much like life, the art world was unfair, controlled by social media, boring and repetitive, or one hundred and eighty degrees the opposite direction, it was just a bunch of elites who i do not desire to associate with or view as the enemy, making and buying absurdity that i can not even pretend to understand or value.

so where was i to fit in?

i tried to protest, then tried talking nicely and make compromises, i tried pleasing both sides, then tried neutral ground - i contemplated succeeding from the artistic union and applied to be my own island - where everything would be right down the middle of everything. as i write each word i look back and think - dude, you think you are smart - you are not.

so what the fuck do i do now? i’m at the bottom - there is no funding for a new plan, a new marketing strategy, a new launch. the budget has not been cut - there is no budget. there is not even a knife to cut it.

all that is left is me.

i know someone who believes in me.

me. me. me.

it is time to be me. the human. what paved the way for me to be here, to have this problem. what drove me to keep going when i set up shop the first time and was awarded the blue ribbon for best booth - and sold zero pieces. who kept me from turning my art card in right there?

me.

who do people text when they need a pep talk?

me.

who taught countless futbol boys that there is another way?

me.

who convinced a national retailer that they could paint 300 paintings that sold faster than any other art they ever carried.

me.

who made something so cool the company creative director made a special call to say - “how do we work together, this is the coolest shit i’ve seen in a while?”

me.

who started giving art away and ended up on joanna gaines wall and in her magazine?

me.

who came up with a way nashville song writers could display the words that built the house the words no hang on?

me.

who gave away thousands of pieces of art during covid?

me.

who blamed people for not seeing his brilliance when he only presented things in coded messages?

me.

who decided that everyone but a select few choose easy and predictable because they are lazy, stupid, and unable to see potential or are too weak to be who they were meant to me?

me.

who wants to prove that he is the smartest one in the room?

me.

who thinks he knows better?

me.

who needs to go back and find everything that fell out of his man purse when he fell?

me.

who wants to help him find his reason?

his fun smirk that has been substituted for the off-brand, snarky, on sale version.

his i will do this attitude.

his validation for making someone believe in themself.

his i don’t need to compare myself posture.

his humanity that dresses his vanity. his vanity has been naked and running around the town square far too long.

his fuck you, i can do this too, to replace his fuck you, and you, and you, and this, and them and oh, go fuck yourself fuck you.

who wants to bring the box truck to scoop up and retrieve the scattered pile of validity he feels for helping someone.

i hope it is you.

i hope you still believe in me.

i hope you will still walk with me, behind me, or beside me to take on the thought that the little guy doesn’t matter, that there are no more underdogs, that only the wealthy win. because i am just like you.

i do not wake up every day and say i got this. i change my mind. i talk circles around what i know is best. i let money win. and fuck you, i hate myself when i do.

walk with me. call me out. hold my hand. tell me i got this. i don’t care if part of me is on your wall or not. i need help. i need to know i’m hitting the right buttons, and this is a difficult task. . . i am a validation pac man.

i need the dots.

could you every so often toss me a verbal dot? a “hey had a friend over, they loved glancing at my wall!”

a hey - “that saying you have hit home the other day, “

something along those lines.

i’m going dark for a little bit - i need to socially wake my feet through grass in a new landing spot. i need to ground my motivations, my desires, and my reasons behind my actions. i have no time table. but i do not think it will be long.

with this, i do not love the blackness, i love an evening with low light, soft sounds and a rhythmic cadence. if you would like to join me behind the scenes in the warm, yellow hued edison bulb glow, sign up for an array of notification, links, letters and lip stick colors i’ll be trying on to see what fits with my old attitude.

me. me. me.

i can do this, but only for a moment. i need you for the duration.

me - 4 points.

you - six points.

at least in scrabble, together we are a perfect 10.

beer is way over rated.

coffee is not good.

no shorts over leggings.

folded chips taste different.

football is dumb.

i’ve never been the most talented player on the team. but i do try to make those around me better.

sometimes leading can be by saying or doing something a little bit unpopular or not quite mainstream.

i’m going to start sharing a few of my unpopular opinions here. maybe once a week. maybe more, maybe less. this is not political or personal. this is fun and funny.

let’s start off with a big opening scene . . . “how does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten

spot in the caribbean by providence impoverished in squalor

grow up to be a hero and a scholar?”

i’m not quite sure because i lost interest about as quickly as he walked on stage. i give hamilton the musical 5 stars for making it to broadway, for the brilliant wordsmith-ing, and music composition - however, for overall performance and - oh, i want to see that again - zero stars.

let’s take it back to a sports analogy and making those around you better . . . as a man who wants to follow someone or something i believe in - i wouldn’t follow hamilton, as portrayed, into a starbucks.

it’s as if my house cat cleo had been cast as simba, or shaw shank had been narrated by gilbert gottfried. i’ll even skip the women fawning over him rant.

so sorry to all of you who posted a photo of your program while holding it high toward the marquee - hamilton is waaaaay overrated. and that, that is today’s unpopular opinion.

agree or disagree?

an artist is not a painter. a sculptor. one that can draw a face.

when you have a spark or notion and flip that into something tangible - nobody will ever know what it took to get it there. it’s intimate. it’s a connection. it becomes a conversation with yourself.

there is, and never will be such a thing as a cautious creative.

an artist does not think outside the box. there is no box. for the love of pete - please please please stop saying thinking outside the box.

an artist does not care about your weakness or perceived thoughts.

as an artist i leave a little piece of my soul everywhere my work goes. everywhere i go. i infuse change.

how many of us are fans of the show modern family? i am.

i think my kids watched with me mostly to see if i would tear up at the end. i have an all time favorite episode that makes me cry every time. it’s the punkin’ chunk’n episode.

basically, a family argument breaks out over the validity of a story and in the end scene they try to recreate the story of a pumpkin being chunk’d across a football field. . . during the scene - which goes about as well as you can imagine - there is a voice over rhythmically wrapping up the story.

“there are dreamers and there are realists in this world. you'd think the dreamers would find the dreamers and the realists would find the realists, but more often than not, the opposite is true.

you see, the dreamers need the realists to keep them from soaring too close to the sun. and the realists... well, without the dreamers, they might not ever get off the ground.”

i get it - i understand that i’m standing here in front of you representing what you might feel is heavily on the dreamers side. the last thing you need as a group of xxx is some “look at me - dressed artist dude,” telling you he has a better way to think . . .

when i have a group i’m facilitating on a painting execricse, i tell them that the scariest part is the white canvas. i guide them to just get some paint on the canvas. any color. anyway you want.

can you give me few minutes of time to just put a layer or two of color onto your canvas. i’ll help you at least get off the ground. . . and i’ll leave the rest of your journey up to you?

can we do that as a group? lets put down the reality that a slingshot is probably not going to snap a pumpkin across a football field and put our heads together and think of ways that - well, maybe, oh - actually if we have a thing going that does this or that we might be able to . . .

an artist.

is always an artist. (who he says he is)

is present.

is a problem solver.

is surprising - (not just edgy).

is a failure.

is always an artist. (who he says he is)

it’s true, if i wasn’t an artist, i would be an artist. it is all i know.

i can not be an artist for just the working hours of the day and then put on different clothes.

i’m an artist when i make sandwiches. when i get dressed. when i coach soccer.

something I always remember is “be a dishwasher.”

go ahead. pre-rinse that plate.

really?!

what is this, 1984?

are you telling me we can take a phallic rocket in space, start my car with my phone and have ai replace my sears portrait, but i can’t put my plate of spaghetti into the dishwahser without rinsing it? am i correct in that it is called a dishwasher? or is it just misnamed and should be referred to as a dishwetterer?

all of this to say - be what you say you are. if you are going to be a dishwasher - wash the freak’n dishes. if you are going to be a writer - write. if you are going to be a business coach - coach. if you want to be a maker - make. make lots. then make more.

an artist is present - yet in thought.

i remember around a jr. high age one of my dad’s seemingly favorite things to say to me was - “kent - think. . . use your brain son.” and of course he probably had a reason for this outburst. i’m sure to his black and white train of thought i was certainly off the rails. . . he loved to call me “minolta” which (and i’m dating myself here) was a camera brand in the early 80’s that had a tag line of “comes and goes in a flash,” - he like to say that my mind would come and go in a flash.

to be honest this was not my favorite thing my dad did and most of the time it was because my mind was off in the distance. i was thinking about how my silverware could be configured into a table sculpture, how to hid my broccoli in my napkin, or would get lost in thought as to why don zimmer the cud chewing manager of the chicago cubs was dressed in the same uniform as the players. i was always thinking. i am always thinking.

and not just thinking - i’m asking why? for those of you who are parents - do you remember the time frame your kids went through when all they could ask is why? “dad, why is the sky blue? why do dogs bark? why does spaghetti taste like spaghetti - why do we always draw suns with rays?”

at what point in our life do we stop asking questions?

somewhere along the line we start to get embarrassed because we might not know the answers?

so we stop asking questions.

seek curiosity.

asking a question does not mean you don’t know the answer. it is okay to look for a different answer.

asking a question does not mean you are trying to influence someone’s answer. as an artist i am not trying to “teach you my ways”. i am not a yoda like creature. i am simply trying to create a thought pattern in your mind. i’m attempting to make you think. i am the flint to your stone.

and i’m not just thinking with my brain but rather with all of my senses.

i’m a futbal’r. i played the sport since i was about 8 all the way through my 40’s competitively. i started coaching in my early 20’s and coached my son and his traveling teams / friends since he was 8 years old. he ended up being an all american and it’s something i hold very close to me. but what i love most about the real futbol is that it is a thinking sport.

soccer (as we americans call it for some reason) is a reactive thinking - it is fast paced. it is constantly changing. i understand that a majority of you see soccer as a sport where few goals are scored and there are no time outs to go get a snack while you watch - (here’s the funny thing - football is like 21 - 14 and we are like - high scoring! um, it’s 3-2 people).

in futbol, one of the most important skills is receiving the ball - do you know that that is the number one thing that makes you a decent futbol’r vs. an outstanding or a professional futbol’r? its your reception.

your first touch - does your touch allow you to keep the ball or does it put it too far out in front of your opponent for him to steal it.

do you set yourself up for the next touch or do you have to chase after it.

there is this thing called taking the ball off or your standing foot. it’s a technical description for which foot your receive the ball with.

i can watch a professional game and tell you with certainty which foot a player will receive the ball with 95% of the time before he touches it. i can watch an amateur game and guess about half of that. go down levels and that percentage deceases.

how are you able to receive what you observe?

does it bounce away - do you use it for your work?

jerry seinfeld when talking about when he is trying to write material with howard stern joked about how he is “always trying to write material” - he joked that he was never even really present with his family because he was always writing material. it’s both a blessing and a curse.

okay, one more futbol reference. and a second reason why futbol is better than football and considered the beautiful game -

listen to these two examples and tell me which one you would rather listen to on a sunday afternoon. . .

peter drury describing the first time cristiano renaldo stepped back onto the pitch (that’s the field for you baseball is out national pastime and the cowboys are america’s team people). . .

madeira, manchester, madrid, turin, and manchester again.

wreathed in red.

restored to this great gallery of the game.

a walking work of art.

vintage.

beyond valuation, beyond forgery or imitation.

18 years sine that trembling teenager of touch and tease first tiptoed onto this storied stage.

now in his immaculate maturity cr7 re-united

or - how about troy aikmen describing a football play.

josh bynes has been coming all night but right now he pulls out, it’s just hard - its been a while since he’s seen a hole that big. he didn’t know what to do.

if you are observing with all of your senses - then chances are so are those around you.

appeal to their pallet. you might not know which is their strongest - so try to hit them all.

an artist remembers the moment without their phone out. the full panoramic view. the tingle. the smell. the sound. all of that is missed with your damn phone in your hands. all of it. want to pull the ultimate flex. - don’t flex. be the one on the photo without your camera. remember it. all the details. we have lost that. everyone close their eyes - go to someplace when you were around 10 years old. i’m on a baseball field. i’m scared. it was a stadium from what i can remember and conjur up in my memory. i was the first batter. i was nervous. i can smell the dirt. i can hear my dad. the catcher smack his mitt. i hear the umpires shin guards crack as he bends. i think i grounded out to the shortstop. i actually remember a lot from that game. i remember i can play. i don’t have to be nervous. i don’t remember the score. but there was a parking lot behind the field. the grass was super green. the bases the hard rubber kind.

what details can you place in your memory. what tiny details are important?

an artist picks those details. those moments. a camera does not. holding a camera takes all of those senses away. it blinds. it deafens.

an artist is surprising.

Read more

“Two.”

Two? Yep.

Dos. Deux. That is precisely how many questions you can ask Kent Youngstrom before he starts to lowkey bristle at the interruption of his time (think “super soft geriatric toothbrush” kind of bristling).

Kent Youngstrom’s artist’s studio, a 2,000 sqf warehouse, sits behind a conveniently located QT convenience store in a suburban-y industrial park outside of Charlotte. I am also conveniently located at that very QT as Kent does an afternoon energy drink run, $17 spent on harsh-yet-satisfying jolts of creatine.

Topped off with energy drinks, we set off on the rest of Kent’s Point A to Point E errands trip: to FedEx to ship YOUR painting (hopefully?), then to the dry cleaners, then possibly a peanut butter banana smoothie (fingers crossed), ending at Harris Teeter to buy whole wheat pizza dough for the studio Ooni oven.

“Why only two questions?” I asked him after we had returned to his studio, smoothies in hand (cha-ching). “Wait, did that count as a question? Am I out of questions?”

He ignores my questions about the questions.

“I run out of words,” he says. He grabs the Roku remote and turns on the television. Kent has gone all gaga and heart-eyes over Netflix’s beautiful nature series, Our Planet II. Whether it’s the sheer volume of red crabs on Christmas Island or the sneaky seal-stealing polar bears, he’s obsessed. “Make a hole, mom! Get the pup!” he yells to the screen. He relaxes with an audible exhale only after the mother seal pulls her seal pup through a hole in the ice, just out of reach of the polar bears’ mitts. Don’t tell anyone, but this guy’s got a heart the size of a walrus.

I am, however, beginning to suspect that his “running out of words” bit is based entirely on the cleverness of his interlocutor. His sharp wit is irritatingly quick—it begs players in his conversations to keep up with his verbal sparring. We spent a solid fifteen minutes creating workable puns out of the last names of former presidents (“Eisenhower you?”). He’s not shy about his intelligence, laughing close to tears whenever he comes up with a passable play (“Come on, that was so good!”).

Five p.m. in Kent’s studio doesn’t look like the EOB you’re probably used to. He’s on the creative ascent of his day, his administrative duties (read: bulk ordering, printing out FedEx shipping labels, etc.) were completed pre-lunch but post-CrossFit. Using a notched rubber spatula designed for cake decorating, he pulls texture across the canvas. I’m gathering that Kent doesn’t use many items how they’re intended as I roll out the Ooni pizza dough with his “rolling pin” (it’s a cardboard mailing tube).

Overall studio vibe is mid-century modern meets spin art. Canvases stack against black studio walls, and green plants pepper the studio, each in various stages of, um, un-alive-ness. His art hangs across the studio at 57” center (the intensity with which he tells you always to hang your art at 57” center! warrants that exclamation mark). He sits down in his vintage Herman Miller rolling chair, an orange-cushioned, paint-pocked gem (circa ’73) found two decades ago in a dumpster in Chicago. A stifled yawn interrupts a sip of a caffeine-free Zevia cola from a needs-to-be-washed Yeti tumbler, which is set down again on his behemoth coffee table made from the wood of a now-gutted bowling lane.

He pulls out his kraft brown journal, a “mind”field of ideas for new paintings, novel (if not prudent) business ideas, clever greeting card sayings, and ideas for potential collaborations with other artists (looking at you, Macklemore). Morgan Wallen croons about love + whiskey over the Bluetooth speaker, and the tv is now murmuring ESPN sports stats. Kent rolls his eyes, calling out the idiocy of rehiring Gregg Berlacher as the coach of the USA’s World Cup team.

“He doesn’t know how to coach!” he shouts at the television, his eyebrows wired into arcs of annoyance. “I’m not even going to get started,” he grumbles. He gets up from the chair and heads to the cluster of new Queen + King paintings. I hear the hiss of a Montana spray can (color: black) and the subsequent rattle of a box fan. He bebops to an adjacent table covered in a series of canvases, six 9 x 12s brushed with blues and greens. FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON’T GIVE UP is scrawled across each canvas in Kent’s recognizable all-caps penmanship. Viscous resin drips down the sides of the canvas, catching on pre-laid wax paper. With a blowtorch, we heat-treat the air pockets bubbling through the epoxy. (I admittedly wielded the Bernzomatic awkwardly, my pulse quick-stepping when I thought I set fire to one of his paintings.)

He stretches his right arm above his head, his forearm covered with inked raspberry and honeysuckle vines. These botanicals play the second stage to wide, flowering peonies that sleeve up his arms; a paintbrush-headed octopus inks his shoulder.

“I’m the octopus,” he says, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Always doing eight things at once.” I can see what he means—he’s a solitary creature for most of his day, a balloon filled with air and then let go, ricocheting his path around the studio.

His mind is Mardi Gras, a carnival of a million ideas, coupled with burgeoning anxiety and the EST start time for every Premiere League match. In his occupation, he is both the puppeteer and the marionette, in charge of manipulating the same strings that pull him from one project to another. His hourly thought: What do I have to do next? His to-dos flip eternally through a sort of cognitive Rolodex: canvases, clients, collaborations, costs.

“My brain is still painting when it’s time to sleep,” he admits.

He’s recently turned to meditation to perhaps coax his brain into a type of stillness, even if for just a few minutes. A pause in the energy. A shift in his mindset. Although still malleable in his mastery, these moments force Kent to rest—and to reset.

“I want to be present with people, with painting. And to think of more puns,” he says.

While he is learning to sit in stillness, by no means does he sit still. His pacing is trophy-worthy. So incredibly movement-centered Kent is, he has, on occasion, stripped down to his Tommy Johns to jump into a rowing competition as an impromptu stand-in. (There are photos.) Kent stands up from his chair and begins again to wear out the studio’s concrete floors. “Have you seen my ____________?” peppers the air (options here include his wallet, phone, paintbrush, box cutter—take your pick). He’s a blur in his Beers for Burpee’s tee, spackle-covered jorts, and yellow Adidas sneakers. Acrylic paint graffiti his shoes with abandon, a cacophony of color splattered across suede. This pair is but one in his plethora of paint shoes—he’s a bit of a sneaker enthusiast (“enthusiast” seems mild, actually).

His wall of kicks is a point of pride for Kent.

“I remember the first pair of shoes I bought that I really wanted,” he says. “A pair of Pumas. They were $80 or something.” That sweet suede did a number on this guy; what served as an occasional reward for selling a painting turned into shoegasms of the canvas and leather varieties, including a hand-sewn pair reclaimed from old baseball gloves.

In high school, a strict dress code shoe policy was enforced: the penny loafer. This uncomfortable choice didn’t make, er, cents to Kent, and he hated the sound of their clickety-clack on the linoleum. Even during high school and college soccer, he had to play in pairs of secondhand cleats (RIP Patrick cleats with a big hole in the toe). To this day, good quality, kinda-obscure shoes sure make him all fluttery inside. He maaay still celebrate an achievement or two with a new pair of the coolest shoes you’ve never heard of. You’ll have to ask him.

Kent’s a fascinating object of study. He chucks a chunk of wadded plastic wrap at the trash can (he made it), drops his marker on the table, and urgently scans the studio’s perimeter, neck craned. He flicks his forefinger, murmuring a singsongy “mmhmm!” as he takes off to the back corner of the studio. Here exists his colony of spray paint—he chooses a teal blue and a fine-tip cap. As he shakes the can, the marble inside clatters against its aluminum sides.

Naturally goofy and unnaturally clever, Kent exudes a certain confidence (sans bravado). He’s a thinker with a distaste for mediocrity. He believes in his ability to create something that means something to you. Something that matters. He sees the beauty in thinking differently, in shattering clichés to create stunning visual conversations for you. He’s a little glowy with gentle pride for the work he does. However, inverse to this confidence is its warring counterpart: the sting of imposter syndrome. Fears pierce him, as well, targeting his deepest vulnerabilities. For just a moment, I am privy to his admission of inadequacy: Kent Youngstrom, the giant ruse. We are navigating some expansive emotional territory here on these splattered floors.

“I never thought I’d be an artist where someone would buy my work,” he admits. Who really knows how to become anything? He has spent most of his fifty years thinking, problem-solving, and behaving differently (he has a standing appointment for gray matte gel nails at the salon down the street). While Kent has always been an artist, transitioning to full-time artist-ing required a deviation from the regular 9-to-5.

His shift from design to full-time painting was pock-marked with challenges. For one, money WAS an object; the cost of purchasing art supplies felt foreign and uncomfortable. To combat receipt shock, Kent took a night job answering phones for Land’s End. After morning workouts and the daily school carpool, he would work and paint and create in his two-car garage, learning how to call himself an artist. Rinse and repeat.

Surprises were the norm. When he first began painting bulk orders for CB2 in 2012, he ordered the boxes in which he would package each hand-painted piece. Assuming the boxes arrived ready to ship, he was wholly surprised (and pissed) when the boxes came flat and unassembled. He was suddenly in need of a tape machine.

Really, he knew nothing about selling art. Once, he won a blue ribbon for Best Booth but sold approximately, well, nothing.

“The ribbon they gave me still hangs in my studio,” he says, a reminder of just where he started. At his first Harding Art Show, he showed up with naked paintings (not of people, just minus any boxes, wrapping material, and prices). The only piece he sold? A painting of wine bottles. For $300. And he needed the $300.

“I could’ve skipped around the room,” he says.

He tells me stories of mispriced products and having to honor the mislabeled price (eek, $500 for a $5000 painting?), mixed-up deadlines, remaking paintings for clients when he made mistakes, and accidentally wasting expensive materials.

“I still don’t know how to clean my oil brushes really well,” he says, shrugging.

As a result of a tough (and ongoing) artist’s journey, Kent is a staunch supporter of the underdog. A deep-rooted attraction for work ethic (in him and others) has him cheering on those who work hard(er) to upset the champion. In the same vein, he’ll admit to his mid-level leaderboard standings.

“I’m not the best player on the soccer pitch. I’m not the best artist in the community,” he says. “But I’ll make you want to be on my team. I will make you a better player. I will make us a better team. I will work harder than anyone else.”

Cue music from a sports movie montage.

What some people don’t understand, Kent explains, is the sacrifice of others who have invested in him—the generosity of others’ wisdom and time. Artists, mentors, and businesses have provided him with slips of information, networked with him their resources, and neighbored with him at art shows. People have believed in him. They continue to believe in him. They have given him grace and knowledge in the best way.

Along those lines, he has become an artist venture capitalist, if you will. He has followed the lead of those who led him, and he currently invests his resources into, drumroll please, the underdogs by mentoring local artists and photographers.

Remember the octopus? He’s getting antsy. (This is my fault, I brought too many questions.) Kent propels himself through the studio, adding final touches to canvases. His pinky finger twitches slightly as he surveys his work. I blurt out my final question: Why does he choose to be generous with others?

He pauses his brush strokes: “Because people were generous with me.”

At this, he puts his paintbrushes away and sits on his pink, graffitied couch, his computer in his lap. He and I sit in comfortably awkward silence for a few moments. I notate and scrawl observations in my notebook, and he politely ignores me.

It’s fine, though.

He has finally run out of words.

Expose by Kiera Brynne

these random thoughts are composed in no particular order.

stand up straight. be confident in your speech. those who you are standing next to currently will always know your name and who you are, but will not necessarily be the one’s shaping your life in the future. their opinion of what you are doing, wearing or excited about does not matter.

be a beacon of light for those who need it. be firm with those who build themselves up by poking at others. helping others will help you more than you know. the cool kids end up not being the cool kids.

where you go to school (college) does not matter. how you attack the reason you are there does. learn. work. put everything into why you are there. volunteer / intern in the field that you want to be in. hang around. soak in knowledge.

as an athlete there will come a time in your not so distant future when you will say, “ i should have.”

“i should have run more in the summer.”

“i should have juggled and gotten more touches on the ball.”

“i should have put the controller down and gone outside.”

you will never get those chances back. but someone else is out there running and taking those touches. and taking your spot.

you have what it takes. after seeing those that quote “made it,” or played in “big time” programs, you can make it.

never be afraid to do things in a different way than others. everything has a different answer other than the obvious one.

be that guy. be the guy no one knows about until you show up. and when you do show up. show up. take over. be a force. win. shake hands. walk away.

work until they remember your name.

work until they can’t make a plan without you.

work at everything. not just the skill. not just the fitness. but the why and the where. develop a knack for being at the right place at the right time – every time.

eat better.

but enjoy mcdonalds + chick-fil-a while you still can.

say thank you to your mom and dad.

keep your room clean.

acne will eventually go away.

learn to tie a tie.

learn to separate white’s from colors – but for your laundry only. everything else should be blended together.

open doors for girls. they like that.

say “thank you,” more than you think you need to. especially when you get married. say “thank you,” and “i’m sorry,” and “you were right”. say them often.

no matter where you are – learn to be present and accounted for.

believer it or not, you will carry a phone in your pocket. keep it there. it doesn’t need to be in front of you all the time.

learn things just to learn them.

get a job. not for the money, but to learn how things work. learn how to work with people – learn that not everyone has the same values, beliefs or priorities that you do.

the world changes fast and everything you seem to need will be at your fingertips, but really it is all just the same. do unto others as you would have them do unto you. . .

success is the sum of small efforts repeated day in and day out.

even though you won’t understand why or how or ever really believe it, know that you have something god given that influences people. use it to lead.

someday you will get to be in charge of a group of kids about your age. take advantage of that. don’t just teach them how to to kick, where to run and how to score goals.

teach them that the assist the important statistic.

teach them that they can do more as a team than as an individual.

teach them that following the path of everyone else is just a looping circle to no where.

teach them that it is only different or stupid until it works + then everyone will start doing it that way.

teach them that inviting an outsider can improve them all together.

teach them that girls can play too.

teach them to stand up for each other.

tell them often you are proud of them.

tell them individually that they are each an important part of the team.

so 15 year old kent – know that there are some really good times ahead. listen to your teachers, your coaches, and yes, even your parents – soak it all in.

enjoy three more years in high school. when coach ben bellman slots you in at right back for a varsity scrimmage, win your first tackle. knock the senior on his butt with the one after that and then enjoy the next three years.

have fun playing in west virginia. it’s hotter than heck there.

when your last game is played, and after all the practices, the training, the time that you spent dreaming about what would be next and you never get to see the field that night – and it doesn’t end like you dreamed – you will sit in a dark spot until everyone else leaves. no one will see you and they will lock the gate. you will have to climb the fence and walk the few block back to campus alone. you will always remember that feeling.

don’t forget it.

don’t ever forget it.

it will drive you for the rest of your life. never again will someone else control what you do or what you can be a part of. no one else will write your ending. it will teach you to teach and to coach – and what that means and what an impact you can have on those around you.

embrace that.

15 year old kent.

and make it your life’s goal to never. ever. never say i should have.

i’ve got it, I think. i’ve figured it out.

about six months ago, i was painting a group of pieces for a show to be held during art basel week in miami. for several weeks, my art studio had been an energy drink explosion combined with an attack on paint and marking pens. sitting in my studio rolling chair, i pushed back and sighed deeply. and i decided i liked where i was at. i felt like i had pushed the line between challenging myself and challenging those who look at my work to think. just think.

it was not middle-of-the-road. what i created actually said something.

in my excitement at the canvases stacked along my wall, i said to myself in a sing-song voice, “i know someone who likes you. me. me. me me me me.” in a furious moment of synchronicity, my thoughts came together: that’s it, I thought. the work is brilliant, but add a small line of pieces that say just that: “i know someone who likes you. – me.”

a new line of work was born out of a simple thought based on weeks of involved, arduous painting. painting that sometimes pained me and my psyche and deprived me of sleep. just like that, however, this work came so easily.

it was done. and it was my best. ever. and i knew it.

. . .

here is what they don’t teach you.

in life, there is no grade. there is no warning. there just is.

and here is how it is.

i painted somewhere north of 100 pieces to say what had been on my mind and in my world. i packed these paintings in the back of my sprinter van and have taken these paintings over 2,800 miles to many art shows (with bulk packs of energy drinks) from chicago to miami. i have hauled, lifted, repaired, touched up, stood in front of, talked about, posted up, meditated over, sweat at showcasing, and sage-burned all of it. all of it – with little to no validation of my process.

and it is crushing me.

i will smile and talk to you about it. i’ll gently push away your “what’s your inspiration?” question with a diverted and scripted answer about the process, doubling down that inspiration is for amateurs only because it hurts too much to give the honest answer that THIS is what has been stuck inside of me for far too long.

in full disclosure, there have been small moments of reward. i have heard validating comments and remarks about how creative these pieces are or how this work is the best at the show. i’m told often that someday, a particular person will save up just enough to buy a kent youngstrom original.

of those 100+ pieces, i have sold a handful. and i love that they are where they are supposed to be.

but i don’t know what to do. i have so many that i thought would be loved enough to be taken home by someone. to have my time, thoughts, and work exchanged for currency earned by someone else’s time, thoughts, and work.

but they are still here – in fact, they still sit stacked high in my van because i can’t physically take them out of their boxes one more time.

do i paint over them all?

do i burn them?

give them away?

i cannot live with them in my space. i cannot look at my wall and see – “fuck you, i am the trend,” when all my mind does is flip the words to read: “yeah, you thought you were the trend. you should know better; you were taught to save, not to risk. you knew you weren’t capable of being that big – you are more comfortable being small.” i cannot read “pull me through the crowd” and be put back in the exact place where i knew i needed to turn that thought into a painting. i can’t remind myself of the hurt a painting can do (so assumed by many to be happy, flirty, and fun) that caused me to spray the words and stand in front of them.

i cannot lower the personal value of each piece and create some illusion that i’m not having a sale by having a sale. i sold a piece or two for below the numbers on the price tag, and to be oklahoma honest, all i did was lower the value of the words on the painting as to the experience it was for me.

my work is my life. yes – “all he does is paint words.” words are intimate parts of my life, and i’m guessing in yours too. i paint stories in short verse form; i attempt to transfer the energy of my experience to you. perhaps i value that more than others – or more than others are willing to pay.

i don’t know what to do.

i might give them away.

and that’s where my painting brain has stopped for now.

so i’m pushing back in my vermilion orange, vintage herman miller office chair, the one a bit cantilevered and covered in paint, thinking – this is my favorite part, when i’m stuck – because on the other side of this is “i got it.”

i’m just not so sure this time.