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I barely got by in college. As a matter of fact I got booted (twice) from The University of Tennessee for failing academically. Do not fret, I worked overtime, jumped through several requirements to be readmitted and ultimately received a Bachelors in Science.

But it wasn’t the framed diploma or the Volunteer orange that helped me cross the finish line. It was a young lady who said she wanted to carry my last name for the rest of her life. She didn’t tutor me or give me a lift to the library. She didn’t tell me to buck up or grow up. She didn’t call to get me out of bed or ever shame me for graduating with a 2.1 GPA. Instead she kinded me to something more.

Yes, I said kinded… an adjective changed into a verb by the love of a 21 year old. If you know Kathie you know exactly what I’m taking about. There is a loving-kindness that is pervasive to all of who she is, personally, socially, intellectually and, without a doubt, artistically.

As of this writing we are 44 years married and she is still kinding me to something more. More with friendships, more with my own interior life, more with family, more with strangers and even more with my own attempt to paint.

A few weeks ago Kathie taught 45 artists over three, 3-day workshops on Edisto Island, South Carolina and I witnessed an instructor kinding others to more in their artistry. It’s a bit difficult to explain but I caught this photo of her (orange shirt standing in the center) doing what she calls a walkabout with students, and it was that moment her exuberance for painting, for nature, for seeing, for artists and for living life splashed over all of us. It was a master-level 20 minutes on how to look!

I write this to say – While you can and while Kathie can, heavily consider learning from her. You will not regret it. Click here for details on her 2026 Winter Online course.

I will be nearby too. (I can't get enough of her)

Buddy

Although Kathie was an art major in college when we met, she didn’t pick up oil painting until fifteen years ago, because I gave her a plein air workshop for her 50th birthday. Back then she told me how she would like to try her hand at oils and get away from mats and glass cutting and all that came during her picture-framing days. So off to John C Campbell Folk school we went.

Much of her story has been documented in various forms since then, but what is not known is what I am about to tell you. About eight years ago, let’s call it 2015, as she was securing event invitations, gallery representations and teaching opportunities, we were driving off the grid to our favorite place on earth… about an hour’s drive from our house and into the Great Smoky Mountains Nat’l Park. Elkmont.

As we drove she looked deadpan at me and said with a curiosity I had never heard before, “When we get set up in our campsite, it’s my turn to have a question for you”. She definitely had an agenda which was soon to be revealed.

With the pop-up camper all popped up and a small fire laid, Kathie said, are you ready? (There was no way to respond but in the affirmative). “What were you thinking by marrying an artist?”, she asked.

In the long quiet I reflected back on our college days and, in my mind’s eye, I saw her toting an oversized portfolio to drawing class, I met her muddied-self after throwing a pot in ceramics and witnessed her ever-so-lively spirit when she used foreign words like batik and raku. But what did I think?

The only hint of me seeing her as an artist showed up two years after we married when the local Dogwood Arts Festival held its annual open show. I can only now imagine the pre-children, pre-late-in-life art career, 24-year-old excitement as she received the notice in the mailbox. Her very first post-college show, first award and first red dot. She must have flown high as a kite that evening!

But then finally, with the sound of the creek as our only backdrop, I admitted, “I never thought of you as an artist. I only was thinking of me.”

In hindsight, it seems to me, that her question and my unaware confession opened a floodgate of seeing Kathie anew there in the mountains. Since that moment I began to notice her as always being an artist because… isn’t that a mother? Isn’t that a sister? Isn’t that a daughter? Isn’t that a wife?

Isn’t that a woman?

Now, go spend your days together asking good questions.

BuddyO

Kathie and I could not be more grateful for your gift to us last night. It’s been quite a while since we have, oh, how do I say this… worshipped like that. Upon the eve of the Plein Air Convention here in Santa Fe, our cup overflows!

Flamenco.

Who would’ve ever thought that Flamenco dancing would tap such a vein in me? And who could’ve imagined such a raucous party rising from one single guitar, one alto and four stomping heels?

My, oh my. The Spaniards reached beyond themselves with such a restrained power, feeling the multi-paced serenade. Their passion spilled onto each of the several dozen onlookers, leaving us only to bear witness to the act of creating right before our very eyes.

Dostoevsky once wrote, Man can live without science, he can live without bread, but without beauty he could no longer live, because there would no longer be anything to do to the world. The whole secret is here, the whole of history is here.

These artists poured out. And in their pouring out, they brought beauty to the world... they brought it to me. I opened my eyes, as art helps me, to the joy of seeing. What a great night!

A Holy Paint

Kathie Odom

12x12, Oil on Linen

May this be week of beauty. I know it wouldn’t be happening without you!

BuddyO

[1]

Dear Harlan,

Sometimes I find it hard to gather words sufficiently. But I decided long ago not to let that shut me down in speaking or writing. Thus my brief letter to you.

I like the way you lived.

In my mind’s eye I can see you now stepping Thoreau-ish into the woods with an axe in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. That plaid flannel shirt was your go-to and there was such resoluteness in your ways. At first glance one might call you a quiet farmer. But your silence was of the contemplative nature that longed for bird song to echo around in your soul. And your farming was simply an expression of your hunger to create, as you also did with watercolors and oils. You once said, “A painting, to be good, must be done with dash and abandonment, even one which has meticulous detail. If one niggles over it, the result is dull and lifeless.”

Well, dull and lifeless you were not! After building a shantyboat out of whatever was at hand, you and Anna took years to actually float the Ohio River from Kentucky clear to New Orleans… stopping only to grow summer crops on a south-facing slope! You loved the earth and treated her as a loving mother, receiving not taking.

In your paintings I see that non-niggling dash and abandonment, sort of like author Annie Dillard describes, 

One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water. Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.[2]

[3]

 Campbell County Hill Farm

Oil on Canvas, 22x28

As far as I am concerned, Harlan, you emptied your creative savings account on Campbell County Hill Farm. And for that I am indebted. You see, that’s me taking the final trek to where Papa plows the team. When I make the turn toward Dale Ridge he will see me, and I will be home.

When painters like yourself give it all, it serves us all. When artists speak story into us, it calls story out of us. When the hours of mixing and dreaming and wiping out and starting over and story-telling with your brush turns into days, you are doing a good work of inviting others like me into living more fully alive.

That fully-alive thing happens in me too when Kathie calls out, “I just saw something! Turn the car around!” My blood starts to pump as well knowing we just passed an old forgotten home or a partially hidden trail marked by scores of yesterdays. As I pull over I’m aware that she has already begun to shoot it, play it, lose it, all. The foot of her dash and abandonment is tap-tap-tapping against the floorboard. And it affects me as well.

 (5)

We Gathered

Kathie Odom

Oil on Linen, 14x18

Countless times I have witnessed a sort of seed-to-fruit moment as a bystander gets caught up in the excitement of my wife bringing a blank canvas to life. Like you, Kathie wants her story-telling to come from her deepest places… all the way from her toenails, she likes to say.

The nature of the created universe is to give, not take. Hard to tell exactly what the result is from all your giving, Harlan, all your painting-what-I-feel-inside. But, whatever it is, it’s good. Give a little and more follow. And souls like mine expand on account of that giving. Yeah, that’s the end-product… an expanded soul!

And my expanded soul is grateful.

May you and Anna now somehow be creating in your rest and resting in creation,

Buddy

PS – Thank you, Wendell Berry, for introducing me to your good friend. [5]

[6]

Thank you for your recent note about missing out on one of Kathie’s pieces… especially the red-topped barn down on Concord. It is indeed a sadness that flames overtook that place.

Stepping inside a house of hay and livestock opens all your senses. As a kid I remember a muffled quiet out at the barn on Dale Ridge. The light would sliver its way through the single-layered boards and the wet pungency of animals would wrinkle my freckled nose. I was drawn to this place like ants to a picnic. Kathie too.

It must have to do with the way these old dinosaurs honor Mother Earth. As they sit royally on the farmer’s hill. As they rust, rot and reenter the ancient soil beneath. Or, as you put it, return ashes to ashes, dust to dust. These spots are sacred to her.

So in turn she works (yes, painting is quite hard work) to honor what is sacred before the inevitable occurs. She is an acolyte addicted to preservation and beauty, offering a dim but true rendition of dying things-almost-gone… a reverence of sorts.

Together may we learn to honor not only these sacred places but also those showing the way.

Peace to you,

BuddyO

Dear Matt,

We often get so caught up in the hurry of life that we forget to ask about the things that matter. But after our lively conversation over drinks last week, I was reminded how good it is to simply catch up with an old friend.

You were very curious about my relationship with Kathie. And you often seemed puzzled over the amount of time and effort I invest into the pursuit of her art career. Most striking to me was your statement as you were leaving, “Well, I guess it’s my wife’s turn to do her thing now!”

I think I was misunderstood.

Right or wrong, here are some truths:

- Yes, as soon as Kathie and I married, I gladly took on the burden of financial provision for our family.

- Yes, we worked hard to find a vocation that intersected with my passions.

- Yes, I found a great measure of personal satisfaction upon finding that job.

- And yes, even while shelving her creative gifts for almost thirty-five years to raise kids and send me into my new found mission, she deeply enjoyed watching me thrive!

I can see, Matt, how you might think I have allowed Kathie to now “have her turn” in this rocketing art career of hers! And I can see how it looks to watch me champion, promote and support her in every way I can think of.

But her new path was not mine to give. Plus, this cheerleading of mine was not born out of a need for equity or fairness. Instead it began with an honest look at two things.

First, I started to look at my own ignorance. (I mean this word in the truest, not mean-spirited, sense of the word). I ignored several things that were perfectly within my vision to see... mostly Kathie! I was so consumed with good things that I quickly began missing this young woman with whom I made vows. A few years ago after her career started to blossom, she asked me, “What were you thinking when you married an artist?” Frankly, I had no answer for her because I was busying myself with the pursuit of a wonderful life. You know… three kids, two cars, one house and a full belly.

Secondly, Kathie conveniently hid behind this wonderful life we had (have). But it was easier, much easier for Kathie to not paint. While extraordinarily demanding, it was somehow simpler to be the generous and kind woman who loved and encouraged a family and worked odd jobs while neglecting that once-fascinating and forever-stimulating joy of creating! Sure, she kept her juices flowing and hands busy with productive endeavors, but something was missing.

Make no mistake, Matt. While this life together is not completely ironed out, both Kathie and I are living with no regrets. And we know this crazy life cannot be settled with simplistic rules of fairness. Meanwhile, we want to live vibrantly today while not knowing what tomorrow holds. But (and this is a big but) there are longings deep within one another that need a lifetime of careful and intentional conversations to uncover.

The poet, Rainer Rilke, puts it this way: I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

Clearly, there is a celebration going on over Kathie’s quiet success. Her oil paintings continue to evolve as do her relationships within a vast art-loving community. She is not hiding as much… and I am, thank God, not quite so blind.

As you know, I am one proud husband that will follow her anywhere she wants to go. But I must remember. She is a book written in a foreign language.

Man, I love this book.

Thanks for picking up the tab,

Buddy

Side by Side

 16x20, Oil on Linen

It has been some forty-plus years since high school graduation, and I think of you. What a love you had for Latin! Your petite and brittle frame would slowly shuffle past our desks as we recited our conjugations… bo, bis bit, bimus, bitis, bunt. I wonder how many biologists and doctors cut their teeth under your guidance!

But, sorry, I am not one of them. I didn’t make it to med school. Nor did I complete Botany 101, a field that fascinates me to this day. But one claim I can make – I married a woman who daily practices Tabula Rasa.

As an artist, an oil painter in particular, Kathie begins with a blank canvas. A clean slate. A Tabula Rasa.

No boundaries. No rules.

Just a fresh start.

And why, Mrs. Browning, is a fresh start so frightening? How is it that a new beginning can seem so daunting? Not long ago, inspired by Kathie’s creative courage, I walked into the local art store to purchase a pencil and sketchbook of my own. I knew what a pencil was, but had to ask both where to find them and how to use them. I left with four. Four... like one was different than the other! Come to find out, they are. There are pencils for fine lines, smooth textures, shading, cross-hatching, sharp detailing, smudging and so on. (As if I was not frightened enough).

I still hold my breath when I watch my wife load a brush and lay a paint stroke with seemingly calculated ease. She explains that some of her art is painstaking and laborious while others seem to paint themselves. So, starting with a clean slate and a truck full of courage Kathie jumps in.

To Bee at Home, Oil on Linen, 16x20

It has taken several up-close and personal years with Kathie for me to discover that I want that. No, not to be an oil painter, but to be me… that way. Brave, risky and free! And so my Tabula Rasa begins. For two months now I have been practicing the discipline called sketching. It is absolutely terrifying, yet simultaneously, there is a strange exhilaration of possibilities. While my instincts are resistant to the idea of drawing a tree, something much deeper in my soul is awakened.

Sometimes fear and freedom seem like cousins.

Thanks for the B minus,

Buddy Odom

Class of 1975

Kathie and Buddy Odom at The Olmsted Plein Air Invitational, April, 2016

Although the Collector's Party has yet to happen, I wanted to drop this quick note of thanks for the greatest gift we will take home with us.

As I write Kathie is painting on this, morning seven, at John Kemp's Anchorage Farm near the Unionville Bridge. As usual, she awoke early and allowed me to tag along for the first light hunt, which is always an adventure!

But when we pulled onto Kemp's farm, an emotion quietly landed on us that is hard to explain… something close to reverence. Dual silos anchored the land as barns, sheds and outbuildings sat quietly within working distance of their parents. Dwarves by today's standards, the 35-footers were wrapped in chocolate and caramel tiles, slightly curved to consider the tubed walls to which they clung. An eight-foot wide cascade of trumpet vine split the cute couple.

Every sound heard and angle seen hinted at a long-past story still in gentle process. “Where do I begin?” Kathie whispered, as a century of sweat and harvest traced the breeze. This was a place ever so softly living in remembrance.

It is this that both plein air painting and you give to each artist here on the Eastern Shore… the chance to have an unhindered dialogue with a place. Yes, paintings will sell at the party. And yes, artists, collectors and the Avalon Foundation will enjoy a win-win-win evening. But nothing will replace the gentle process that does an inaudible work within us. That gentle process of hunt, dialogue, work and rest.

For working your ass off that this may be accomplished, Kathie and I are thankful.

Buddy

As a boy I would sleep summer months in the attic with my Papa. If the night air was cool enough, we would shut off the window fan and listen to the night. My eyelids stretched open to capacity as if to aid my ears. The quiet was sugar; it was pure.

My children and grandchildren will never have that easy offering for their souls. They will have to purposefully travel to highway-free, non-towered spaces to lay awake with the dark as my son once did on a trek in the Rockies…

Somewhere he sleeps,

or tries to.

The man who is mostly trunk

created to contain a

barrel of tears for

those near him.

And his young wife waits.

Entertaining herself with

those second to him.

And glad.

As one who is patient

with friends at Baggage Claim,

knowing he will show

to lay hand on

what is only his.

Meanwhile he sleeps,

or tries to.

Under a midnight sky white

with the electric salt

of God.

Astounded that he is loved,

one so prone to wander

in lust and pride.

His first son’s fate

rests on his return

or his neglect.

Love or loneliness press

tears to the Colorado sky.

Without limbs to reach,

the wetness turns left. And right.

And falls southward

into fleshy saucers.

As he tries to sleep.

I tell you this memory as I sit in the last fields of Ardrossan. Without words my wife and I seek the last drops of silence… she with paintbrush in hand and me with the written word. We all know the steady hum that, over a lifetime or two, rises to replace what Papa knew. And the warning chime reminds us all that the mechanized Caterpillar will have the final say.

But still, humbly, the silence lingers; by the disappearing songbird possessed by her nonstop assignment to feed and be fed. And by her endless quest to love and be loved, she ignores the rising hum... or has eye fixed on her larger mission. And by the absence of spoken words, Kathie and I contribute to and create the quiet. In so doing we both subtract and give ourselves to a place that fades.

As it gives itself to us.