Do Things That Don’t Scale

“So what do you do for work?”

I usually dread that question. I’m terrible at explaining what I do - at least in a tidy, short-sentence answer. But recently, I’ve adopted this line:

“I make art in nature.”

Which always perks up the questioner and leads to a lot more questions. But it’s a great conversation starter, and a hundred times more fun (and less clumsy) than trying to explain micro-resorts, hospitality development, consulting, and content in one breath.

Art in nature - I just love those three words together. And yes, I strive to make art out of every building, landscape, pathway, and parking space I design - and all the details that make them up.

But there’s another more literal meaning too.

As I told you last week, I’ve drawn around two dozen portraits this year. I’ve created each one at the long white oak desk in the nook, pushed right up against a wall of glass. When I draw, I’m surrounded by live oaks, green grass and birds moving through the frame all day long.

I make art. In nature.

—

But why have I chosen to spend a considerable chunk of my time this year doing all these portraits?

It’s not because I finally had the right space (that helped, but it also hurt as I wrote about last week). It wasn’t because I set some goal or scheduled creative time.

I made them because of the people I made them for.

This year has been full of friendships - new ones, old ones, and a lot of reflection on how much they matter to me. Drawing felt like a way of saying thank you. Of honoring who people are.

Not portfolio pieces, not content for social media, not inventory, not some marketing strategy.

Just gifts.

Made for specific people. By hand, and because I care.

That’s the reason I’ve done it, and why I plan to continue devoting a considerable chunk of time making more. There’s no joy like making other people feel joy. It’s addicting.

—

I’ve been thinking a lot about “doing less, but better.” About doing things that don’t scale.

In a world that worships efficiency and automation, there’s something deeply fulfilling about making one thing, for one person, that can never be replicated.

A portrait takes me hours, sometimes days. I can’t just crank them out. That makes no sense for me from a productivity standpoint. And that’s exactly why they matter.

People feel that.

But perhaps there are ways we can show this kind of care in business too. Carefully. This is what true hospitality is all about. One small example I’ve shared before from Live Oak Lake: the welcome gift.

Each guest arrived to a handwritten note and a small brown paper package of fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies. Nothing fancy, nothing automated-looking.

The system behind it was light enough that it hardly felt like a system at all. And that matters. Because the moment the card becomes just another box to check on the cleaning checklist, it dies. It stops being a gift and becomes a transaction.

We can all feel the difference.

(Will Guidara writes about all of this beautifully in Unreasonable Hospitality. He also shares ongoing real-world examples in his excellent newsletter: Pre-Meal. I highly recommend both.)

Finishing up a few portraits to give away in a couple days :)

The drawing I shared about last week came back because I stopped wondering “what should I make?” and started asking “who could I bless?”

You don’t need to be great at something for this to work. You just need to care. In art - and in gift-giving, which I think are really the same thing - love is the point. This is all especially true in the age of AI.

As my friends John and Ash Marsh say: “beauty is the result of love.”

It feels right to write about this now.

Maybe the gift is a drawing that captures someone’s essence. Maybe it’s a loaf of bread kneaded by hand, delivered to a neighbor. A long walk with someone who needs to talk. Building something with your kids. Writing a letter instead of sending a text. Sending a text instead of doing nothing.

Whatever it is, own it. Make it yours, make it real, make it for someone else.

Do things that don’t scale. Care about it. Give it away. I promise you’ll be happier. You’ll be making art. And the world will be more beautiful for it.

Merry Christmas all of you!