Meet Kent Youngstrom

We’re excited to introduce you to the always interesting and insightful Kent Youngstrom. We hope you’ll enjoy our conversation with kent below.

Alright, so we’re so thrilled to have Kent with us today – welcome and maybe we can jump right into it with a question about one of your qualities that we most admire. How did you develop your work ethic? Where do you think you get it from?

a letter to me, the 15 year old kenT who has no idea what is ahead of him from kenT the coach, the dad, the artist formerly know as kenT the 15 year old.
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.

Appreciate the insights and wisdom. Before we dig deeper and ask you about the skills that matter and more, maybe you can tell our readers about yourself?

i moved to summit county utah in april of this year. i had been converting a barn in kamas into a studio for the last year or so. . . i recently celebrated my 52nd birthday with a gallery opening at the barn – complete with pizza truck, flash tattoos and an amazing sunset evening. one of the best parts of the evening for me was hearing murmurs of “i can’t believe this is a local event . . . thank you for brining this to kamas. . . thank you – we need more of this.” i am excited to fold my way into the fabric of the community here. and by that i mean – all of the community – not just the “creative community.” so often i think that as artists we want to be accepted by the art community and forget that our responsibility (at least i feel mine is) is to add something unexpected to the everyday lives of others – artists or not.

if you want to know more about what i think / my every day attitude, this expose by kiera brynne of eagle mountain, ut i believe says it best . . .

Kent Youngstrom holds up his first two fingers, his middle digit warped from an old basketball injury.

“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 2,500 sqf barn, sits one mile away from a conveniently located 7-11 convenience store known mostly as the last stop before entering the Uinta mountains. I am also conveniently located at that very 7-11 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 Ace Hardware to ship YOUR painting (hopefully?), then to the Home Depot, then possibly a peanut butter banana smoothie (fingers crossed), ending at Smith’s 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” on-center (the intensity with which he tells you always to hang your art at 57” on-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

If you had to pick three qualities that are most important to develop, which three would you say matter most?

what they don’t tell you in art school.
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 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.”

If you knew you only had a decade of life left, how would you spend that decade?

i want to make art. not content. i’m 52 and have too many amazing things to do and experience before i’m 82. making content for others to thumb through is absolutely, positively NOT on that list.

so i’ve said this. if i lose a sale because i’m not making content then so be it. i’ve made it this far. . . the following is a post based on my line of work titled. . . no risk. not story.

no risk no story is not just a saying – or a slogan.

it’s a risk.

it may not resonate like i think it will.

not everyone is a risk taker.

not every risk has a happy ending. but a lesson is always somewhere in the cereal box.

i’m scared.

so i packed up my safety, my khaki and my button down environment and moved across the country to a barn – paid way too much money and gambled on the mountains as my source of inspiration and financial return.

i’m all in.

and maybe all out.

i have no control. i only have my passion, my experience, my competitive desire to never lose.

i tried something last year and it didn’t work. it almost shut me down. it was and is product forward.

this is not. this is me saying out loud – i’m going for it.

i will be rejected. other artists will be chosen. i will be put on waiting lists. those that seemingly take the easy road will seemingly win.

i will get angry. i will curse.

i will try again and forget why i started. i will forget this is not a product. i will want more likes, and click and sales.

i will curse again.

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

i choose which case the letters are. every day.

i choose the actions. every day.

i choose to risk. every day.

everyday will be a story.

i want to hear yours.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://kentyoungstrom.com
• Instagram: @kentyoungstrom
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/kentyoungstrom/
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@kentyoungstromart
• Other: https://vimeo.com/kentyoungstrom

Image Credits

kori hoffman photography