Tim Young
Portrait of the Artist as Real Estate Agent, Actor, and DJ

A resident of Grand Marais since 1985, visual artist Tim Young says, “I’m inspired by everything. When you come up to the North Shore, you can look in almost every direction, and see beauty.”

In fact, Young’s creativity takes in everything from sensual male nudes to whimsical “alphabet paintings,” which embed key words in otherwise abstract works of art.

Young explains, “I’m inspired by not only the natural beauty, but also by the people. I would say that, even though we have a really small population here, I have more close friends here than I would have in Minneapolis. You get really compartmentalized [there].”

Though his success can’t be denied—Young exhibits at six different locations along the North Shore, including his own gallery—he confesses that the real estate company he inherited from his family remains his “bread and butter.”

Aside from art and real estate, Young also has a radio show on a local station, and he acts in community theater. Perhaps it’s this more-than-visual-art lifestyle that makes his paintings seem relevant as well as esoteric.

Whatever the reason for its appeal, Tim Young is a name to watch in the Minnesota art scene.

For more information on Young’s paintings, visit http://www.timouth.com/paintings

I get asked this question from time to time. I have a lot of Superman stuff, including a Superman tattoo. I even made my own spandex Superman costume (pictured above). Yes, it’s all a costume, including the hair.

I liked Superman when I was a kid… had some Superman comics. But it really started after 9/11 when I heard Five For Fighting‘s Song, “Superman, It’s not easy.” I thought a lot about the idea of heroes, and finding something heroic in myself. I always hear about people who have done heroic things saying that they just acted in the moment without trying to be a hero. I hope that I will do the right thing when faced with a situation where I can help someone who needs me.

He is more than the fanciful daydream of two Cleveland schoolboys. He is the 20th-century archetype of mankind at its finest. He is courage and humanity, steadfastness and decency, responsibility and ethic. He is our universal longing for perfection, for wisdom and power used in service to the human race.

I love vintage Americana.

What’s not to love about Superman?

I get asked this question from time to time. I have a lot of Superman stuff, including a Superman tattoo. I even made my own spandex Superman costume (pictured above). Yes, it’s all a costume, including the hair.

I liked Superman when I was a kid… had some Superman comics. But it really started after 9/11 when I heard Five For Fighting‘s Song, “Superman, It’s not easy.” I thought a lot about the idea of heroes, and finding something heroic in myself. I always hear about people who have done heroic things saying that they just acted in the moment without trying to be a hero. I hope that I will do the right thing when faced with a situation where I can help someone who needs me.

He is more than the fanciful daydream of two Cleveland schoolboys. He is the 20th-century archetype of mankind at its finest. He is courage and humanity, steadfastness and decency, responsibility and ethic. He is our universal longing for perfection, for wisdom and power used in service to the human race.

I love vintage Americana.

What’s not to love about Superman?

Yesterday I walked out on the point beyond the Coast Guard Station in Grand Marais to shoot pictures of the Hjordis, one of my favorite warm weather activities. While I was out there, I noticed this tree, which I first painted about 16 years ago. It looked particularly beautiful to me yesterday. It’s been there all these years but I keep walking past it, not really noticing it anymore. It looked so pretty I was inspired to paint it.

Yesterday I walked out on the point beyond the Coast Guard Station in Grand Marais to shoot pictures of the Hjordis, one of my favorite warm weather activities. While I was out there, I noticed this tree, which I first painted about 16 years ago. It looked particularly beautiful to me yesterday. It’s been there all these years but I keep walking past it, not really noticing it anymore. It looked so pretty I was inspired to paint it.

David: Vermouth
James: Youth
Ron: Mouth
Debbie: Mouth (because I do radio)
Anonymous: “Time Out”

It’s actually just the first two syllables of my name, Timothy. Timouth. Some people have a hard time pronouncing it. It rhymes with Plymouth. At the time I chose the name, I had 3 vintage Plymouths. A 1962 Savoy Station Wagon, a 1964 Savoy 4 door sedan and a 1966 Fury III.

As with my paintings, I think it’s fun to hear other people’s interpretations of what it might mean.

David: Vermouth
James: Youth
Ron: Mouth
Debbie: Mouth (because I do radio)
Anonymous: “Time Out”

It’s actually just the first two syllables of my name, Timothy. Timouth. Some people have a hard time pronouncing it. It rhymes with Plymouth. At the time I chose the name, I had 3 vintage Plymouths. A 1962 Savoy Station Wagon, a 1964 Savoy 4 door sedan and a 1966 Fury III.

As with my paintings, I think it’s fun to hear other people’s interpretations of what it might mean.

Tonight Madeline is refusing to go to sleep.
She wails from her crib, freely expressing
her displeasure at being put to bed.

I just walked from the dark window in my room
to the corner (also dark),
then to the living room, then back here again.
I suppose a part of me is screaming like Madeline
from the news I got tonight – of my mother’s cancer.
The word looks so odd to me there on the page.
My grandmothers both had cancer,
but not so early in their lives.
My grandmothers are both dead.
Another word that looks very odd.
But my mother is not dead.
Her discomfort is proof of that.
This is exactly the news I have dreaded for so long.
When the thought of losing a parent
first crossed my mind a couple of years ago,
the very idea filled me with panic.
A sickening panic and overwhelming fear.
I still remember that initial response
and now that I’m faced with the reality of it,
I only feel numb.
As though I also have gun under anesthesia –
and so I make myself write it… coldly?
I don’t mean it to be cold.
I don’t mean it to be at all.
I only want it to go away.
And maybe it will.
With more surgery,
and with radiation.
Maybe it will go away,
and maybe her face will be OK.

Dad talked tonight on the phone – about God,
about church, about Bible study,
and I told him I’d pray for Mom but…
But pray for what?
To tell God what’s going on?
How I feel?
How Mom feels?
If he doesn’t know, then he won’t be of much help.
We all die.
We all know we all die.
And if God already knows about my fear,
about mom’s pain,
how much I love her,
and how I can’t imagine the world
without her in it somewhere,
then maybe this is my prayer to him
right here in my notebook.

Gentle Jesus, comfort us all.
Comfort Madeline who doesn’t want to go to sleep
and help us all accept
our inevitible time to sleep.
But wake us again in a happier place,
well rested and full of light and love.

As a child on vacation,
I had to endure many hours at a time on the road.
Mom always told me to lie down and go to sleep,
and when I woke up, maybe we’d be at Grammy’s house.
I wonder if that is what it’s like to die?
When we wake up, we’ll be at Grammy’s.
The journey passes with our father at the wheel.
Our only job is to rest while he takes care of us.

1998

Tonight Madeline is refusing to go to sleep.
She wails from her crib, freely expressing
her displeasure at being put to bed.

I just walked from the dark window in my room
to the corner (also dark),
then to the living room, then back here again.
I suppose a part of me is screaming like Madeline
from the news I got tonight – of my mother’s cancer.
The word looks so odd to me there on the page.
My grandmothers both had cancer,
but not so early in their lives.
My grandmothers are both dead.
Another word that looks very odd.
But my mother is not dead.
Her discomfort is proof of that.
This is exactly the news I have dreaded for so long.
When the thought of losing a parent
first crossed my mind a couple of years ago,
the very idea filled me with panic.
A sickening panic and overwhelming fear.
I still remember that initial response
and now that I’m faced with the reality of it,
I only feel numb.
As though I also have gun under anesthesia –
and so I make myself write it… coldly?
I don’t mean it to be cold.
I don’t mean it to be at all.
I only want it to go away.
And maybe it will.
With more surgery,
and with radiation.
Maybe it will go away,
and maybe her face will be OK.

Dad talked tonight on the phone – about God,
about church, about Bible study,
and I told him I’d pray for Mom but…
But pray for what?
To tell God what’s going on?
How I feel?
How Mom feels?
If he doesn’t know, then he won’t be of much help.
We all die.
We all know we all die.
And if God already knows about my fear,
about mom’s pain,
how much I love her,
and how I can’t imagine the world
without her in it somewhere,
then maybe this is my prayer to him
right here in my notebook.

Gentle Jesus, comfort us all.
Comfort Madeline who doesn’t want to go to sleep
and help us all accept
our inevitible time to sleep.
But wake us again in a happier place,
well rested and full of light and love.

As a child on vacation,
I had to endure many hours at a time on the road.
Mom always told me to lie down and go to sleep,
and when I woke up, maybe we’d be at Grammy’s house.
I wonder if that is what it’s like to die?
When we wake up, we’ll be at Grammy’s.
The journey passes with our father at the wheel.
Our only job is to rest while he takes care of us.

1998