Simple Abundance: What Artists Taught Me About Food

“This week was life-changing,” said Nicholas, a singer-songwriter from Portland, Oregon.

He arrived at Idaho Basecamp just as the rest of us sat down to dinner: roasted cauliflower, black beans, guacamole, and sautéed local greens over rice. Nicolas had driven ten hours to the Big Lost River Valley, where Mount Borah and the Lost River Range dominate the horizon. Others traveled even farther—from Mexico and New York—alongside artists from Montana and Utah.

They didn't come for the food. They came to rest, create, be present, and spend a week off the grid.

This was my fourth year nourishing artists at Idaho Basecamp's annual residency. I don't go there to rest. I go there to create, too.

When I asked Nicholas what had been life-changing, I expected him to talk about the album he completed in less than a week. He had written most of the songs before arriving but finally had the uninterrupted time to weave them into a coherent body of work. He recorded not only music, but also the storm, the river, and the wind moving through the trees.

I didn’t expect him to also talk about food.

Nutritious meals served three times a day freed him from thinking about grocery shopping, cooking, or what to eat next. For one week, he could focus entirely on creating.

His relationship with food shifted, too.

“I can't wait to get home and eat more whole foods,” he said. “I've never felt better in my body.”

Hillary, a paper artist from New York City, joked that she needed to make more money so she could hire a personal chef.

“When you're on an adrenaline high, you don't think about eating,” she said. “I always think I'll eat when I'm done with my work or hosting a show. Then I eat something terrible because that's what's available when I finally stop.”

At home, she said, eating feels like a waste of time. At Basecamp, meals became an experience.

“I have a gorgeous table at home, and I don't eat there.”

Lorena, a mixed-media painter who arrived directly from another residency in Mexico, shared a similar realization.

“I'm always thinking in the future,” she said. “Here, I slowed down enough to be comfortable with the present. That included the food, which I'd never considered as part of my creative process.”

She also appreciated that the kitchen was integrated into the gathering space. The labor remained visible.

Witnessing an artist at work matters. Witnessing meals prepared by hand made them feel more artful.

Though Lorena expected the week to be a brief stop on her journey, it became something deeper.

“There's an experience of joy,” she reflected. “You'd describe what we were eating and we'd be wowed before even tasting it. The food was simple abundance. Thoughtful, not overly complicated, and beautifully presented. To be an artist means to see everything around you as beautiful.”

Dan, a digital analog artist from Montana, arrived with an open mind and left with a longer list of foods he enjoyed. Nearly every meal introduced him to something new: portobello mushrooms, cauliflower, zucchini, quinoa, chia seeds, tahini, wakame. His favorite? Peanut butter-stuffed dates with sea salt.

He also picked wildflowers for the first time. Though wilted by the time I placed them in a plastic cup with water, they adorned our table throughout the residency. Though Dan is nervous to tell his wife that he likes cauliflower after years of refusing it, he's excited to bring pick flowers for her.

“I'm big on sweets,” he said, “but I know they're not good in the morning. I loved the savory breakfasts. I've never eaten asparagus or cucumbers before noon.”

During our final meal together, Zach—a songwriter, musician and visionary of the artist residency—reflected on what makes the experience meaningful.

“The connections,” he said. “Artists can make their own work in an environment of personal effort and collaborative inspiration. When the bell rings, we come from all over the property to be together for a wholesome meal that is presented to us as art.”

The menu wasn't extravagant. Most meals were simple and made from scratch. Budget and time constraints limited the local ingredients I'd normally source from nearby farms. I even simplified lunches this year so artists could grab food and return quickly to their work.

Yet meals became a centerpiece. Artists lingered around the table discussing projects, tarot cards, trees, rivers, wildflowers and the two dogs woven into our tapestry. Food gathered us into community after hours spent alone with their craft—and mine.

As the week unfolded, I realized how much I resemble the people I was feeding. I run on adrenaline. I think about the future. I pour energy into writing, podcasting, teaching, guiding clients, and building a life around meaningful work. The artists, however, must first make a living, then make art. Food remains on the back burner.

For me, food is not separate from the creative process. It fuels it. It grounds it. It invites us into the present moment where creativity unfolds. I thought considered meals as temporary, like a mandala that disappears. But the artists corrected me, “Your art stays becomes part of us. It gives us what we need to be more creative.”

For these artists, the meals began as a practical necessity. By week's end, the meals had become something more: nourishment, connection, beauty, inspiration, energy, alchemy.

Done thoughtfully, food is living art.