CHAPTER 5 
God is my art agent.
—THOMAS KINKADE
Thomas Kinkade University was situated along Wave Avenue, just steps from Cannery Row, in Monterey, California. It was the training ground for prospective Thomas Kinkade Signature Gallery owners, who had already gone through an extensive vetting process and considered themselves among the lucky few to be considered for the opportunity to invest in a signature gallery.
I spent many days sitting in on the sessions at Thomas Kinkade University and met scores of couples who came for the opportunity. Middle Americans, good earnest people: couples who were ready for a new adventure in their lives. They were mostly Christians who wanted an opportunity to spread the light of God through Thomas Kinkade’s paintings, and become prosperous doing so.
By the time the prospective gallery owners arrived in Monterey, they had already been through a rigorous process of prequalifying for the privilege of attending the “university.” Their finances had been scrutinized for their ability to pay the costs of designing, building, and stocking inventory for a gallery, which in most cases would cost well over $100,000. Seminars were held twice a month on average, and space was limited; every single attendee felt extremely fortunate to have been accepted into the program.
The seminars educated the candidates about the Thomas Kinkade art business in all of its facets. Attendees learned how the paintings were made, from the fact that it took Thom an average of over three hundred hours to paint one of his masterpieces, to learning about the canvas transfer system, and the materials and machinery involved. They learned the logistics and physical process it took to manufacture canvas transfers, from the clean rooms to the drying and stretching of the canvases, the different sizes and editions of the paintings, and the various colors and wood and quality of frames available. They learned how to display the art, how lighting worked with paintings, and the optimal room temperatures and humidity needed in the galleries. They were taught how art was sold, how commissions worked, what the profit margins were. They were shown graphs of Thomas Kinkade sales, the rising numbers of the stock value on Wall Street, the millions being made by the company because of the success of the art; a success they, too, could be a part of.
Dwayne and Sue Young from Des Moines, Iowa, were the typical kind of couple who would qualify to open a signature gallery. Their kids were grown, they had money saved up, and they owned a family business they were willing to sell. For them, like all the couples who made the trip, coming to Monterey was just the beginning of the adventure of a lifetime.
On the morning after their arrival, Dwayne and Sue woke up in the Monterey Holiday Inn, enjoyed a complimentary continental breakfast, and left the motel early to be the first to arrive at Thomas Kinkade University. Since they had a little extra time, they stopped along the wharf to take in the moist salty air. There was surely nothing in Des Moines that came close to that fresh smell of fish and sea.
Like so many other hopeful couples before them, Dwayne and Sue sat on one of the benches along the pier and watched the seagulls flutter and squawk, fighting over some discarded crumb wedged in the weathered boards of the wharf. Buoys clanged in the distance, and the sound of the waves hitting the buttressing boulders along the shore-line was rhythmic and soothing. They held hands as they both felt the excitement that had been building for weeks. They didn’t have to talk about it; they always knew what the other was thinking. They were quiet types with an adventurous streak, and they both felt they were about to embark on the biggest adventure of their lives.
Dwayne and Sue prayed over their decision to open a Thomas Kinkade Signature Gallery. Every time they had asked for a sign to tell them whether they should sell their longstanding and lucrative plumbing business, the answer always seemed to be yes. There was no pressing reason for them to open a gallery, other than the call of the adventurous spirit inside them and their strong devotion to their faith, which had set their hearts on fire when they heard about this business opportunity. For so many devoted Christian collectors of Thom’s art, this opportunity was a dream come true. Dwayne, like the other gallery licensors who were schoolteachers and dentists, electricians and civil servants, had cashed out of everything he owned—his life savings, his real estate, his family business—and bought two round-trip tickets to Monterey. Now here they were, the money burning a hole in their pockets.
The Thomas Kinkade University office complex was located in a stunning modern glass building overlooking the ocean and the pier at Cannery Row. The view alone impressed everyone who attended, as it spoke of wealth and success. When they entered the building, Dwayne and Sue were led through the well-appointed offices toward the conference room where they were about to meet the legendary Rick Barnett. Everyone in attendance knew he was the man who discovered Thomas Kinkade painting on the sidewalk in Carmel-by-the-Sea, and became his first and only dealer. That he was Thomas Kinkade’s most trusted associate. He probably talked to the Painter of Light every day. He might as well have been John the Baptist to the Savior. Dwayne and Sue couldn’t wait to meet him.
As candidates walked through the company’s opulent halls, they were impressed by everything: the stunning architecture, the million-dollar view, the many assistants who bustled about the offices. Everything spoke of good taste and prosperity. A perky young woman led them through the halls, pointing into the deep recesses of the offices.
“Mr. Barnett’s office is over there. That’s the Thomas Kinkade Museum. If you ask nicely, you’ll get a tour at the end of the day. It’s by appointment only for a few select people. And here’s where it all happens. Looks like you’re the first ones.”
Dwayne and Sue smiled as they were led into a large conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Forty chairs were set up in rows facing a podium. Audiovisual equipment towered on one side of the room. A long counter along the wall was covered in muffins and donuts, pitchers of orange juice, and a steaming coffee percolator.
Dwayne and Sue went over and poured themselves some coffee.
“Look at this spread. We could have eaten here and saved money,” Dwayne chuckled.
“The hotel was still free, honey.” Sue squeezed his hand.
“Look at that view,” Dwayne mused.
Sue turned to look. “I could pinch myself. Are we really here?”
Lovingly Dwayne looked her in the eyes. “Yes, we are, sweetheart. We made it.”
At seven-thirty, Dwayne and Sue took two seats in the front row right up against the podium, to hear every word and to be as close to Rick Barnett as they possibly could. Dwayne and Sue nodded and smiled to prospective gallery owners as they trickled in, mostly couples from all over the country. There was a celebratory feeling in the air, as everyone shook hands and introduced themselves by name and origin.
“Frank and Leslie. Allentown, New Jersey.”
“Chuck and Wendy. Edina, Minnesota.”
“Dave and Tanya. Prescott, Arizona.”
“Dwayne and Sue. Des Moines, Iowa.”
Soon there was an increasingly excited buzz in the room as the chairs filled up and the sugar and coffee took effect. Everyone seemed eager as the hour neared. 7:55. Only five more minutes, and the moment they had been dreaming of for weeks and months would finally come to be.
There was a studied choreography to the event, as carefully planned as any performance. I always entered the room at 8:00 sharp, and a hushed expectant silence would fall over the room. I quickly moved to my seat in the front row, at the very edge of the podium, prepared to give my presentation at the end. Disappointed looks followed me as I sat down, as the expectant crowd realized I was not Rick Barnett. Then the attention returned to the open door.
Every sound coming from the hallway could mean the arrival of Rick Barnett. Over and over again, sounds teased the nerves of the waiting future gallery owners, but the door remained shut and no one came. You could hear a pin drop as the minutes passed and everyone sat, wringing hands, checking watches, the tension and anticipation in the room building to an uncomfortable level. Dwayne and Sue exchanged a few silent glances and held sweaty hands, their nerves getting the better of them.
Then it happened. The door opened at 8:05 and Rick breezed in, dressed immaculately, hair perfect, his six-foot-three frame seeming all the more imposing to those seated before him. He looked like a movie star who had taken the podium to receive his Oscar; he could have won on looks alone.
In one hand he held a clipboard, in the other a Bible.
He paused dramatically at the microphone and leaned in, scanning their faces, his right hand raising the Bible high into the air, and invited the group to pray with him.
“Let us pray,” he said.
You could almost feel the goose bumps rise in the room, as Rick thanked the heavenly father for their presence, prayed for a productive two days, and asked that the glory of God be upon their endeavors and bless them all to do his works and glorify his name with the opening of the new signature galleries.
Rick was a brilliant speaker. His demeanor instilled confidence and security in people, and he had a way of making everyone at the seminar feel special and welcome. The exclusivity and privilege of their attendance, and the chance to own a gallery of their very own, was never lost on them. And he wouldn’t let them forget it either. Throughout the weekend, he reminded them that they were lucky to have made it this far and to have qualified for such an incredible opportunity.
The training sessions were held over several days and went from morning to evening, with lunch provided. The long hours, the close quarters, and the volume of information often had the feeling of revival meetings. After all, the whole idea of owning a gallery, besides making money, was doing the work of God. The intense shared religious vision often made me feel as if they were indoctrination sessions rather than merely informational seminars. With emotions running high, and sales pitches mixed with religious overtones, the two-day experience was intense and demanding.
The second day was as long as the first, as information overload set in. Within less than forty-eight hours, everyone there knew everything about the Thomas Kinkade gallery business. On the second evening, the seminar culminated in the highlight of the entire experience: a dinner with Thom. For everyone in attendance, it was worth the price of admission. He appeared like the Dalai Lama himself. If there was anything that could make the prospective gallery owners feel special, it was breaking bread with the Painter of Light. For two intensive days they had been allowed into the inner sanctum and listened to an aggregate twenty hours or more of information about Thomas Kinkade the man, his art, and his business. To meet him in person was an overwhelming and transporting experience.
Thom made the rounds, stopping at every table, clasping hands and talking with every single person in the room. He asked people how they liked their meals, and if they were having a good time. He thanked them for being part of the Kinkade family. He introduced Nanette to the couples, and joked about their better halves. People glowed, shaking his hand, telling him how much they admired him as an artist, how honored they were to be part of the work he was doing in spreading light in the world through his art. They talked about how long they had been collectors, and what crossroads in their lives led them to decide it was time to open a signature gallery.
Here he was, the legendary painter they idolized and had collected for years, whose paintings hung on their walls at home and touched them every day; the painter who shared their deep abiding faith in God, and whose images validated that faith. Here they were safe from a secular world that didn’t share their values, among fellow believers who dedicated their lives to doing good in the name of Jesus Christ. Here was Thomas Kinkade in the flesh, speaking to them as though they were old friends, witnessing his own faith to them. The emotional impact couldn’t have been greater. The religious experience couldn’t have been stronger. And on top of that, the financial rewards seemed limitless.
Dwayne and Sue went back to their hotel that night, their heads in the clouds, their hearts forever touched, and their minds made up.
When I was invited, my role at these seminars was to give a presentation about the licensing aspect of the gallery business. I told people about the licensed products available for sale in the galleries. I demonstrated how they could offer calendars, books, and other Thomas Kinkade collectibles for sale, and how these small licensed items would bring a first-time buyer in to buy a trinket, who would later return to buy the actual art; once a customer was inside, the magic could take effect.
Over time, I looked into countless faces of prospective gallery owners and saw their rapturous looks; I saw the joyous expressions that told me they had been utterly won over by the magic of the experience. I was one of them. After watching many of Rick’s presentations, touting the virtues and profit potential of owning a Thomas Kinkade Signature Gallery, I went home with starry eyes and explained to my wife how we really needed to think about opening a signature gallery of our own. That we just couldn’t lose with the numbers being what they were, and the potential of earning into the millions. My wife looked at me, a hand on her hip, a smirk on her face. She said, “Eric, you’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid.”
The morning after the seminars were completed, the final and most important event of the weekend came: a meeting in which a contract to open a gallery of their own was offered to each couple. It was time to sign on the dotted line and make a full commitment; an investment that in some cases exceeded $150,000.
The requirements set out by the contract to run a licensed gallery were extensive—so extensive that the contract was over a hundred pages long. A minimum inventory had to be purchased, oftentimes totaling over $100,000. The gallery had to be built in approved venues, malls, or storefronts, and furnished and built with approved materials and approved construction companies. It had to be designed to replicate the Thomas Kinkade Corporate Owned Galleries, with specific prescribed floor plans and layouts. Gallery owners also had to agree to the pricing policies of the company, offer the works at prescribed prices, and agree that if they were to deviate and discount any of the works separately, they would automatically lose their license and were expected to burn their entire inventory.
The opportunity to license a gallery was so exclusive that if the candidates for a signature gallery didn’t sign a contract right then and there in the offices of the Thomas Kinkade University, they could forever lose their chance to buy into this miraculous business. It was made clear that scores of people were applying for the same privilege. There were wait lists, and people were being turned back. Only a limited number of galleries were to be opened; it was now or never. The signature gallery candidates were each interviewed. They were told the process was very selective, and not everyone was considered. In fact, many more candidates were turned down than were allowed in. It was made crystal clear what kind of opportunity this was. As much as Media Arts wanted them to sign on the dotted line, they had to pass the last hurdle. If they didn’t qualify or sign, they were taken off the list and someone else got a chance. The pressure was on.
Prospective buyers were also advised to use the services of a financial consulting firm, Pebble Beach Financial, owned by a Harvard PhD economist hand picked by Rick Barnett. As would later be alleged, because of the competition of others waiting in line to open a gallery, there was really very little time for buyers to call their attorney, to review the finances, to talk it over, sleep on it, or do the due diligence anyone might normally conduct in the process of making an investment that would take all that they had worked for their entire lives and put it into a business venture they had learned about for an entirety of two days.
While Thom had had the initial idea of opening signature galleries, much like Hallmark’s licensed stores, he wasn’t involved in their managerial planning or their execution. He left the signature gallery program in Rick’s hands, as well as in the hands of the executives who supported Rick, who were based in Morgan Hill. Thom didn’t get involved in the details of most of the business. He was rarely seen at Morgan Hill headquarters, mainly ensconced in his studio, painting; leaving the day-to-day business to those he trusted, and perhaps trusted to a fault. Thom only came in as a closer for the dinners. He was brought out as a sales tool, doing what he did best: interact with the public, shake hands, spread his light to those who admired him.
The weekend’s pitch at Thomas Kinkade University was so effective that the preapproved signature gallery licensees signed up in droves. Hundreds of galleries were opened. This meant that not only would the company potentially receive from $100,000 to $200,000 per couple who signed up, but it would also generate income through the sales each of these galleries would bring in, which in turn helped feed the hungry Wall Street machine.
The signature galleries became the vehicle by which the company rocketed from sales in the tens of millions to sales in the hundreds of millions. From the success of the first Thomas Kinkade gallery in the Valley Fair Mall, to the highly profitable corporate galleries dedicated to selling Thomas Kinkade, to the expansion of the Thomas Kinkade Signature Galleries—once the company figured out they could control the environment in which the art was sold, there was nothing stopping them. They had hit the sales jackpot.
It was all about the staging of the event. As did the Thomas Kinkade University seminars, so the galleries created the perfect sales environment and staging to sell the art to the public.
Thomas Kinkade Signature Galleries were designed from top to bottom, from layout to lighting, from doorknobs to the placement of the fireplace. Every new dealer had to sign a lease on an appropriate space and extensively remodel the location. In addition, Media Arts Group required that each signature gallery utilize a single company-approved architectural design firm to render and design the space for them. If their proposed gallery was going to be 40 x 18 feet of space in a mall, the design company would draw out the plans, calculate how much carpeting was required for the space and what color it should be, where to buy the pulls for the drawers and cupboards, and where to purchase the fireplace and the desk for the front entrance where the receptionist would sit with a computer and a phone.
The construction of every gallery required specific materials and colors, from the kind of wood for the paneling, to the browns and burgundies and greens of the walls and wainscoting, to the Thomas Kinkade furniture and accessories in the viewing rooms and offices. The preapproved Thomas Kinkade lampposts and store signs over the front door had to be purchased. The easels that displayed the art for sale in the windows, and the hardware of not only the front door, but also drawer handles and light switches, were all predesigned and selected.
Signature gallery owners had little control over any part of the layout of the gallery, and had to commit to purchasing and installing every last element the company prescribed. The required fireplace had to be positioned so that when a customer entered the gallery, they would first see the flickering hearth and its warming fire beckoning to them. It was a fantasy environment, an interactive experiential space, much like a ride at Disneyland.
The customers’ senses were tantalized. They felt the warmth of the hearth, and heard the soft music playing inside the soundproofed environment. They smelled the scent of the perpetually cooking apple cider and cinnamon wafting through the gallery. Every one of their senses was stimulated to remind them of home, of their childhood, of happy and comforting times. Thom’s art covered the walls from floor to ceiling in multiple gallery rooms and throughout the hallways, in a veritable maze of his imagery. The hallways were designed to be narrow, so that the viewer was never far from the paintings, which beckoned from all sides, as the recessed lighting cast a warm glow. It was an overwhelming physical experience to be inside a Thomas Kinkade signature gallery; an alluring trap for the senses.
The final sale was made in a dedicated room, in which the work of art that the buyer was interested in was displayed as though hanging on a wall in their own living room. The prospective buyers were led to comfortable chairs facing the wall where the canvas transfer painting had been hung, and would sit looking directly at the art. Then the gallery owner, trained in the sales techniques taught by the seminar sessions, would actually lock the door so no one could barge in and interrupt the mood. At that point, they performed the clincher of the entire experience: the light show. The lights in the gallery were all on dimmers and so, with the customer locked inside, the gallery owner would slowly lower the lights until the painting began to glow. The effect was pure magic.
Prospective buyers would exclaim in astonishment as they witnessed the paintings beginning to glow in the dark. I saw it demonstrated many times, and the effect was truly magical. In fact, I brought many a painting home and demonstrated it to my kids, who squealed in delight. Children and grown-ups alike loved the glowing lights of Thom’s paintings. If the gallery owner could just keep the buyer in the gallery long enough to witness the glowing effect, the deal was almost always sealed.
If there was some hesitation, with the door still locked to prevent interruptions, further incentives were offered. The limited availability and the high desirability of any piece of art were pointed out. The prospective buyer would hear about how the painting was sure to sell out due to its limited edition. They would have to understand that the current low price would rise soon. That the art would gain in value and prove to be a great investment. That the prospective buyer couldn’t afford to let this one get away. And finally, layaway no-money-down installment and financing options were offered, which, once caught in the web of the Thomas Kinkade experience, made it impossible to walk away.
In 2001, Media Arts Group quietly crossed the billion-dollar threshold in total retail sales.
When Dwayne and Sue opened their gallery in Des Moines in 2001, they were entered onto a list of galleries that Thomas Kinkade would visit. The company, as part of their VIP assistance with merchandising, marketing events, and sales programs, supported every gallery with a formal planned event in which a new canvas transfer painting would be released, and Thom would come to be on hand to give a talk and sign autographs and books.
I came along on some of these tours, and they all unfolded in the same way. The signature gallery hosted what was known as a “collector event.” Thom was invited to come and give a speech at the gallery, and the evening ended in a dinner with the artist. These events were often planned as whistle-stop tours for Thom. He would board a private jet and hit five stops in five days, touring like a politician: Chicago, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Paramus. He attended the collector events in one intensive week, and then retreated to his studio for six months to return to painting.
The pressure on Thom to create new works of art was great. The company needed between twelve and fifteen originals a year. Each painting took Thom over a month, and hundreds of hours to paint. Every masterpiece often had over fifty layers of paint on it, and required time to dry in between layers, so that he worked on several paintings at a time. All those layers gave the paintings their dimension and luminescence. So when a tour came up, it was often a welcome reprieve for Thom to get out of the studio and take a little break.
When I had the opportunity to tag along to a collector event with Thom and the ever-present Nanette, Bob Davis, Thom’s event coordinator, and Terry Sheppard, his videographer, we would take a limo from the airport and head right to the gallery. As we approached, we’d see the gallery up ahead, decorated festively, lights beaming to the outside. An “events team” would already be on hand helping to coordinate the evening, making sure everything was just right.
It struck me that these events resembled a political rally. People were lined up along the sidewalk outside the gallery, already waiting for hours. A collector event was always open to the best collectors first, so that the waiting crowd could see the privileged few milling inside, sipping wine and eating cheese and crackers.
The new painting was first revealed to these select few collectors, before the general crowd was allowed inside. The gallery advertised in the local newspaper, so that not only collectors but also anyone curious could come to meet the Painter of Light. The new painting was never the original, which would have been sold by Rick in his gallery in Monterey for between $500,000 and $1 million. It was a copy, another canvas transfer, released in a limited edition, which was often about 2,750 copies.
The fact that the painting being revealed was a copy didn’t bother anyone present. It was part of the phenomenon. People who collected canvas transfers, and those who just came to see the new image, were there for other reasons than we usually associate with a typical art collector. The admiring public of Thomas Kinkade was there for the new image, the newest incarnation in a series of images, like an audience lining up for a sequel to a blockbuster movie. They were not there for the original object that depicted the image. It was the content and not the object that was important. Singularity of object was irrelevant to them, unlike a true art collector in the speculative art market. It was the addiction to the series. The newest lighthouse, the newest bridge, the newest cottage. It worked much like advertising, where once you have a consumer base loyal to a brand, they will come back for the new and improved version of the same product.
The brilliance of the entire sales technique was that there was still an exclusivity and factor that seemed to be legitimate. There were 350 signature galleries around the country by then, and there were only a limited number of canvas transfer paintings of each image to go around. Each gallery would be allotted only a few to sell, so that collectors had to buy them while they could. Of course, each canvas transfer was also still unique because of the hand-retouched highlighting, and the fact that DNA from Thom’s blood mingled with the ink was in the signature. The chosen signature gallery would send out a notice that a new painting by Thomas Kinkade was coming; that Thom would personally sign paintings and books and any collectibles; and that everyone could come to hear him speak.
When the time came, everyone gathered before an easel covered by a white sheet. Then Thom emerged to applause, everyone smiling, the proud gallery owners standing nearby. There was an overflow of people, and many never made it inside, relegated to peering in through the windowpanes. The gallery owner would step up to the microphone.
“We are proud to be presenting to you tonight, a new work by our wonderful artist and friend, Thomas Kinkade.”
The crowd applauded enthusiastically. Then the painting was revealed. The sheet was pulled aside, and a collective sigh rippled through the crowd.
Thom was led outside the gallery to a small stage that held a podium with a Painter of Light seal, which rather closely resembled the presidential seal. Thom climbed onto the stage as Nanette stood to the side, the way she always did. He faced a crowd of a hundred people or more and delivered his address. It was awe inspiring to witness the throngs of people gathered in the street just to get a glimpse of Thom and to hear him speak. The crowd reacted with so much adoration that I was overtaken with the feeling that something important was happening; that we were all in the presence of greatness.
“Art is a universal language. When you use words to spread a message, it might be in German or in French and we would need an interpreter. But painting is a universal language. Painting is forever. It’s a message unto itself.”
The crowd nodded in affirmation. Thom looked from side to side, making eye contact with the audience, gesturing smoothly.
“You know, the fact that God could use an artist like myself to spread his message of hope is evidence that God has a sense of humor.” Everyone laughed.
“I have been blessed to see God use me in spite of myself. If he can use an artist, he can use anybody. As my preacher said to me as a young boy in the country church in Placerville, California, when I was growing up, ‘When you see a turtle on a fence post, you know he didn’t get there by himself.’ Well, I didn’t get here by myself, either.”
Thom held his audience in the palm of his hand. He was funny and had the crowd laughing in all the right parts. His jokes were always on him, and usually about his humble beginnings. Then he talked about Nanette; about their courtship, about their lifelong friendship, their wonderfully fulfilled family life, and how much she meant to him. She stood by his side, her hands clasped, smiling as she listened. She sometimes nodded to the audience to punctuate one of his points, and laughed in all the right places. She let him be the star. People loved seeing her interact with him, although she remained on the side, supporting him quietly. She was the proof; the witness to his witnessing. He explained how he owed everything to her patience and her devotion; how she was his better half. He recounted the story of how he first put her initials into a lithograph for fun, which grew into a tradition of adding her initials numerous times into every single picture he painted. He told anecdotes of picking daisies in the field and swimming in the creeks with her, and how he fell in love with her at first sight. He spoke about their marriage and how solid it was, and how meaningful that was in a time when half of all marriages failed.
Then he spoke about his philosophy of life, and the many tenets in Lightposts for Living. He spoke about finding that which will bring a brushstroke of joy to your heart, and choosing the color you want your life to be. He spoke about painting your life the way you want it to be, and living in the light of thankfulness and simplicity. The audience listened, enraptured. Then he demonstrated how the paintings would bring these principles into everyone’s life, and how strongly he felt about his life’s mission to spread that joy and peace through his art.
When he finished his speech, he stepped off the podium and shook hands with his fans, took photos with babies, made small talk with the good folks, and signed autographs for a good hour or two. He could have run for governor with so many followers supporting him. The crowd thought of him as a great man; even as a prophet walking on earth.
When the event was over, he thanked the elated gallery owners. More often than not, he got back into the limousine and drove to the hotel, where Nanette was unceremoniously dropped off. The remaining posse of men would head out for a night on the town. If Thom poured his heart and soul into his speeches and into changing people’s lives through his art, then he threw the rest of himself into the experience of living life at its fullest that he advocated for his followers.
It was this duality in Thom that I first witnessed in the bar in Kansas City, on our first Hallmark trip. Over time I had come to accept it as part of him. He was a man of contradictions. After giving inspired speeches in which he brought heaven down to an adoring crowd, he was ready to raise hell into the midnight hour. Maybe it was just the effect of the drink. The contradictions inside of him, his weaknesses and his foibles, made him more human to me; more approachable. He was an icon, but he was also just a man; fallible and imperfect, but with a good heart and good intentions. And he always kept us in stitches with his one-liners and his late-night jokes. One time after an event, we ended up in a bar. A buxom waitress came up, and he said, “Well, well, well, it’s very nice to meet you!” then looked at her ill-disguised cleavage and added, “Both of you!”
The days of late 2001 were filled with success and prosperity. Media Arts was making hundreds of millions. Our books were million-dollar sellers. The licensing business skyrocketed further. And the signature galleries were driving cash by the barrelful to the shiny new Morgan Hill corporate headquarters.
When Thom wasn’t locked away in his studio, painting for hours and days without rest, he was out at night letting off steam, having fun. Thom was a gambler, and we had many poker nights at Ivy Gate Cottage that went into the wee hours of the morning. Thom also liked to invite guys from the company to head out to Lake Tahoe, to stay at his house on the water, and spend the night gambling at one of the casinos in town. And even though Dan, Kevin, and Jay had left the company, they still loved Thom, and we often found time to get together.
On one such occasion, I was with Thom in his studio and we were strategizing about new projects and concepts. Suddenly he exclaimed, “I think it’s time for a Tahoe trip. You remember the last one?”
“No, Thom. I’ve never been.”
“I can’t believe it! Let’s rally the troops and make it a weekend! We’ll get a private plane and gamble in Tahoe.”
“Sounds like a great idea. Who do you want to have come along?”
“Call Dan Byrne. Kevin Sacher. Jay Landrum and Ken.”
It was raining that night and I worried there would be snow up in the mountains, but Thom laughed at my concern and told me to tell the guys to be ready.
The next morning we met at San Jose International Airport and boarded a private plane like rock stars. There we were, executives in our suits and ties and sunglasses, feeling on top of the world, riding high on the VIP treatment: no lines, no baggage claim, no waiting.
The plane was well stocked with alcohol and cigars, and we enjoyed every bit of the indulgences as we climbed the western slope of the Sierras, flying over Thom’s childhood home, Placerville. We leaned into the windows and looked out as Thom excitedly pointed it out.
“There it is! My hometown!”
Over the Sierras the weather started to turn, and the rest of the flight, climbing the mountains to South Lake Tahoe, was one of the bumpiest I had ever taken. Being in a small plane was unnerving; you could feel every bump and shake. I couldn’t help but think of my wife and four kids and wonder if a gambling trip to Tahoe was a responsible risk to take. I exchanged glances with the other guys. As the plane bumped up and down, shaking and rattling, Dan Byrne looked particularly concerned, and we tried to reassure each other with brave grim smiles. Thom, on the other hand, was unfazed. He was sipping a Bud Light and had a cigar firmly wedged in his mouth, wishing he could light it.
“What’s wrong, Kuskey? You look a little green.”
“Just want to make it one piece, Thom.”
“Oh, we’ll make it. This happens all the time.”
I dared a glance out the window at the snow-capped mountains and the ominous billowing dark gray sky above. It looked like we were heading into a major storm. Then the lake came into view and we headed into a bumpy descent. As the winds buffeted the small plane, we landed at the South Lake Tahoe airport and disembarked just a little the worse for wear. As we stepped onto the tarmac, walking to the waiting stretch limousine, we overheard the crew talking about how the airport had been closed to commercial traffic because of hazardous conditions.
“Interesting start to the weekend,” I thought. We took the limo to Thom’s house, which was quite amazing: a beautifully restored 1940s lake house with a private dock and a gorgeous boathouse. His fully restored 25-foot Chris Craft boat swayed by the dock, undulating in the lapping ripples of water. It was snowing up in the mountains, and I was sorry not to have a chance to ride in the boat this time. The boat, like the lake house, like his Model T and his Harley, were all unique items with history and character; one of a kind, just like him.
We went to grab a steak dinner at Harvey’s Casino, where Thom told us about something he had developed with the roulette tables. He called it the “system.” As we dug into our huge slabs of prime rib, wine, whiskey, and beer were flowing; he swore his system was foolproof. We hatched a plan to use the system at Harvey’s roulette tables that night.
The system was simple: wait for the roulette tables to run either four blacks in a row or four reds in a row, and then bet on the opposite color. Statistically the system was a joke, but that night, just as Thom had promised, it worked and worked. By the end of the night we were splitting up the tables, betting for each other, finding the run, betting on all even or all odds. Like an Ocean’s Eleven, we were the gang that couldn’t be stopped. We made thousands of dollars by the end of the night and stumbled out of the casino, after many more drinks and cigars, our pockets loaded with chips. When we cashed them in, Kevin had $2,000, I had $3,000, Dan had $2,000, Thom made $3,000, and Ken $4,000.
We slept like logs that night, having vowed to return to the casino the next day and do it again. The system was magic, intoxicating, and we all wanted more. It was the feeling we had whenever we were with Thom. There was a sense of invincibility about him that we all shared in his presence. Nothing could stop him; everything he touched was magic. He saw the world as miraculous, and it opened itself up miraculously before him. There was always more to be had, more to take in, more to consume, more to want, and more to own.
The weekend struck me as a symbol of our life with Thom. We boarded this wild ride with him, which took a perilous turn over Placerville, and we nearly crashed before landing. But Thom was invincible. We gambled and won at Harvey’s Casino; the system worked, even though it shouldn’t have. In fact, it worked until it didn’t.
In the morning I received a phone call letting me know I had to return for a family affair. I regretted not being able to join the guys for another greedy round. But as I headed home with $3,000 in my pocket, the rest of the guys lost all their winnings back at the casino. I was the only lucky one to get out in time and keep my money.
From that weekend on, the system was revered as a symbol of our luck in the world, and our one night of winning was turned into lore.
On December 6, 2001, William “Bill” Kinkade passed away at the age of eighty-three. He was buried at Memory Gardens Memorial Park in Medford, Oregon, in a veterans’ gravesite marked WILLIAM T KINKADE, CPL US ARMY, WORLD WAR II. He left behind two ex-wives and a current wife, four children, three stepchildren, and seventeen grandkids. His obituary discreetly named Thom as “W. T.” from Monte Sereno.
By this time Thom’s brother, Patrick, was living in Fort Worth, Texas. He had earned his bachelor of arts from the University of California Berkeley in psychology and anthropology, a masters from California State University in Los Angeles in counseling psychology, and his PhD from the University of California at Irvine in social ecology and research methodology. He was teaching criminal justice at Texas Christian University and publishing in the field. But despite his academic achievements, his life was a paltry one in comparison to Thom’s, and Thom tried to help him out financially by giving him projects with the company, such as writing children’s books.
In the wake of his father’s passing, I had to admire Thom. For his ability to forgive, and for the fact that ever since his father’s abandonment, Thom, the oldest boy, had ultimately become the man of the house, the responsible one. Ever since his paper route, he had taken care of the family that once struggled to survive in a trailer home in Placerville. Thom’s sister, Kate Johnson, was now living in Vallejo, California, in a house in Thom’s Hiddenbrooke gated community, while Thom’s mother was still living in the house he built for her on his property.
Terry Sheppard was one of many people present at a South Bend, Indiana, book signing at the end of 2002, which later became the stuff of legend. Thom was on a book signing tour, traveling the country and speaking at signature galleries, shaking hands and signing autographs. To watch him at these events was always extraordinary for the way the crowd gathered around him, and the effect he had on people when he spoke. I had seen the way he commanded an audience; how he made them laugh and cry. He held them in the palm of his hand. He knew how to turn it on before a crowd. But when he let down his guard, the impulsive, immature part of him came out and his appetite often got the better of him.
On this particular evening Thom was in the heart of his constituency. If you plucked a woman off the street in South Bend, you would most likely grab a Thomas Kinkade collector. South Bend was also the home of the collectibles industry trade show, the Collectibles Expo, where the Bradford Exchange was prominently featured and where Thom had gotten his start. Thom couldn’t have been in a place more meaningful and more central to his career than South Bend. After the book signing, long after the crowds had gone home, Thom and a few of his posse were still in the gallery, as well as the owners and their employees. There were six people in all, two of them women. It was late, and everyone was drinking and cleaning up. Thom started up a conversation with the men about a woman’s anatomy. He began polling them.
“What do you think a woman’s best assets are? Are you a butt man, a leg man, or a breast man?”
It must have been shocking for everyone to hear Thom strike up this conversation in front of the women. And these were Christian women. They idolized Thom, and they were in business with him. It was a terrible lapse of judgment, surely fueled by alcohol.
The Thom I knew wouldn’t hurt a flea. But sometimes, especially once the drink took over, he didn’t have a clue as to what he was doing. He would think things were hilarious that were shocking to others.
All the more shocking must have been the moment when Thom approached the well-endowed female employee of the signature gallery and palmed her breasts.
“These are great tits!” he exclaimed.
Thom would later claim it never happened, but many witnessed it.
The billion-dollar painter’s appetite was great and often unrestrained, and one day it would come to get the better of him.