Chandler Withington's drawings remain one of golf's most unique projects

There are people in this world who couldn't bore you if they tried, and in our little corner of the world, Chandler Withington is my nominee for one of golf's most interesting men. The former head pro at Hazeltine, by way of Seminole and Merion, is now out on his own pursuing one of the sport's most interesting passion projects—illustrations. I first met Withington through an editor, and we spoke on the phone for hours about the Ryder Cup, each of us recognizing a fellow obsessive. A few months later, a packaging tube arrived at my door, and though I forgot about it for a few weeks, when I opened it I was instantly smitten: a hand-drawn poster, done via colored pencil, with the year, logo, and score of each Ryder Cup. Online depictions won't do it justice, but you can see the poster here. I wrote about Withington's art that December, and I think this still summarizes my feelings quite nicely:

Withington's style renders all these little details more immediate, more clarifying, and you can feel the individuality of every place. The overall effect is comprehensive, nostalgic and even a little mysterious, like looking at an old map of the world with the gods of wind blowing at the edge of the seas. Through an accumulation of small moments, he's captured a feeling I can't name, but which contains in it the seeds of an epic story, told by someone who cares an awful lot.

Today, things are significantly more serious for the man whose early passion for drawing, architecture, and schematics eventually took a backseat to a career in golf. Now, that original artistic drive is his main gig, and through an unshakeable, dogged persistence—people who know Chandler will be nodding their heads to that description—he's making a career of it.

His fledgling company is called Archive 22, and there's a story there. "Archive" refers to his time at Merion—they have their famous archives, and perhaps the keenest sense of history of any American course predating Augusta—and the 22 refers to the date he considers the official start of his business, Feb. 2, 2022. In the weeks before, he was pursuing other jobs and still wondering if making money through his illustrations was at all realistic. He had drawn a similar poster with logos of

"At the same time I was like, I need to at least kick the tires on this and see if there's anything there," Withington said. "I went back to the USGA, this time for real, like, what does this look like?

Good news: The USGA loved the idea.

Bad news: To make it happen, he'd have to get permission from literally every club to use their logos, because it's their intellectual property.

It was at this point that a reasonable person would have quit.

Instead, he contacted some IP lawyers to figure out how it could be done, and on Feb. 2, 2022—the "22" of "Archive 22"—he had a zoom call with The Country Club in Brookline. Brendan Walsh, the Director of Golf, gave his blessing, and Withington was off to an auspicious start. In the meantime, he began sending out permission forms to clubs in the U.S. and U.K. for a Curtis Cup poster. At that point, he got stonewalled for the first time by a club I'm instructed not to name, and the stonewalling was emphatic.

It was at this point that a reasonable person would have quit.

And for Withington, it did at least give him pause.

"We had to take a step back through the month of June," he explained, "and I really had to put myself in their shoes, where if I were receiving this call, what would I need to know, and how and why would I say yes?"

The challenge for the U.S. Open poster was steep—to do it right, he needed a "yes" from 51 clubs, because to lose even one club would be untenable. In lieu of offering royalties, which would be ridiculous with 51 clubs, he came up with an approach where he would offer the clubs posters for dirt cheap, literal pennies on the dollar, and they could sell them at their shops. In exchange, he'd get to sell them on his own.

"It was this great tightrope walk," he said. "Our family had no income. We built a nice golden parachute from my time at Hazeltine, but that money was running out."

He set up meetings with the 25 clubs he thought would be most amenable to saying yes, hoping to gather momentum before he took it to the harder clubs. On the first call—again, I'm instructed not to name names—he got a no. A kind no, but a no nonetheless.

It was at this point that an unreasonable person would have quit.

Withington, now thinking the project would never get off the ground, nevertheless carried on, Zoom call after Zoom call, and from more than one historic, elite club, he heard the same thing: We like you, we like your project, but we've never allowed commercial use of our logo.

"All these calls were completely terrifying," Withington admitted. "For me to go to friends that I never wanted to ask for anything. But I'd always go to the head pro first, explain it, then ask if he'd go to bat for me. From there the calls were all over the place. Sometimes I met with marketing, sometimes with boards, presidents, general managers, you name it."

And slowly—extremely slowly for a man running out of money—the worm began to turn. Baltusrol said yes. Merion said yes. Southern Hills said yes. Interlachen. Scioto. Northwood. Oak Hill. Those were some of the fastest responders, but others took their time, upping the stress on his project.

The byzantine path to getting some of the approvals began to sound like Doroth's journey in the Wizard of Oz (primarily because Withington described using an extended Wizard of Oz metaphor). Finally, though, using every connection he could muster from his years in the game, the pieces began to fall in place, the dominoes began to fall. It came down to the final, unmentionable club, this time with something like a friendly but real ultimatum in place—do you want to be footnoted as the only club who wouldn't participate?

They did not. On Thanksgiving, the last holdout fell, and by Christmas Withington had his first piece done. The business was real, and it was alive.

With exactly one piece of artwork. After a year.

But the hard work had created momentum, and by the spring of the next year, he had the PGA Championship permissions done. Freshly armed with a website and a letter of introduction from the PGA of America, he went back to the Ryder Cup clubs that had rejected him out of hand, apologized for his clumsy original approach, and secured those permissions, giving him the green light to use a version of the wonderful poster he had sent me way back in 2021.

The Open Championship, with only 14 clubs who have ever hosted, seemed like an easy next target. To date, he has permission from 13 clubs, and I am regrettably sworn to secrecy yet again on the identity of the lone holdout.

Now, Withington goes to championship, sells through the website, and is at least approaching a point of stability. As an example, on his trip to Pinehurst last summer, he sold out his entire stock of U.S. Open posters by Wednesday. When people see them, they like them.

 "I think it's something that just resonates with people when they see it in person," he said. They're able to understand who I am, what this is and, and how it all began. It's a conversation piece, right? It's an education. The history of the game, how did we get here? You know, especially that Ryder Cup piece, it's how did this become something that we actually care about?"

Then, through the magic of social media DMs, he met a retired NHL employee, one thing led to another, and through a similar 18-month process that included meetings with league heads and Wayne Gretzky, he secured rights to that league's teams, and is now selling some very nifty Stanley Cup/Original 6 artwork too. He has ambitions to expand into other leagues, tackle other projects, and keep growing.

Little by little, as they say, the chicken is fed. On that note, I could not resist the crass question that inevitably comes to mind when you encounter somebody following their dreams: Are you actually making a living at this?

"There's a word thrown around this household quite often: When do we get back 'stable,'" he said. "We're far from stability. We're grinding and trying to earn it every day."

His wife handles all the "back of the house" business, Chandler does creative and sales, and in the meantime, he's started a golf-centric podcast called "The Inward Nine" for those "looking to find the best version of themselves." Above all, his constitutional inability to give up, and his comfort living in a risky space, has carried him shockingly far. It's the kind of project, and the kind of effort, that in a just universe you would hope to see rewarded.